A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  Possibly these alterations were no less natural for a lady in her circumstance than the evolving nature of the city’s character, say. Nothing stayed the same for long. For example, thanks to the French, Madison Square now sported a forty-two-foot-high statue of a right arm and hand holding a torch—its erection there a stunt meant to inspire citizens to contribute money toward erecting all of “Liberty” on a more appropriate site. This was how things worked: forces acted upon a place or person, and that place or person changed in accordance. Manhattan had a gigantic arm growing out of its soil; Lady C. smoked cigarettes and used the word whore; Alva slept in a pink-striped bedroom in a millionaire’s home; anything might occur, given particular conditions.

  As they made their way upstairs to the nursery, Lady C. said, “I’ve been following the court battle in the papers—it’s big news even in London. The Commodore was off his nut at the end, don’t you think?”

  “What, because of the Spiritualists?”

  “That, the syphilis—”

  “He did not have syphilis. Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “Something made him batty and destroyed his innards. The papers described the autopsy findings—not one organ in his body was healthy, and why else would that be?”

  “Better to ask a physician than a reporter,” Alva said, irritated.

  “Well, at any rate, you Vanderbilts have become quite the objects of fascination.”

  “At the risk of whatever social gains I’ve made.”

  “What I want to know is, how does your husband feel about his father possibly losing half the inheritance? It would mean a lot less money to hand down when the time comes.”

  “No one’s thinking about that.”

  “Of course they are—and you are, too.”

  “I love my father-in-law.”

  They’d arrived at the nursery door. Lady C. said, “You’ll love him even better if he can leave your husband a large share of a hundred million rather than fifty. And so will my boy here, whose spendthrift father may well leave him destitute.”

  “Is that true—about Mandeville?”

  Lady C. waved off the question. “Look at them.” The babies were sitting on a rug sharing an array of toys, their competent young nurses seated behind them. “Shall we draw up the terms now, or are you going to give her some choice in the matter?”

  Alva said, “Well, of course I’ll direct her interests and desires. What girl ever knows what’s best for herself?”

  Lady C. looked at her closely. “Am I hearing regret for your choice?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, William was your idea for me, not my own.”

  “Splitting hairs.”

  “What is there to regret? With the exception of this ongoing nonsense about the will, my life is ideal.”

  “Now who’s being ridiculous? No woman’s life is ideal.” Lady C. turned to the two young nurses. “Ellen, Bryn, tell us: are you in love with anyone?”

  The girls looked at each other, puzzled by the sudden inquiry.

  Lady C. said, “Come now, tell us. Is not love what every girl desires nowadays? Is it not the spice of life?”

  Alva said, “I thought variety was the spice of life.”

  “No, I’ve tried that. Not sufficiently spicy for true gratification.” Lady C. tilted her head and asked Alva, “How is it for you? Do you have love in your life?”

  “We might speak of this elsewhere,” Alva said.

  Her friend took her hands. “Think what adventures the summer might bring!”

  “For two married ladies? Really, Consuelo,” Alva said, glancing pointedly at the nurses.

  “Do you desire love, Mrs. Vanderbilt? Do you have love? I’m sincere. I want to know.”

  “This is not the time—”

  “Never mind,” said Lady C. She released Alva’s hands. “I’m satisfied.”

  * * *

  This scene returned to Alva’s mind whenever a quiet moment permitted. As her friend had discerned, Alva’s non-answer intimated her reply: she did want love, the wanting arising from the still not having. And the still not having was a disappointment, ignore it as she might; she had remained hopeful even as she’d reminded herself how unnecessary—how undesirable—love was supposed to be.

  If the desire for love was in fact unnecessary, why would it persist? Young ladies were likely being sold a bill of goods where this sentiment was concerned, in order to reduce their objections to advantageous alliances. Practical, perhaps—yet how little regard was given to a lady’s future contentment!

  Love was not itself wrong or bad. First Corinthians declared love to be the greatest of all high endeavors. The capacity for love was among the features separating humankind from beasts. The human male desired it every bit as much as the female did—and was just as vulnerable to facsimiles of it (William being evidence of one such case). And while a person was ever in danger of being a fool when it came to romantic love, that was not reason enough to ward it off as if the plague itself were at one’s door. Foolish love was to be avoided, certainly. Genuine love, however, ought to be regarded as a worthy aspiration for everyone.

  Had she squandered the possibility that, given a little more time, she would have met a man with wealth and standing who would also inspire genuine love and would love her in return? It troubled her to think she might have chosen wrong in marrying William. But … perhaps she had chosen wrong in marrying William.

  Not that there was any safe remedy for this particular mistake.

  * * *

  Throughout their month on Long Island, William spent his days hunting for land (for the house he wanted to build) and quail (on foot, for dinner) and foxes (with horses and hounds, for sport). Alva played hostess for the house they’d taken, a rambling Tudor on forty manicured bayfront acres that was constantly filled with the hunting crowd, moneyed young men with their young wives or their sisters. Alva had brought her sister Jenny as well, at the suggestion of Lady C.—or more precisely, Lady C.’s brother Fernando, lately arrived from New Orleans, who was also coming and had asked his sister to ask Alva to have Jenny join in. That romance might bloom here on Long Island delighted Alva, and gave every day a quiet and happy air of anticipation.

  Mornings were calm, the breakfast room laid with a buffet to accommodate an irregular pace of diners and varying desires for food. Luncheon was a two-hour ladies’ affair that culminated in two-hour naps. Teatime fell at four o’clock and rarely featured tea; from Lambswool and Blue Blazers on the cooler days to smashes and cobblers on the warmer ones, the conviviality started early. Dinner began at nine or so and went on for hours.

  Everyone talked and talked and talked and talked. Quail. Guns. Horses. Houses. One night, William announced that he’d selected an ideal homesite on the Connetquot as well as an architect, whom he’d met at the club. Another evening, he held forth on breeding Thoroughbreds.

  Hounds. Polo. Races. Oysters—there was a great deal of discussion about oysters.

  A group was seated on the terrace late one evening, torches throwing shadows onto the lawn and rocky beach below, when such a conversation arose. Oysters: where to find the best ones (Boston? here? Galway? Normandy?), the best preparations (steamed? fried? butter? sauce?), the problem of getting the “bad” ones, especially when traveling abroad …

  Listening with only half an ear while Lady C. strummed the banjo idly, Alva took in the scene—the patio’s handsome fieldstone, the solidly wrought furniture with thick damask cushions, the crystal glasses in everyone’s hands, the Italian wine from the cellar—and thought, Look at me, I am a millionaire.

  That is, I am a millionaire’s wife.

  This life is the life of millionaires’ sons and wives and daughters. Who needs to love a man anyway, if you have his money?

  This is some truly excellent wine.

  Aloud she mused, “I once had the most delicious French oysters, harvested from the Étang de Thau … This was in Paris, before Louis-Napoléon fell. Jenny,
do you remember?”

  Jenny was across the terrace in close conversation with Fernando. Neither was paying mind to oysters.

  “Were they done in wine?” asked William, who was seated near Alva on a chaise longue. “I had some in Geneva that were astonishingly good.”

  From a chair next to him, Oliver Belmont said, “Alva, was the Commune justified in attempting to take over, do you think?”

  William laughed. “What in God’s name has that got to do with oysters?”

  “It’s got to do with France,” Oliver replied. “Your wife was speaking of France.”

  “French oysters, not French communists.”

  “Oysters, communists…” Lady C. waved her hand, then returned to playing. Now the tune was vaguely French sounding, a lament of some kind.

  Alva said, “Oliver, remind me, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “You’re barely grown up! What do you know about the Commune?”

  William stood. “Where’s that maid? Who needs a refill?”

  “I only know a little,” Oliver said. “Hence my inquiry.” William left the terrace and Oliver came to sit on the end of Alva’s chaise. A bold action, she thought, given the slightness of their acquaintance. Still, he was pleasing to see up close, and he smelled wonderful.

  He continued, “I do feel—as they did—that the proletariat deserves a say in its governance. Our country’s democratic process is a far better form than Emperor Napoléon’s—”

  “Oh, ours is superior, all right,” Alva said, “if one is male. For my sex, the approaches are much the same as in France, or England, for that matter: some man or other directing what we can and cannot do. Women deserve suffrage,” she said. “Where do you stand on that?”

  Lady C. paused her playing and said, “Oh, dear God, stop thinking so hard.”

  “Let the man speak,” said Alva.

  Oliver said, “Yes, do permit me to speak while I’ve still the facility to do so. Once Vanderbilt gets back with more wine, I won’t be able to account for my thoughts, let alone my words.”

  Lady C. said, “I rather like no-account men.”

  “Anyway,” Oliver said, “here’s where I stand: I do agree with you in principle. Why should the Negro man be enfranchised while white ladies are not? However, as it appears the ladies mainly wish to vote down alcohol, I can’t support that. I can see that some of your sex are sensible about these things”—he gestured toward Alva’s glass with his own—“but too many are not.”

  “Oh, and every male in our so-called republic is sensible?”

  Oliver’s brother August had come over in the midst of this and now sat down on his brother’s lap. “Enough of that!” he said. “There will be no more talk of politics.”

  Oliver pushed August to the ground. “There is a world beyond horses and races and the hunt, you know.”

  August shielded his eyes with his hand. “What world? Where?”

  Alva told Oliver, “August would prefer we discuss—what? The number of hands there are in a foot?”

  Oliver laughed. “A horse joke!”

  “Or, let’s see … how many feet there are in a polo field—”

  “Which depends upon the number of entrants,” said Oliver.

  “Exactly! Very good.”

  The two of them beamed at each other. She hadn’t had fun like this since before she was married, and never with a man! Vote down alcohol? Not a chance.

  August said, “I would prefer to discuss my mare, who caused me a very poor showing at this morning’s hunt because she was in a mood—as is often true about ladies, and whoops, I’m taking us back to the suffrage question. Never mind!” He leaped to his feet. “Lady Mandeville, play us a cheerful tune!”

  Oliver smiled at Alva. “To be continued,” he said.

  “I hope so.”

  When Alva left the terrace that night, William had fallen asleep on his chaise while conversations went on around him. Jenny, stopping Alva while en route to her own room, whispered, “I believe I’ll be an Yznaga before very long!”

  Alva said, “Did he ask you?”

  Jenny nodded. “We have an understanding. Do you think it’s all right? Will you and Armide give us your blessing?”

  “I could not wish for a better situation.” She kissed her sister. “And Armide will agree. What tremendous good fortune for all of us.”

  She went unsteadily to her room, not bothering to rouse Mary for help to undress. Shedding her shirtwaist and skirt, she let down her hair and climbed onto the bed. How delightful, this match between Jenny and Fernando. How delightful, romance.

  Alva put out the candle. Her room was lit faintly by the torches still burning outside—where Oliver Belmont was yet in conversation with the dullest young man, as far as Alva was concerned. Or perhaps her judgment was a reflection of how engaging she found Oliver. Appealing. Warm. That warmth was inside her now, a response to their flirtation, provoking her desire to slide her hand down over her stomach and lower, to that strange intersection …

  Her mother had been so wrong. If God had not wanted a woman to be able to experience some pleasure this way, he would have made her arms shorter.

  * * *

  The now-promised couple announced their news in late morning. Lady C., seated beside Alva in the breakfast room, told her friend, “This will make us sisters in fact now, not just in sentiment.”

  Alva squeezed her arm. “Will he be good for her, do you suppose? Forgive me—I’m only playing the role my father would have done. How does he mean to spend his time?”

  “He’s asked William to take him on in some capacity.”

  Alva said, “More play than work, then. Well. He and Jenny adore each other, that’s obvious.”

  “He’s passionate about his loves, to be sure.”

  “Why does that sound like a warning?”

  “Does it?” said Lady C. “Perhaps I was only thinking that she’s so mild and tender in character.” She put her hand over Alva’s. “We’ll watch over them and all will be well.”

  William asked Alva and the others to ride out with him to the land he’d settled on for their own summer house, nine hundred acres that bordered the Connetquot’s Great South Bay. The entire party went on horseback “into the wilds of Long Island,” as William put it, on as gentle a summer day as nature ever provided. They ambled through woods and along streams, startling deer and owls and a black bear with two cubs, the mama bear shooing the cubs up a tree before climbing up after them. The sweet scent of honeysuckle came on the light breeze. Alva, wishing she had been a little more temperate the night before, closed her eyes, letting sunlight dapple her eyelids. Times such as this, one could forget there had ever been hunger or winter or death or longing. Longing especially needed to be forgotten.

  What are you, an animal?

  As they came through a wood into a clearing, William said, “Here we go. This is my spot. Richard Hunt is going to draw up house plans for me. Can you see it?” he said, gesturing. “An old English hunting estate, right here on the knoll.”

  Oliver said, “One of those grand places with beams and ivy and such?”

  “Barrels of whiskey,” William said, nodding.

  August said, “Muskets!”

  “Muskets? My word, man, we’re coming up on the twentieth century!”

  “You said an old English hunting estate. I thought you meant authentic.”

  “Never mind authentic, I want modern old English, the most modern old English hunting estate money can buy.”

  The party rode on into nearby Oakdale, an English settlement that was said to date back to the 1600s, and it appeared that little had changed since then. As they passed a dilapidated church, Alva said to William, “You do realize that if we’re to be out here, we’ll need a proper house of worship.”

  Lady C. remarked, “I hope this sty isn’t the only option.”

  “Indeed,” said William. “Hunt might have to build us our own.”

  Alva
studied the structure. “What would you say to my making a plan with Mr. Hunt and the church’s leadership to rebuild at our expense? We’d be doing the town a good turn and serving our own purposes in the process. I could come up with a pleasing design,” she added.

  “What, you?” William asked.

  “I like thinking about architecture. When I was a little girl, I made buildings out of sticks and books. You can leave it to me, all right? The house, too, if you like. You won’t have another concern about it until it’s time to move in.”

  “Except to pay for it,” said Lady C.

  “Shall I arrange it?” Alva asked her husband.

  “I doubt Hunt would want you interfering.”

  From behind them, Oliver said to William, “It’s not as if you want the trouble of building it. You only want to have it.”

  “Just so,” William said, laughing.

  “Well then,” said Alva, “why not allow me to manage the job?”

  “If it amuses and occupies you, do proceed.”

  Lady C. said, “One does prefer an occupied wife. Mandeville always says so.”

  Oliver let his horse move up beside Alva’s. She was acutely aware of his shaving balm. She noticed the sure way his long fingers grasped his horse’s reins. A pine needle had caught on his sleeve. She wanted to reach over, pluck it off. What did it mean, this urge to tidy him? It wasn’t motherly, she understood that much. Her cheeks were hot.

  Oliver said, “I am certain you’ll do the job brilliantly.”

  “Who could doubt it?” Lady C. replied. “Alva is indomitable. And Oakdale has never seen the likes of Vanderbilt money. What good is it if it’s not put to such excellent use?”

  “Says the lady who lives in a castle,” William quipped.

  Alva, preferring indomitable over flustered, put aside her musings about Oliver Belmont and thought instead of seeing her sister married to Lady C.’s brother, a tying together of families already well aligned. She thought, too, of the house she and William would build here, and of the far-off future, when William would come into his share of the money his father now possessed. Mr. Vanderbilt already spoke of how he would never put all the responsibility, the burden of such tremendous wealth, on only one of his sons. He would divide a fortune that was growing by the day. She was in no rush for this. She adored her father-in-law. Still, as her friend had intimated, the time would come.