A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  “I suspect it was the wine,” she said. Certainly it had helped her.

  “I shouldn’t have criticized you.” He took the ribbon at her bosom between his fingers. “You always know what you’re about, and you always put the family’s welfare first.”

  She glanced at his hand. “Ladies are good for more than you think.”

  He gave her the sweet, crooked smile their son was beginning to exhibit when caught trying to crawl off his blanket into the dirt or after his sister’s dolls. “You do admit the gentler sex is not usually interested in men’s doings.”

  “When has a man ever bothered to pay attention to what a lady is interested in?”

  “Be fair! How often have we sat at a dining table or in someone’s drawing room and heard a lady prattle on about parasols or porte-monnaies? Or the exceptional qualities of her rug, her tapestries, the silver service on her last sailing abroad?”

  “You like fine things—”

  “But I don’t go on about them in public.”

  “What lady would speak her true mind when, if she does, she’ll be ridiculed or censured the way Corneil treated me earlier?”

  “Are you telling me that in private your friends discuss the stock market and, what, Boss Tweed?”

  Would that they did, Alva thought. Sometimes, at least. “I’m saying I am interested in architecture, and I mean to continue my involvement with Mr. Hunt.”

  “Hunt does not want you hovering over him as if he were incompetent.” William pulled the ribbon and untied it. “He permits it because he needs the money.”

  Retying the ribbon, she said, “Do you know that the Wyoming and Utah territories allow women full voting rights?”

  “Are there white women in those territories? I had no idea.”

  “Last year Congress said, ‘Leave it to the states.’ Yet the state of New York—and every other state but those two—refuses even to consider suffrage for women. We are more than simply decorative.”

  “Ah, but the decorations can be so pleasing,” he said, reaching again for her ribbon. He never did this sort of thing; how was she supposed to behave?

  He had his hand on her collarbone now and was saying, “Why would you want to be bothered with all that political nonsense? What’s wrong with simply enjoying being a lady of privilege?”

  “Ask your sisters. They want more, too.”

  “More recognition for their status as ladies of privilege from certain other ladies of privilege. But you!” He laughed. “You want to be at the drafting table with Hunt, saying where this column goes and how wide to make that doorway and whether the towers should be round or square—”

  “Yes, I do, and why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re a wife and a mother, not an architect. You had your fun, building the church. It’s time to settle into your proper place. Be grateful for your privileged life. You don’t have to work, so why would you?”

  “I am grateful. However, I do have a mind, and it wants to be put to purposeful use on something that matters to me.”

  “The children and I don’t matter?”

  “Do the children and I matter to you?”

  “What? Of course.”

  “Even while you go about making horse farms and racetracks and tending railroad business?”

  William raised his palms. “Let’s not debate this further. What matters is that my father is ecstatic, and Hunt’s got new work, and you’re going to get the home of a queen.”

  He took the book from her lap and set it aside. He turned down the lamp.

  It’s worth it, she thought. This was what women did, what they’d always done. She was no different from any of them—or perhaps she was wiser: she at least was gaining in status. She was directing her fate.

  Tandragee, December 5, 1879

  Alva, my dear:

  Am I mistaken, or did I last write you when I’d just learned I was again with child? It was such an eventful year, some of it spent at court, where I’ve had audiences with the prince. His set is so diverting. Even in confinement I had the company of the most entertaining ladies, who made a fine distraction for me in my discomfort.

  Well, how is this for news? I am delivered of not one babe but a pair of girls, identical in every aspect, in what was a surprisingly easy birth experience, especially considering that I had to deliver twice. Do you suppose this means little Kim, who has become quite a dictator now that he’s speaking actual words, will always be more difficult than his sisters? One hopes he’ll be more effective in his life than his father, who did manage to arrive in time for the births but was harried and wild and thin. He kissed the babes, congratulated me, asked whether my father would reward me (and thus him) with a doubly generous cheque for my troubles, and was off again in two days. Did I imagine it would be otherwise?

  I recall, years ago, seeing the Duchess’s jeweled crown for the first time and thinking I’d wear it before long. How terribly long “long” has become; the old man refuses to die! And I wonder, will the crown thrill me in the least when the time actually comes? Probably it’s heavy and will make my scalp ache and give me a rash.

  Write me. Better yet, come see these darling girls, whose names are Alice Eleanor Louise and Jacqueline Mary Alva.

  Ever yours,

  Lady C.

  New York, 3 January 1880

  Dear Lady C.,

  Happiest of New Years to you, Mandeville, Kim—and now two more at once! Many congratulations and blessings to all of you. I promise to pay you a visit when I go abroad in the spring, and hope to find you and Mandeville both in good form. Being father to three, now, might anchor him better—if not immediately, then before too long. How can any man with a heart and eyes want to be away from you?

  I am currently gestating a new creation of my own, but it’s not a child: it’s a house like none this city has seen before. I’ve hired Richard Hunt again. We’re also at work on a children’s summertime retreat in an old home that adjoins our Long Island estate.

  Honestly, I am in my glory. After tending household matters and taking luncheon with the children, I then get to spend most afternoons at Richard’s offices, consulting with him and his engineer and designer, studying other structures and drawing plans for mine.

  I must have been born to do architectural work. I understand the aesthetics of composition, fenestration, materials, all of it, and have never been happier than when I am putting my mind to the intricacies of a pleasing floor plan or orchestrating detail for a wall or window or stairway or hall. When Richard and I sit down for tea and discussion, I feel that I am an equal. Oh, he’s far above me in training. But I tease him that I balance his superiority with my innate taste and William’s money.

  In April, Richard and I will be visiting auction houses in Florence, Paris, and London, to consider furnishings. I’ll bring my children on the trip, and Mrs. Hunt intends to bring her younger ones. Catherine is a kind, intelligent woman, and good company. I intend to also speak to numerous artists and craftsmen regarding wall coverings, stained glass, carved paneling, and a portrait commission. I’ve never been properly painted, you know, and as a certain doyenne displays a portrait of herself in her drawing room, I thought I might flatter her choice by doing the same.

  Will you come to London then? I want to hear all the gossip. Here’s some from this side of the Atlantic: while we await Jenny & Fernando’s nuptials, Julia has caught the eye of a French nobleman—a minor title, nothing like your coup, but he does seem partial to her and we are hopeful something more will develop. Maman would rejoice to see one of her swans “properly” wed. Certainly it won’t be Armide, who has happily devoted herself to All the Right Causes, efforts that I gladly fund. She’s well past the age any young man would look at her, even should she encourage it by dressing attractively, etc., which she steadfastly chooses not to do. Perhaps a widowed clergyman will see her merits despite herself. On the other hand, she is content.

  Love to all—

  Alva


  II

  “WILLIAM DIDN’T TRAVEL with you?” Lady C. asked after meeting Alva in the London auction house’s anteroom. Dozens of well-dressed people milled about this room and in the one adjoining, where rows of chairs awaited the bidders-to-be. Today’s offerings were comprised of the furnishings from two English country estates that had belonged to a now-dead baron and to a now-destitute earl, neither of whom were of particular note save for their good taste in tapestries, rugs, and furniture.

  Alva said, “No, he, Fred, and Corneil are off with their father touring and inspecting all the lines, speaking with the supervisors and the laborers, that sort of thing.”

  “Mandeville would do well to get out and see his people in Kimbolton. He likes the title far more than the duties, such as they are. The Montagu men are a rather casual pair in that regard. Why bother to work at a thing you can’t ever lose?”

  “They can lose respect.”

  “Oh, that. I meant something that matters to them.”

  Alva said, “Yes, well, it’s good that William had reason to be occupied elsewhere. If he were along, we’d buy twice as much.”

  “You’d have to simply build another house, then, to keep all the extra things.”

  “And anyway, the Hunts are lovely companions,” Alva said, gesturing toward the couple, who’d gone into the auction room and were now engaged in conversation with a bespectacled man of very advanced years who leaned on a cane for support. A collector, she supposed, smiling at the scene; one was never too old to pursue a true love.

  Lady C. said, “Catherine Hunt’s not jealous of you?”

  “What, because I see so much of him?” Alva shook her head. “They’re completely devoted to each other.”

  “That is a shame.”

  “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “You could do with a lover.”

  “What an odd thing to say!”

  “And your last letter to me was filled with his name.”

  Alva said, “I could do with tea at Claridge’s—New York doesn’t have Devonshire cream, and no one makes scones like you’ve got here.”

  People had begun seating themselves. Richard waved to get her attention, and Alva nodded to him. “It looks as though they’re about to get under way. We should go in.”

  As they went, Lady C. said, “What is it you’re after here?”

  “My decorator feels we’ll do best furnishing the ‘masculine’ rooms from English estates. He says—rightly, I think—that William’s status is best reflected by Saxon styles.”

  Lady C. raised an eyebrow, an expression that was just shy of being a smirk. “Indeed,” she said. “Given that you’re not involved with your Mr. Hunt, I wonder why you bothered to bring him along.”

  “He’ll be invaluable in Paris—he trained there and knows everyone. Did I tell you he worked on renovations to the Louvre?”

  “Listen to you—such pride! The two of you should get a little flat in Paris—”

  “Will you cease this nonsense?” Alva snapped.

  Her friend was taken aback. “When did you grow so serious?”

  “When did you become so boorish?”

  Lady C. stopped walking. “You’re right. I apologize. I should keep better company—Bertie’s jesters are not the refined lot they’d seem to be.”

  “Bertie” meant Albert, Prince of Wales, Queen Victoria’s eldest son. A reputed playboy who had little of import to do while awaiting his mother’s death, he’d surrounded himself with friends whose current responsibilities were something like his own. Dalliances were rumored. Alva remembered that Lady C. had written about having had audiences with him, but nothing about becoming an actual member of his set. To drop the fact into conversation so casually was a boast.

  Alva said, “Keeping company with the future king.”

  “What of it?”

  “What a fascinating life you lead. But do you know they call you a ‘dollar princess’ back home?”

  “You needn’t be so severe with me. I told you I was sorry.”

  Alva didn’t reply. She went to her seat beside Richard and turned her attention to the auction. Lady C. took the seat beside Alva and for the remainder of the event made every effort to be cheerful. When Alva bid on a collection of tapestries, Lady C. praised her choice and congratulated her when she won the bid. When Alva lost out on a pair of Chinese ceramic urns, Lady C. commiserated. She spoke to the Hunts respectfully, and indeed got on so well with Catherine Hunt that at the auction’s conclusion, she invited the Hunts to continue their day with herself and Alva. She suggested Claridge’s for tea, and they accepted eagerly.

  Alva, however, had remained out of sorts. She said, “You all will forgive me for declining the invitation. Something is not quite agreeing with me. Better that I return to my rooms to rest and rejoin you, Mr. Hunt, in the morning.”

  Lady C. said, “I’ll call on you at dinnertime, then.”

  “Better not. My head is aching and I’m certain to be poor company.”

  “Oh. Will I see you again before you leave town?”

  “I’m afraid there’s no time for it,” Alva told her. “We have a tight schedule.”

  “All right, then … it seems this is good-bye for now.” Lady C. reached for Alva to embrace her.

  Alva permitted it, stiffly. “Good-bye for now.”

  She left the auction house and hired a cab to take her back to her rooms at The Langham. This dark mood perplexed her. Reject teatime at Claridge’s? Refuse a rare evening alone with her oldest friend? Perhaps she truly was ill—an illness of the mind. She might be at the start of a long and slow descent into madness. William would have to send her away to someplace calm and simple, where her mind would not be taxed by anything more complicated than choosing her socks. Now there was a recipe for madness, if she’d ever heard one.

  She made herself reflect on the argument. Lady C. had been right; Alva was too severe with her. She should have governed her own irritation better, found high ground in both reaction and response, accepted the apology on the spot. Yet she hadn’t wanted to accept it. Her friend’s teasing had … what? Reminded her of how coarse Lady C. had become? Because yes, that was true, and Alva wished it were not true, wished Mandeville was an actual gentleman and hadn’t affected his wife this way.

  That, however, was not a sufficient explanation for her anger. Perhaps the trouble lay in her friend’s ability to see in her something she did not wish anyone to see—wished was not true. No, she was not in love with Richard. She was not in love at all. She was not in love and she wanted to be and she couldn’t be, and there it was, the shameful truth illuminated under her friend’s knowing gaze.

  Alva ordered up a cottage pie and bottle of sherry, partook of both in portions she wouldn’t ever do publicly, and then went to sleep at seven o’clock. She awakened at dawn, feeling slightly less sorry for herself and a good deal more dyspeptic.

  With no time to call on Lady C. in person before she and the Hunts had to be on their way to Paris, she penned a note instead:

  My friend: I will leave it to Emily Bronte to express best how I feel—

  Love is like the wild rose-briar,

  Friendship like the holly tree—

  The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

  But which will bloom most constantly?

  The wild rose-briar is sweet in the spring,

  Its summer blossoms scent the air;

  Yet wait till winter comes again

  And who will call the wild-briar fair?

  Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now

  And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,

  That when December blights thy brow

  He may still leave thy garland green.

  * * *

  Some time later in New York, Richard Hunt, whose usual expression was either one of polite interest or keen observation, stood before the massive front doors of the house at 660 Fifth Avenue, Alva’s “petit château,” as she had come to call it, unable t
o suppress his smile. After two years of painstaking effort by scores of craftsmen, the house was finished, the furniture and carpets and draperies installed, every surface polished and ready for her final inspection.

  From the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue, Alva climbed the eight steps, every riser shortened so that climbing in heavy skirts would be easier. They’d done this with the curved staircase inside as well—Alva’s own design done in carved stone.

  Richard had at first balked when she told him, “I’d like five-inch risers, with twelve-inch treads.”

  “Five is too short. There are standards for such things.”

  “I read The Building News. I know the standards: six and a half inches is a favored one, and no one’s doing anything shorter than five and a half. This is because all the architects are men. Five is ideal. Put on a half-dozen garment layers including a bustle and wool skirt and see for yourself the advantage.”

  “It would add expense,” he told her. “Not a great deal, but I do try to avoid unnecessary—”

  “It will make every lady who comes to the house very happy, I assure you. And happy ladies love to tell other ladies how happy they are. Rich happy ladies need architects to build their own new houses. You see where this goes.”

  He said, “I do.”

  What he hadn’t seen until the house was nearly done was Alva’s secret project: in tribute to Richard’s excellent nature and talents, two stonecutters had carved his life-size likeness. After presenting it to him, Alva installed it on a peak beside the highest turret, overlooking Fifth Avenue. The whimsy of it was her particular delight.

  Now Richard watched her climb the steps. As he said, “Welcome home,” the doors swung open behind him.

  She laughed. “Very nice touch.”

  She’d been here daily throughout the construction, while across Fifty-second Street the same process was under way for what would become Emily’s house. Adjoining it was Margaret’s, and next to this connected pair, on Fifty-first and Fifth, was the home being built for their parents. Because Mr. Vanderbilt had hired the Herter Brothers as architects, the blocky, austere design of the “triple palace,” as the reporters named it, had no resemblance to what Alva and Richard had done here. Nor did the house under way for Alice and Corneil, who’d bought and demolished the buildings at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street in order to build a redbrick Colonial.