Alva had watched her house rise from the ground four full stories, culminating in its French Gothic roof. Timbers and limestone and plaster—so much plaster! As the interior walls and ceilings were being smoothed into place, she’d been through every room to check the work, caking her boots as she went, ruining easily a dozen skirt hems. Oftentimes the plaster ended up on her gloves and hat and in her hair. Every time, she’d returned home to Forty-fourth Street smiling.
And then the stonecutters went to work, chiseling the elaborate detailing over the windows and at the base of the turrets, carving out the perimeter fence, creating the staircase, decorating the numerous arches and panels inside. Each day a little more beauty was created and revealed. Then came the furnishings, much of it thoughtfully selected by a man Ward McAllister recommended, Jules Allard, “the French king of interiors.” She was watching her dream take form in the waking world, and it felt like magic. She had waved her wand over Mr. Vanderbilt’s head, and this marvelous creation— a veritable fairyland of the French Renaissance—was the result.
* * *
Late that night, after William and the children had arrived at the house, after the first dinner had been served and Alva had played the first songs on the new piano, after the bedtime prayers were said, after the last of the nightcaps was drunk, Alva left her bedroom with candle in hand and went upstairs to the third floor.
The children slept in the rooms up here and would play in the gymnasium, a huge, gleaming room that stretched above the two-story banquet hall below. They had scooters and balls and hoops and a miniature sailboat on wheels that could be towed about the room. Before dinner, the two of them had taken turns towing each other. Willie was the more eager captain, directing the “wind” to go one way, then another, while Consuelo was content to sit politely and see where her “wind” might send her.
Alva went to Consuelo’s door and peeked in to see her daughter abandoned to dreams—often of ponies and puppies, Consuelo would tell her in the mornings. Then Willie’s room. He was sound asleep with his feet and legs propped up against his headboard. He claimed to dream of ponies and puppies as well.
She went back down to the second floor, which had a nursery and a schoolroom and an enormous guest bedroom, along with rooms for herself (so long, pink stripes!) and for the master of the house, who was now presumably sleeping off his generous pours of thirty-year-old scotch. He’d carried a glass around with him all evening, going from room to room and grinning like Midas on the day of his reward.
In the spacious upper hall, she did a slow waltz with an invisible partner over to the main stairway. One practically floated down its shortened steps! She was proud of her creation—the stairway, yes, but more than that, the house itself, the fact of it—much as God must have been proud after He’d looked into the vast blackness of time before time and decided, There should be earth.
On the first floor, to the right of the stairs, a tremendous arched doorway opened into the banquet hall, a fifty-foot-wide room two extra-tall stories high, with a fantastic stained-glass scenario on the wall opposite the doors: the meeting of King Henry VIII and King Francis I on the Field of the Cloth of Gold. That scenario was a marvel: nine panels put together to make three windows rising twenty feet high. All that colored glass cut and placed to form kings, knights, falconers, bowmen, jesters—dwarfs, even, and dogs and horses and gear … Not to mention Queen Claude, as well as Anne Boleyn, who there had won the attention of Henry VIII.
But nowhere in the image was gold cloth apparent. Nor was there any field—it was all castles and houses and tents and hills. Mary had asked why, then, it was named as it was.
“Well, I suppose it’s because art like this is symbolic, not literal,” Alva said. “Representational, not real. Do you see?” Even as she’d said it, she was thinking that there were times when she felt that none of this—the window, the paintings, the tapestries, the columns, the polished stone and wood under her feet—was real, that in fact she was dreaming it, that she might at any moment wake in a bedroom shared with her sisters, a cold wind whistling through window gaps and floorboards, nothing to look forward to, nowhere to go.
At the end of the banquet hall were the service stairs to the basement. Alva continued that way, down the dim corridor and into the kitchen, where she set her candle on the center worktable and then stood in the middle of the expansive room. It smelled of the roasted pork and yams they’d eaten earlier, with an underlying scent, still, of sawed wood and plaster and paint. The room was silent as the grave.
On the wide marble worktable was a huge wheel of cheese covered by a cloth. “Never had anything so fine,” the cook had said of that table. “And these ovens and this copperware…” And around them, shelves and cupboards and drawers and closets and hooks and a huge icebox, everything brand new and tidy.
When the newspapers mentioned the house (which they liked to do, often), it was praised for having charm and grace—more so than its mistress, some had remarked, citing how untidy she often was when leaving the site, and what was a lady doing there amid so much mess and so many coarse men? Alva had no time for such small-mindedness. The house was done; the house was wonderful. Now she must in essence perch herself on top of Richard-the-statue’s cap-covered head and see how else she might take on this city and its most snobbish inhabitants—
A noise behind Alva startled her. She turned toward the door. “My word, Mary! You’ll give me heart failure. What are you doing down here at this hour?”
“My stomach’s unsettled,” Mary said. “So much excitement, you know, finally being here. I hoped to find a cracker—but I’m not sure where to look first.”
“How do you feel about opera?”
“Opera?” Mary said. “Me? I’ve never heard one—but I did see two colored girls about as old as me who sang opera songs in church once. They had very pretty voices.”
Alva said, “At the actual opera, almost no one pays attention to the music, except for Mrs. Vanderbilt, God love her—and she has no foreign languages, so I always have to tell her the story. And we still can’t get a box. I think my husband should get some of his friends to form a committee and simply build a new music hall themselves. Never mind waiting for society to grant us any dearly held privilege. Take the mountain to Muhammad.”
Mary lit a wall sconce and began opening cupboards in search of a cracker tin. “Mama says that’s how the abolitionists had to do. No matter how right you are in your thinking, you could die waiting for some people to change their minds.”
Alva nodded. “I do tire of the nonsense.”
“Here, I found the crackers,” said Mary, taking down the tin.
“Alice, though; she tilts her nose up and goes about her business as though exemplary living is all that’s needed to erase stigma and bring society to her door. As though it’s beneath her to make an overt effort.”
Mary said, “You’ll forgive me saying so, but you getting to the top of society is isn’t exactly as important as all people being free.”
“I do realize I’m not going to save anyone by besting Caroline Astor and her ilk, but I would love to do it just the same. Merely on principle.”
She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s a fantastic kitchen, isn’t it? I told Mr. Hunt, ‘We need to make it so nice that I’d want to work here. That’s how we’ll always get the best help.’ Look at this place,” she continued. “We are surrounded by food.” She uncovered the cheese and looked for a knife, saying, “I’m going to make the most of it, Mary. All of it. I’m going to beat society at its own game.”
III
THE GLEAMING MAHOGANY dining table. William at one end, Alva at the other. Friends seated along both sides. French wine. Stuffed squab. Hadn’t she once wished it exactly so?
Among their guests at this springtime dinner party were a slate of young, unmarried Knickerbocker ladies who wanted to take part in interesting amusements with the interesting people, whether their parents approved or not. These g
irls were quite attached to another of Alva’s guests, Miss Sallie Whiting, despite her father being merely a wealthy merchant. Miss Whiting was as pretty as they came, but also vivid in personality. Alva had invited her on an impulse, having seen her at the Bicycle Exhibition in William’s newly named Madison Square Garden. She and Miss Whiting watched a sideshow in which a pair of women demonstrated that ladies, too, could ride bicycles and really ought to ride in order to improve circulation, complexion, and digestion. Alva had ordered six bicycles to be delivered to Idle Hour and another six for home, and when Miss Whiting remarked, “But you’re already superior in complexion,” Alva invited her to dinner.
Tonight’s party included several unwed gentlemen, too, not the least of whom was Oliver Belmont. He had been away, training at the Naval Academy and serving a year, but had changed his mind about it and come home. William quipped, “Too many boats, not enough horses,” but that seemed too facile a characterization for a man like Oliver.
Certain she was now immune to the malaise that had troubled her before, Alva had seated him at her left. It was nice to see him after so long, nice to be able to admire him—platonically, of course.
Now he was raising his wineglass and saying, “To our excellent host, as fine an example of a gentleman as our Creator ever made—and still in his father’s good graces! Whereas I am the bane of my father’s existence. Unlike your older brother, Vanderbilt, my older brothers have failed to distract dear old dad from the harsh truth about the younger progeny: that we are gamblers and flirts—”
“And you are much too fast with four-in-hand,” William said. “With all horses, in fact. I’m a good deal poorer thanks to you. This man races like the wind, I tell you. He should be driving a mail coach.”
Sallie Whiting touched Oliver’s arm and said, “You’re very brave, I’m certain.”
“Oh, very,” Oliver agreed.
She shifted closer to him and asked, “Which of these is more frightening to a man: a wild horse or a wild woman?”
Could the girl be more obvious? She was throwing herself at him. It was unseemly.
Oliver said, “By which you mean, run away with herself?”
“Disregards her father’s instruction—” said one of the others.
“And her mother’s direction,” added a third.
Sallie Whiting nodded. “Smokes cigarettes publicly, and displays her ankles when she’s seated.”
One of the gentlemen said, “She sounds all right to me!”
“Flirts with a man without any desire to marry him,” said Miss Edith Jones, whose aunt, Mary Mason Jones, was Alva’s eccentric neighbor, one of the first to build a home across from Central Park. Mrs. Jones was an aficionado of French architecture and had come over to admire Alva’s house several times—a small but significant event, given that Mrs. Jones was a Knickerbocker of the first order.
William said, “Surely none of you as-yet-unwed ladies would risk your reputations by flirting that way. You should look to Alva for your example; my wife is perfection.”
“I often say as much,” said Oliver.
“Please,” Alva said, startled by both men’s remarks. “I am many things, but perfect is not among them.”
Miss Jones said, “No, you truly do embody all a married lady should be. There are, however, a number of girls who have their own money and are in no rush to marry. So why not flirt if they like?”
“Think of what you’re saying,” William said. “They’d never be asked anywhere good. And what sort of girl doesn’t want to marry?”
“Armide, for one,” Alva replied. “But she’s no flirt, and she doesn’t smoke—or show off her ankles.”
“She’s dull,” said Miss Whiting. “I’m sorry to be critical, but it’s true!”
“Most unwomanly,” William agreed, and as he said it, dessert was served—a flaming crème brûlée that had everyone exclaiming over it.
Oliver leaned nearer to Alva and said, “I’m certain your sister is excellent company, but no doubt inferior to you. Every lady is.”
She laughed. “You are in your cups, sir.”
“Au contraire. This is no drunken speech. W.K. is the finest gentleman I’ve known—and do you know how I know? I’ll tell you. Because he won you.”
She did not say that the game had been fixed, the trophy already engraved with his name. The portrayal was flattering, and she did not mind being flattered, even by Oliver Belmont.
Especially by Oliver Belmont.
Yes, it was true. Still true. As true as ever, why not simply admit it? Not that it mattered one whit. It did not. No, not a whit.
“And you,” Oliver continued, “are impeccable. You are impeachable—no, I mean unimpeachable. You are a peach. You are—”
“You are going to have to be poured into your carriage tonight,” Alva said, feeling herself blush—and in feeling it, blushing harder.
He said, “You must know: if only you were—”
He stopped as their butler came in with Corneil behind him, announcing, “Sir, Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt.”
Corneil addressed the group. “My apologies for this interruption. William—if you would.” He indicated the door to the parlor. “Excuse us, please.”
They left the room, and one of the gentlemen said, “What could pull good old Corneil away from his ledgers at this hour?” drawing uneasy laughter from the other men. The matters that would concern Corneil to this extent could be matters that concerned the markets, and thus affected these gentlemen’s abilities to buy Thoroughbreds.
“Do enjoy the dessert,” Alva said, forcing cheer. “I’m sure it’s road business. It always is.”
The conversation went on around her. She was less concerned with Corneil’s appearance than with what had just passed between Oliver and her. She didn’t dare look at him. What had he meant to say? If only she were … what? How did he see her? What did he imagine her capable of?
He leaned close again and said in her ear, “I must reveal something. He’s not the finest gentleman I know—though he should be, the fool.”
Alva said nothing.
Oliver went on, “When we travel, he often takes up with—”
“Please, stop,” Alva whispered. “Would you slander your good friend?”
He looked abashed and sat back in his chair.
What had he expected? That upon hearing some terrible thing about her husband—a falsehood, probably, invented to serve his own purpose—she would take up with him? No matter how much she might desire the thrill of a love affair, indulging that desire would be social suicide.
I am unimpeachable.
I am.
“Miss Whiting,” Oliver said, “do you fancy a cigarette?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” Sallie Whiting replied. “As long as we’re waiting for our host.”
“Anyone else?” he offered, holding out his case. Alva refused to look his way.
When her husband returned to the dining room, he was alone. His expression was somber and he said, “I’m afraid we have to make an early night of this. My uncle has died. I don’t know much more than that. I hope you all will forgive this abrupt end to the evening.” He then returned to the parlor.
In seeing everyone out, Alva avoided Oliver’s attempt to catch her eye, instead watching his shoulder as he thanked her formally and said good night.
With William and Corneil still shut away, she went through her bedtime toilet absentmindedly. Though she ought to have been thinking of their poor uncle or paying attention to Mary’s idle chatter, she was recalling Oliver’s warm breath and voice in her ear. If only you were—
An immoral woman?
An unmarried woman?
My woman.
She couldn’t know whether his if only meant he wished for what might have been, or for what he imagined might yet be.
And if she was his?
She felt a strange flutter in her stomach.
Stop it.
Mary said, “Is there anything else,
Miss Alva?”
“What? No. Thank you. Oh—except, you’ll have heard that my husband’s uncle passed—”
“I was just saying,” Mary told her. She tilted her head and gave Alva a look reminiscent of Lulu’s. “Are you feeling all right?”
“So you know to bring out my black attire,” Alva said. “Good. That’s all, then.”
Mary continued to look at her.
“I said that’s all.”
“I’m going,” Mary said.
As she left, William came to Alva’s bedroom door and said, “Not that it will take long for the papers to get hold of this, but I couldn’t say it…”
Alva turned to face him. “What? It wasn’t a seizure? What happened?”
“It was suicide. He shot himself in the head.”
“He did not!”
“He was damned already.”
“And now the rest of us are, too.”
William said, “It isn’t as bad as all of that.”
“For the men, it isn’t.”
“Yes, of course, look how easy life was for Uncle C.J.”
“I’m sorry for him, you know I am—but he committed a mortal sin, and some society ladies would as soon pick the flesh from my bones when my back is turned as have sympathy for your uncle’s plight.”
“Then don’t see those ladies,” he said.
“Don’t see them? Think of what you’re saying. That would require my never leaving the house.”
* * *
At the conclusion of Uncle C.J.’s funeral service, several unfamiliar men rimmed the insultingly small group in attendance, some of whom had now gathered around the casket. Each man seemed to be alone, and each wore an expression not of sadness or disappointment but of eagerness, as if waiting for a race to start. Reporters. Which of the family could they coax into speaking with them? Who was likely to provide the most sensational story about the Commodore’s son’s last days, last words, even his last thoughts, if any wanted to speculate so boldly? There was always more to every story, after all.
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 16
