A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  She told Ward, “I’ll bear Mr. Sargent in mind. Now, that adorable fellow there, beside my sister-in-law: Is he one of yours as well?” The gentleman was as smooth-cheeked and youthful as her nephew, Bill.

  “That’s Mr. Harry Lehr. I’ll introduce you after dinner. The most entertaining young man to cross a Newport threshold in many a year, I don’t mind saying. Plays piano, sings like a lark, tremendous sense of humor—”

  “Not to mention style,” Alva said. In contrast, Bill was obviously a fraternity boy (Yale, in his case) who was yet playing at adult sophistication. Bill was sweet and warm and confident and coddled. Mr. Lehr seemed nervous, insecure. But she told Ward, “He’s very well turned out.”

  Ward said, “He is, indeed. I sent him to my tailor earlier this summer. His edges were the slightest bit rough in spots, don’t you know. Family troubles when he was young. Younger, that is. He’s all of twenty! Looks up to me like a favorite uncle, I daresay.”

  “What else is occupying you? It’s been an age since we had a proper sit-down.”

  “Hasn’t it?” His expression was wistful. “That’s because you’re beyond needing me—flown the nest! As it should be. Yes. As it should be. I flatter myself that you’ve flown even higher than you might have, had I not been the one bringing you fish.”

  “And you’re correct. You have my enduring gratitude.”

  Ward said, “You are a dear, dear friend. So I don’t mind telling you this: Believe it or not, I’ve been tucked away writing my memoirs! Indeed, I have a publisher already, and you’ll see the fruit of my labors in October.”

  “Truly? Well, I’ll look forward to that. That is, I think I will. Should I?”

  “Not one of my dear friends need make herself or himself anxious. Discretion is my creed! The book is anecdotes sans identities, and framed to serve my broader goal, that being to educate those who desire entrée into our social world as well as those who, though they can’t hope to ever enter, look upon it with fascination and seek to imitate. The account is amusing, it’s instructional—I give many examples on the correct forms for social occasions, for correspondence. What a stroll along memory lane it was, to write it.” His expression was wistful. “Energetic as I may seem to be, the truth is that I’m in my golden years. But not yet in my dotage!”

  “The book will be highly valued, I’m certain,” Alva said.

  “My publisher agrees! Such guides usually come from authors whose knowledge is far slighter than my own.”

  The sound of silver against crystal got their attention. At the far end of the table, Corneil had stood and was preparing to speak.

  “Another summer full of God’s bounty has come to an end. Our cook has labored to bring you the freshest and most sumptuous examples of His offerings direct from Vanderbilt farms—here in Portsmouth as well as the Staten Island operation, now being run so ably by my brother George.”

  George stood and made a half-bow. Everyone applauded.

  Corneil then said, “As you know, last year was a somber one for us, a year of mourning my father’s passing. We missed being able to host occasions such as this, to have so many excellent old friends around us—and to make new acquaintances. So as the season ends, as the days grow short, as we return to our routines in the city and the activities that occupy us so thoroughly there, I make this toast: to bounty and to friendship. May we always have a surfeit of both.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  Ward murmured to Alva, “A man with his worth has got nothing to fear in that regard. Your husband, too.”

  She smiled. “Tell me again when your book will be published.”

  “October twenty-first!”

  “And will there be a fete?”

  “A modest gathering. Perhaps fifty in all. Invitations forthcoming,” he said. “I do hope you’ll be able to come.”

  She said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” and very nearly meant it.

  VIII

  ON THE MORNING before Ward’s party, Alva received a copy of his book and a note of gratitude for her friendship. The book was slim but handsome, done in brown leather with gold embossing. The front cover featured the McAllister coat of arms. Inside the cover was a page bearing a space for a handwritten number, with this copy bearing the number 4. Below that was Ward’s signature, a swirl of pen strokes as florid as Ward himself.

  His “modest” fete would take place at Sherry’s that evening, a restaurant that had gained great favor with New York society in recent years, and was timed to celebrate the expected laudatory notices.

  William came into the parlor holding up a section of the Times. “Did you read this?”

  Alva said, “No, I haven’t seen the papers yet. I’m still catching up on my correspondence.”

  Among the letters was one from Jennie Churchill which mentioned, among many other events, a visit by Oliver Belmont, who she said had attached himself to Randolph Churchill at Royal Ascot in June and was eager to hear all about Tory policy. Whisky, cigars, and politics well into the night, Jennie wrote. Churchill adores him.

  She’d also written, Mr. Belmont says he’ll never marry again. Isn’t that sad? Despite knowing she ought to agree, Alva felt the opposite.

  William set the newspaper on the table beside her. “You can’t possibly go to McAllister’s party tonight.”

  “Of course I’m going.”

  “They’ve eviscerated him. Read it.”

  As she read, her spirits fell. The review was long and quoted from the book liberally, every instance made to paint Ward as not only pompous but ridiculous, too. His intentions were ridiculed, his actions were ridiculed—all of it served up as droll entertainment for the paper’s readers, drawing itself to a point with this:

  When a man of mature years betakes himself to organizing tea parties and dances as a career he becomes an interesting object. The first requisite for success, as in so many other things, is intense moral earnestness. No suspicion that he is making a continental laughingstock of himself must disturb his mind or interfere with the singleness of his devotion. It would be fatal to him. In this volume there is no trace of such a suspicion. The degree of fervor that the author puts into undertakings that adults commonly leave to adolescents is really wonderful.

  They did not mean “wonderful” as a compliment.

  In writing this remarkable book, he has produced a social document of considerable interest, for he not only illuminates himself, but he sheds a somewhat garish light up the “society” whose leader he is.

  As Alva laid the paper aside, William said, “You see why I can’t permit you to attend.”

  “Why must they do this? Why could they not let him have his happiness? What harm has he ever done? A great many people in this city have benefited from his influence—”

  “Himself among them.”

  “Why shouldn’t he benefit? And why are you not taking his side?”

  “You have to admit it: he is ridiculous.”

  “That never troubled you when it was your cause he was advancing.”

  “Times have changed. A wise fellow would never have written that book, or at least he wouldn’t have put it out for review. He could have had it printed up and distributed to the five people who might truly want to read it.”

  “He’s beloved and admired by thousands.”

  “And now he’s a laughingstock to thousands more—and in particular, to people whose opinions I care about. Which is why you won’t be attending his—”

  “I’ll make my own decisions on what I attend, thank you.” As she spoke, she had a glimpse of a figure in pale pink outside the doorway. She said, “Consuelo, come in here.”

  Her daughter emerged from behind the door.

  “Won’t you show your father that essay you wrote for Mr. Rosa?”

  Consuelo brightened. “It’s about the Punic Wars,” she said, coming to take him by the hand.

  William said, “That sounds terribly interesting. I’d like to see it. Have you left it upstai
rs? Let’s go have a look.”

  When Alva was alone, she picked up the newspaper, read the piece again, then laid it down in disgust. William was correct. She was wiser to not go, lest she be derided herself. There were always reporters at such functions nowadays. Even should Ward show his displeasure by keeping them out, they’d post themselves nearby to keep account of the comings and goings. They’d manufacture even more controversy simply out of spite or sport.

  Still, she meant what she had said about Ward. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve such mistreatment.

  Suppose she went anyway. Faced the inevitable derision. How bad could it be? As she often told her children, a person should stand up for what he or she believed in. Set the example for others. How could she expect them to do so if she didn’t do it herself? Yes, it was decided. She was going.

  When evening fell, Alva called Mary to her room to help her change for the party. “What’s a triumphant color, do you think?”

  “Red?”

  “It’s bold … but I’m thinking ‘celebratory.’ Bright blue?”

  “Yellow.”

  Alva nodded. “I think you’re right. The new Worth gown. With my pearls.”

  Mary retrieved a yellow dress done in raw silk. Along its neckline she had embroidered asters and anemones with delicate branches and leaves, a design that took nearly a month of nightly work.

  As she helped Alva out of her day dress, she said, “I feel so bad for him.”

  “Word does get around quickly!”

  “I know a lot of people who admire him and who always like reading about the dances and committees and things. Some people, they need those lessons. Colored folks haven’t had much high society before—their own, I mean. Nobody likes to look ignorant.”

  Alva said, “There you go! He’s a treasure. How else does one learn correct forms, if not through expert instruction?”

  “I only know so much because Mama taught me, and she knew because Mrs. Smith got her trained by a French maid.”

  “Every occupation requires training—and society is an occupation, let there be no mistake about that.” Alva held out her arms while Mary buttoned her into the yellow dress. “The critics may laugh at Mr. McAllister, yet every paper has featured his activities—and the activities of all of us in society—for more than fifteen years. They do love to play both sides.”

  “I guess so they can say they’re more high-minded.”

  “We want high-mindedness in journalism! That’s why this review angers me so much—in ridiculing him they have abandoned a standard. Mr. McAllister’s guidance and assistance has brought real joy to many lives. He has served a public good. Overseeing charity balls is a service: those balls are what compel stingy rich people to part with their money.”

  After adding jewelry, hat, gloves, and cape, Alva went downstairs. With each step, she was sure William was going to call her out at any moment. Yet she managed to get out the door without interference. Evidently he’d thought about the matter further and changed his mind.

  As Eric prepared to hand her into the carriage, she told the coachman, “Sherry’s, please.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “I’m unable to take you there.”

  “If you don’t, you’ll be unable to keep your position here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But you see, Mr. Vanderbilt says I can’t keep it if I do.”

  “Oh, for the love of Jesus,” she said. “Can he be so determined?”

  Alva stepped back from the carriage. Her options now were to walk fifteen blocks down Fifth Avenue or to get a hired cab. Either choice would excite attention. Why was Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt going about without her own carriage? Without any carriage? The speculation would be carefully framed, of course, much as Uncle C.J.’s companionship with Dr. Terry had been, and would result in ever more reputation-damaging gossip, gossip that would be amplified with discussion of her having gone out sans carriage in support of the now-disgraced Ward McAllister. My goodness! Has Alva Vanderbilt lost her mind?

  Such poor judgment.

  Yet she takes herself so seriously!

  She’s the only one who does, to be sure.

  Behind her, William and the children came out the front door, all of them dressed for dinner. Alva said, “What’s this about?”

  “Corneil’s having us in, didn’t I tell you? He sent word this morning. Mother and George are back from another foray in the North Carolina mountains and he—George, that is—has something to announce.” He ushered the children into the carriage, then stood beside Eric expectantly, waiting for Alva to get in, too.

  She said, “The carriage, when you could simply walk up the street?”

  “Willie turned his ankle this morning while dismounting after our ride.”

  The blatant lie surprised her. The withholding of information about tonight’s plan surprised her. Perhaps he had also wounded her, but she was not about to let that show.

  She remarked coolly, “Did he? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Everyone is waiting on you. Won’t you get in?” Though his expression was mild, she sensed he was warning her against making a scene here on the street, in front of the children and servants and any passersby. He said, “I’m only helping you, Alva.”

  “Of course,” she said, and she complied.

  * * *

  George Vanderbilt was a month shy of his twenty-eighth birthday. Unlike his three older brothers and a couple of his brothers-in-law, he had no role in the operation of the New York Central, no particular interest in railroads or locomotives or the business of transportation. He enjoyed books. He enjoyed art. He liked to travel and, while traveling, buy books and art.

  He remained the companion to his mother that he had become when his siblings all left home, taking her along on most of his journeys, keeping watch over her when she was ill—which she was more and more often. Consumption. Heart ailments. A slow fading of the energies she’d once brought to her activities, though she was still able to enjoy her children and grandchildren.

  He had taken her to North Carolina for the reportedly healthful climate, as well as to consult with one of the nation’s foremost specialists in conditions like hers. Tonight, as she stood near the hearth in her son Corneil’s dining room, she appeared to have benefited from their three-month stay: her face had color; there was vitality in her posture; she was laughing at something Gertrude said as Consuelo and little Gladys, Alice’s youngest, looked on.

  Alva had warmed to the occasion (if not to her husband), though her anxiety at letting Ward down persisted. Still, she must make the best of it. She approached the group, saying, “I believe I’ve found the heart of this party.” She kissed her mother-in-law. “Welcome back. I think George has confused his seasons, though; isn’t autumn when one wishes to leave New York for the South, if possible?”

  “And miss Christmastime with these darlings?” said Mrs. Vanderbilt, drawing the girls to her.

  Gertrude asked, “How long was the trip?”

  “I’m not certain. At my age, one doesn’t count the hours.”

  George, joining them, said, “Twenty-nine hours, in fact.”

  “I would die,” said Gertrude. “Especially if I had to travel with Reggie.”

  “I would love it,” Consuelo said. “Nothing to do but read.”

  “Reading is all well and good when your little brother will leave you to it,” said Gertrude. “Why Mother hasn’t sent mine off to school yet is a question for the ages.”

  “Now, be kind,” said George. “I’m a younger brother. A youngest brother, in fact. A youngest child.” He tapped Gladys on her nose. “It isn’t as easy as you might guess, is it?” he said.

  Gladys shook her head. “I am the youngest of everyone.”

  “Just as I used to be,” he told her. “And see? I have survived it. So will you.”

  “I am in the middle and it’s awful,” Gertrude said.

  Alva said, “George, not that h
aving you two home isn’t reason enough to celebrate, but the rumor of an announcement has all of us excited.”

  Presumably there was a young lady connected to this announcement. If so, he would be going straight from a walk to a gallop, as he’d never, to Alva’s knowledge, been sweet on anyone, nor had he indicated any desire to satisfy his sisters’ urgings to find himself a suitable wife or let them find him one. They often said that if he waited too long, his nephews would take the best girls from under his very nose.

  George clasped his hands. “I’m excited as well. Perhaps we can get our host to invite everyone to the table so that I don’t burst from it.”

  The children laughed and Gertrude said, “I’ll go find Papa.”

  Alice came over. “I was admiring your dress,” she said. “The embroidery is exquisite. That isn’t your handiwork. Did you buy it that way?”

  “Mary did this.”

  “Mary?”

  “My maid.”

  “The Negro girl did that?”

  “She’s quite good at all her work—as I told you she would be, if you’ll recall.”

  “And you don’t mind what the other ladies say, I suppose. Though I confess I do; I don’t have your … outlook. I’m traditional. Corneil says I need to be more tolerant of our differences—yours and mine—and of society’s whispering. And I am trying.”

  Alva said, “I don’t know if I mind, because I don’t know what they say. Will you enlighten me?”

  “Oh, well, merely that your insistence on employing a Negro to be your lady’s maid is in terrible taste, though it may have been looked upon as a generous act at first. The South lost the war, after all, and slave-owning went with it—”

  “For God’s sake, she’s not a slave.”

  “Please, your language.”

  “Then don’t provoke me!”

  “You asked what’s being said.”

  “Mary is an intelligent, talented woman and impeccable in her work. Am I not always turned out in such ways that I exemplify excellent taste? Credit Mary for much of that.”