“I’ll help build the house and the church—and I’ll build a castle one day, too. Why shouldn’t I do as I please?”
She said this almost as if it were a dare.
Her Second Act
It is your turn now,
you waited, you were patient.
The time has come
for us to polish you.
We will transform your inner pearl
into a house of fire.
—RUMI
I
ALVA STOOD WITH Richard Hunt at the altar of the new St. Mark’s Episcopal Church of Oakdale, the building so freshly done that sawdust still lingered in the sunbeams.
This project and the summer house had made for ideal occupation while she also created a child—a boy this time, named for his father (who’d done as forecasted and showered his wife with emeralds for the occasion—including a round, ring-set stone so large that Alva had named it the Meadow). She’d been too busy, far too busy, for frivolous thoughts. Over the months of planning and construction, Oliver Belmont almost never came to mind. Why should she think about him? He was yet a half-formed man, a flirt—her husband’s friend, not hers. Why had he even come to mind now? She was short of sleep, that was all, up in the night with the baby, who was teething and had wanted comfort at his mama’s breast. A new mother’s mind was not always quite under her control.
Richard was saying, “This is going to be a fine place when it’s all fitted out. But I do think the house is the greater accomplishment.”
“For you, not for me,” Alva said. “You made the house to my husband’s ideal.”
“Incorporating many of your suggestions.”
“It isn’t the same,” she said. “Don’t you agree? When you build from your own ideal rather than from your client’s, is that not the greater pleasure?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t yet had that pleasure.”
Richard Hunt was a man of middle years, small in stature but great in energy. Dark-eyed and dark-haired, he had a brushy mustache that gave him an air of creative madness. Though he was American, his training was entirely French: he’d been the first of his kind to study at l’École des Beaux Arts in Paris. That alone was sufficient to win Alva’s respect. Their collaboration on this church, however, the ease with which he’d accepted her participation, won him her admiration and affection, too. He had become a real friend.
She said, “What, you haven’t built a house of your own? What a travesty! Do you have insufficient work, or insufficient pay for that work?”
“My field is increasingly competitive. Some of the best commissions are going to other firms.”
“What are the best commissions?” she asked, envisioning great structures like the Louvre or, that being too much to hope for in New York, the new Metropolitan Museum of Art. Calvert Vaux had won that job, after he and Frederick Law Olmsted created Central Park—a project Richard had contributed to before being elbowed out. Though he didn’t speak of it much, Alva knew he’d been wounded by the act. He deserved better.
Richard said, “Surprisingly, the best work is in city mansions. The margins are greater—profit margins, I mean. The men who want such homes seem keen on saying theirs is the most expensive, so it behooves the architect to satisfy such clients by billing the highest rates. I lost several opportunities by underbidding.”
“When you say mansions, do you mean like Mr. Stewart’s?”
A. T. Stewart had built a white marble showplace on the corner across from Caroline Astor’s ordinary brownstone. The home was now said to be haunted by the dead mercantile “king,” who’d been felled by what he thought was a bad cold and whose body had been stolen right out of his grave. Mrs. Stewart was certain his ghost walked the long dark halls of their home, unable or unwilling to accept eternal rest. Some said Mrs. Stewart was off her head, but Alva was inclined to believe there was something to this ghost claim. Men like Mr. Stewart had never rested in life; why should they like to do so in death?
Richard said, “Like Stewart’s, yes, and others of even more elaborate design. Tiffany, Rockefeller, Lenox—they’ve all got building lots near where I’ve recently done the new Lenox Library, east of Central Park. Uptown is no longer quite the wilderness it was.”
They left the church and began the drive back to the new house, which William had christened Idle Hour. It had turned out much as he’d envisioned, a Tudor lodge that outwardly resembled those old hunting estates he admired while being modern inside. It had running hot and cold water, a gas machine and built-in fixtures, and a boiler system that would pump heat into every room in the house—a remarkable advance over coal fires. The interiors were spacious and yet also warm and inviting. She and Richard had done well.
What, though, to do next? A lady’s day had so many empty hours to be filled, and though the children, social luncheons, and committee meetings could take up her time, rarely were they sufficient occupation for her mind. She needed stimulating, complex projects, challenges to overcome, problems to solve. Were she to be without stimulation for too long, any manner of frivolous thoughts might vex her (about Oliver Belmont, for example—Good Lord, get out of my thoughts!), and who could say where that might lead? Idle hands or idle mind—the Devil had no preference.
As they bumped along a road little better than a cow path, she told Richard, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about prominent men putting their stamp on the city.”
“Yes?”
“My father-in-law recently settled the suit over the Commodore’s will—”
“I saw that in the Times. Your uncle is satisfied with a single million?”
“Evidently. He seems to have been more interested in pulling Mr. Vanderbilt into the slop than in gaining a great sum. We’re all glad to have the matter behind us.”
She continued, “And so it seems to me that New York now needs a fresh view of who the Vanderbilts are. A Vanderbilt stamp, if you will.”
Wave a wand, cast a spell.
* * *
Manhattan was heavy with late-spring humidity, the air sooty and stagnant, the street odors so farmlike that no one was impolite enough to speak of it as the Vanderbilts greeted one another and began assembling in Mr. Vanderbilt’s parlor for a family dinner to celebrate the end of the litigation. Mrs. Vanderbilt kept the windows closed.
While waiting for all of William’s siblings to arrive, Alva, briefly alone in the drawing room, took the scrolled paper she’d hidden in her sleeve and set it aside, then went about surveying her father-in-law’s selections of artists and art; her mother-in-law’s choice of fresco on the ceiling above; the fabrics of draperies and furniture; the design of the rug; the small statuary and enameled boxes on display.
Though the house design was ordinary, they’d given it fine accoutrements. These were people of taste. They recognized beauty. They were generous and well meaning and devoted to their family.
And now, with everyone present, they were serving wine, which would help allay her nerves: tonight she would announce a bold proposal that not even William was expecting.
She had dressed carefully, choosing a pale gray gown to serve as backdrop to the gems William had given her: the royal pearls; the emerald earrings; the Meadow, vivid against her white glove. Mary had embroidered the most delicate line of ivy along the outside edge of each glove, a subtle message projecting quality, art, beauty. In Alva’s hair was a silver comb encrusted with tiny emeralds and seed pearls. In all, it was a costume meant to inspire in its wearer and its audience a specific and purposeful effect. The effort was not so different from the one she’d undertaken to secure William’s proposal of marriage, come to think of it; she was again attempting a kind of personal salvation that would also do a greater good. Tonight, however, she was far better dressed.
Mr. Vanderbilt stood before the now-complete assemblage and said, “Though the matter took far longer to resolve than I wished, this is a celebration. Today we put the unpleasantness behind us.”
“Amen,
” said Corneil. Alice put her hand on his shoulder. She was newly expecting what would be their sixth child born, fifth surviving—if the delivery went well, if nothing dire befell any of the others before then. Had Alva wanted to catch up, she would have to have triplets! And even then Alice would probably produce yet another, just to stay ahead.
Mr. Vanderbilt raised his glass. “To our collective future: may it always be as bright as my children and grandchildren. I am delighted with every one of you.”
“Even William?” said Corneil, straight-faced. “He seems to have forgotten the location of our offices. Grand Central Depot, Forty-second Street.”
“Even Corneil?” said William. “Grandfather never chained himself to his desk like some martyr to the gods of commerce.”
“Every one of you,” their father repeated, frowning at them. “Must I remind you on this occasion that there is no benefit to sowing division?”
Corneil said, “My apologies, Father. I meant to be lighthearted.” The silence that met his statement suggested no one was convinced.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, if I may,” Alva said, seeing her chance. All eyes turned to her as she waited for his nod. Her heart pounded at twice its usual pace and force, but she stood up, took a breath, and, avoiding her husband’s gaze, said, “I have an announcement to make.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt clapped her hands. “When is the blessed event?”
“Oh—I’m sorry, Mother V., not that kind of announcement. Rather,” she continued, “it has to do with finally elevating the family to its rightful place in society.”
Now she ventured a glance at William. His mouth was open slightly, but he didn’t speak.
She said, “Settling the lawsuit is cause for celebration, yes. It seems to me also a call for action. For demonstration. The newspapers have sullied the Vanderbilt name, which we all know is unjust—”
“It’s an outrage,” said Corneil. “This family has done more for New York—”
“A lot, yes,” Alva said. “But not nearly enough.”
He frowned. “Your ignorance is excusable, but your tone is not. William, did you endorse this speech?”
“Ordinary philanthropy isn’t sufficient,” she said, giving William no chance to reply. “And frankly, not even the Vanderbilt millions can solve the problems of poverty—though of course we must all continue to address them. But we must also go beyond that.
“This city ought to be a cultural capital of the world. Yet look at the truth: there is so little to uplift the public’s spirit. We’ve had a depression. The people are dejected and uninspired. You’ve all seen Paris: there’s poverty, yes, but wherever one looks there’s beauty, too—beauty that every citizen can see. It inspires hope. It inspires love and pride. The poorest Parisian, while he may have nothing, would live nowhere else. The same is true of Florence and Venice and Rome. But here our buildings are plain and ugly on the outside. Those who own great works of art keep them locked away from the public—”
“We have the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” said Corneil.
“The new building will be so far uptown that it may as well be in Canada. What seamstress or baker or blacksmith can afford to spend their time and coin on the trip?”
Her father-in-law had tented his fingers over his ample stomach and was watching her closely. “Do you have some solution in mind?”
“I believe I know where we should start.” She took the scroll from its spot beneath her chair. “New York is a little like Florence once was before the Medicis made arts patronage their cornerstone of leadership—beginning with architecture.” She unrolled the paper and held it up for everyone to see. “Richard Hunt and I collaborated on this.”
“It looks like a castle,” Lila said.
“It’s modeled on le Château de Chenonceau, which was home at one time to Catherine de’ Medici and is scaled here for Fifth Avenue. This is only a sketch, but it conveys—”
“What do you purport this to be?” said Mr. Vanderbilt.
“The new William K. Vanderbilt residence.”
“Alva!” William said.
“Your house?” George came for a closer look.
His father said, “That would be quite a statement.”
“Yes, it would,” said Alva. “What’s more, you should do something in this line as well—a mansion, I mean, of whatever style you choose. And so should you, Corneil. And we’ll all furnish our homes with objects of genuine beauty. The structures themselves will be works of art that anyone can admire. We’ll be supporting every kind of artisan and artist—stonemasons and carpenters and ironsmiths and seamstresses, painters, sculptors—think of it, with so many men out of work.”
“I like that,” said Mrs. Vanderbilt.
“You may well like it, Mother,” Corneil replied. “But what Alva is proposing is not viable—we must forgive her for being insensible as to the expense of such a plan.”
“A considerable expense,” Mr. Vanderbilt said, nodding his agreement. “Though I do admire the sentiment.” He gave Alva a sympathetic smile. “Now, shall we move on to dinner?”
The family rose from their seats and conversation resumed. William came over to Alva, his expression stern. “You should have consulted with me first.”
“Yes, I know, but— Gentlemen,” she called out impulsively. Everyone turned toward her. “I … well, forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but I have to say I am astonished by your lack of vision. It’s quite disappointing, to tell the truth. The Commodore must be laughing at you from his grave for this failure to recognize a great opportunity when it is laid in your lap.”
“That’s enough,” William said, taking her arm.
Corneil was still in the fight. He said, “Grandfather would never waste money on this.”
“You’re wrong. His genius lay in recognizing which action to take in order to build the fortune and legacy he longed for. The fortune is made. The legacy will languish if none of you is willing to seize this opportunity.”
Corneil said to William, “You had better control your—”
“Say more,” Mr. Vanderbilt bade Alva, holding up his hand to silence Corneil. “You said you worked this out with Mr. Hunt. What does he have in mind?”
“A good fee, surely,” said Corneil.
“Mr. Hunt thinks the corner of Fifty-second and Fifth is ideal for our house,” Alva said. “The new St. Patrick’s cathedral would act as a kind of architectural anchor. And he suggests that the Fifties are prime in general. Little of note has been built there so far—mainly just the Jones sisters’ row houses, and as Fifth Avenue runs out at the park, we would define what uptown will be.”
“Father,” Corneil began again.
“I want to hear her out,” said Mr. Vanderbilt. “Her observation about our legacy is not baseless.” He came to stand beside her. He examined the sketch, the turrets and windows and ironwork of her castle-to-be. “How do you intend to pay for it? I’m not in favor of your husband selling any more of his shares.”
She had anticipated this. “You’ll pay for it,” she said. “And for Corneil’s house, too. It’s not as if you can’t afford it—and isn’t it simply a kind of, what do you call it, a diversification of assets from stocks to real property?”
They were all looking at her as if she’d begun speaking in tongues. It was … rather delightful.
She continued, “Imagine what the papers will say of you: ‘William Henry Vanderbilt, New York’s premier patron, the man who remade Manhattan.’ You’ll have to act quickly, though, if you hope to upstage the others.”
“‘The others’?”
“Tiffany. Rockefeller. Lenox,” Alva said, repeating Richard Hunt’s list. “Mr. Hunt tells me they’re contemplating similar plans.”
Mr. Vanderbilt’s expression gave nothing away. “I must say, this is a bold proposal—”
“I’m sorry, Father,” William interrupted, frowning at Alva. “It’s my fault. If I had known what she was—”
“I wish I had thought of it myse
lf,” Mr. Vanderbilt finished. “The Fifties, you say?”
Alva nodded. “That’s right. Yours for the taking.”
“Hmm. Close enough to stroll to the park. What’s more, my wife is fond of reminding me that I’ve long past run out of space for the paintings I’ve acquired. It won’t do to leave them stacked against walls. Why hold on to the money like old Astor did, visiting it in its vault the way ordinary men visit with their grandchildren? You’ve heard me say it before: I don’t intend to burden any of you boys the way my father did me.”
“You could have a proper gallery,” said George. “And a library.”
“Indeed. All right, you’ve convinced me. Let’s set an example for others to follow, and perhaps this city will come to something yet. I’ll see my property agent in the morning, first thing.”
Alva kissed him. “You are a wise and generous gentleman. Everyone will say so.”
He colored, unused to avid affection. “I may even look into doing houses for the girls,” he said, gesturing toward Margaret and Emily, the eldest daughters. Presumably the younger two would have to wait along with the younger two sons. He said, “Good? Good! Shall we dine?”
William caught Alva’s eye. He winked.
Following the others to the dining room, she was buoyed by the pride and satisfaction of having prevailed in this contest and by the prospect of the work ahead of her. Yet beneath the surface she was limp with relief, as if she had been running from a wolf and was now safe again inside the cottage door.
* * *
William came to Alva’s room later that night. She was sitting up in bed, paging through one of the books Richard Hunt had given her. Homes of Antiquity was a huge, heavy collection of renderings. Every Italian and French estate of note was included there.
William sat down on the bed. “That was a remarkable night. I believe it never would have occurred to Father that he could use his money in such a manner. In his mind he’s still the boy whose mother managed a boardinghouse while his father was out running ferries. He couldn’t stop congratulating me on choosing such a good wife.”
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 14
