A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

She blanched. Had he known all this time how she felt about him? Was he criticizing her, or worse, pitying her?

  “You’ll excuse me,” she said, rising quickly and moving from the lounge. “I … I need to remind Winty that the impressionable young lady’s mother is watching him.”

  “Alva—” called Oliver.

  Let him call. She would not turn, would not see him one more time if she could avoid it. (If only she could avoid it!) The boat, still rolling, made her feel like a drunk lurching about. She was barely out of his sight when she reached the rail and vomited over it.

  “Mama?” Consuelo called, hurrying over.

  Rutherfurd approached as well. “I’m seasick,” she said. “Give me your handkerchief.” He did. Wiping her mouth, Alva told him, “Be advised: I’m watching you,” and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket before leaving the startled pair staring after her. This trip could not conclude soon enough. Thank God they’d be parting ways with Oliver and the others for a while as soon as they reached India.

  Consuelo found Alva in her stateroom a little later. “Are you feeling better?”

  No, the matter is hopeless, I am pathetic and miserable and I want to go home.

  Alva said, “I’ll be fine, thank you. It’s sweet of you to look after me. Come in.”

  Consuelo closed the door behind her. “Mr. Rutherfurd said he was perplexed by your remark—that you’re watching him. He wonders whether he’s done something wrong.”

  “He might wonder directly, don’t you think? A man of his age? Rather than put you up to asking.”

  “Oh, he didn’t. I—I wondered it as well. Has he done something?”

  “He’s paying keen attention to a young lady half his age.”

  Consuelo blushed. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “You think he doesn’t?”

  “He’s a grown man, and I’m only a girl.”

  “But you’d like it if I were correct that he’s making love to you.”

  Consuelo’s blush deepened, and she gave a small shrug. “It’s flattering to think so.”

  “Sit,” Alva said, directing her daughter to the vanity stool. She faced her toward the glass and took the pins from her hair. Loose, it extended past the seat.

  Taking up a hairbrush, she began brushing Consuelo’s hair in long strokes. “Flattery is lovely. You’re going to receive a great deal of it in the years ahead. But it isn’t all. Take your time,” she said.

  “At what?”

  “At everything.”

  Consuelo sighed. “That’s so easy for you to say. You already have all you could desire.”

  Alva stifled a rueful laugh. Let her daughter be innocent for as long as that innocence could last.

  * * *

  Their British hosts in Calcutta were the Lansdownes. Vicereine Lansdowne’s sister had been married to (and then divorced by) the late eighth Duke of Marlborough. Viceroy Lansdowne was, in addition to being governor general, a marquess. Government House, the enormous marble-halled Calcutta palace in which they lived and were served by silent, proud-seeming native men and women in red silk livery, highlighted Lansdowne’s prominence. There was not a higher-ranking Englishman on the subcontinent, and few anywhere else. He served at the pleasure of the queen.

  The palace atmosphere was at once exotic and properly British, as if the governor general had (at least in this astonishing marble compound) found a way to subdue the uncivilized and disturbing elements that existed in areas outside its extensive walls. Alva would like to forget some of what she’d seen from the train windows as they’d trundled from Bombay overland and along rivers, sights that included the burning of bodies on funeral pyres and infants being tossed as offerings into the water—to bring on the rains but prevent floods, one of the guides claimed. “Please, you do not worry. Baby is dead already.”

  Alva mentioned this while taking tea alone with Lady Lansdowne in the Yellow Drawing Room, surrounded by paintings as significant as any the National Gallery or Louvre had to display. Bassano and Titian and Watteau and Rembrandt were among the artists represented just in this room. The palace was an oasis of refinement in a land of so much dust and chaos.

  She said, “Your Excellency, allow me to say how impressed I am by your treatment here. Even in the English court, I’ve never seen such deference.”

  “It really is more civilized here, I agree.”

  “I’d expected the Indian people to be somewhat primitive—and in parts of the country they are.” Alva described what she’d seen, then said, “One fears for their souls! But in the markets, I’ve haggled with some of the loveliest, most intelligent women, who speak of you and the viceroy with reverence. And your servants here are impeccable in their habits and speech.”

  “It is a country of contrasts, to be sure.”

  Alva said, “Are those babies dead before they’re given over to … to the rain gods, or what have you?”

  “They are, yes. You must understand, however, that to the traditional Indian, our custom of burying the dead is horrid and cruel, as it traps the soul for all eternity.”

  Alva took her point. “I’ve always believed one’s situation has everything to do with one’s circumstances. And yours here is extraordinary. Her Royal Highness might have me put in the Tower if she heard me ask—but living so remarkably well as you do, do you feel like a queen?”

  Lady Lansdowne smiled. “An accidental one, perhaps.”

  “How is it for your children?”

  “Our sons are at Oxford, of course, so we only see them at holidays. Our eldest daughter is lately married to the Duke of Devonshire. Our youngest was here with us originally, but she’s being finished now in London. One really can’t bring a daughter out in Calcutta.”

  “No, I would imagine not. And truthfully, New York City isn’t much more ideal.”

  “But your daughter should have her choice of the entire field.”

  “Oh, she does. It’s the field that’s the problem. I intend to bring her out in Paris this summer. Perhaps your son, Lord Henry, will be spending time there?”

  Lady Lansdowne arched one eyebrow. “I do appreciate American directness.”

  “I don’t mean to suggest there’s any rush to pair her off. But I can speak to you so directly because I know a mother of daughters will have, as you call it, the proper perspective.”

  “Then I should be plain as well. The British—by which I mean the public—are not pleased to see their noblemen marrying Americans, even when badly needed capital for diminished estates is involved. It disrupts the proper order of things.”

  “Well, if the public prefers to see those estates crumble and the lands and villages fail, they should by all means reject the practice.”

  Lady Lansdowne dipped a chocolate biscuit into her tea before taking a bite. Then she said, “My Henry is already quite attached to a young lady, but you should consider a London visit to meet my sister, Lady Albertha Spencer-Churchill.”

  This seemed an odd change of subject, and one Alva was not especially interested in pursuing. Jennie Churchill’s brother-in-law, the eighth Duke of Marlborough, had divorced Lady Albertha some time after having fathered a child with a married woman, whom he later put aside in favor of Lillian Price, a New York millionaire’s widow. It had all been rather messy and sordid.

  Alva said, “Ordinarily I would be delighted to meet her. I can’t say, though, that a London visit will fit our itinerary.”

  “Her son’s estate, Blenheim, is one that unfortunately is at risk of the fate you described and therefore in need of bolstering. And my nephew the duke is beginning to consider potential wives. He’s an excellent young man. The Spencer-Churchills are well regarded by the queen—despite the late duke’s poor judgment,” she added, having perceived Alva’s concern. “He had the good form to die and tidy things up that way.”

  “Ah,” Alva said, “I suspect I can make time in the schedule after all.”

  “Very good. Your daughter is a poised, well-spo
ken, beautiful young lady. I would be surprised if she didn’t appeal to my nephew. And if she did, the British public would, I’m certain, find it difficult to resist such an addition to the peerage. Incidentally, his is the only dukedom with a female-as-heir line, meaning there’s less of that ghastly pressure to produce a son.”

  Though Alva saw the advantages in meeting the young duke, the image of her daughter fulfilling a wife’s duties sobered her. “She’s too young to consider anyone seriously just yet.”

  “Sixteen is old enough. Wait too long and you risk her being passed over for the younger ones.”

  “And she’s too inexperienced. We’ve already discovered that she’s bound to favor anyone who purports to favor her.”

  Alva had spoken to William about Rutherfurd, and they had agreed that William would warn him off when they rejoined the men later, in Nice. Better that Consuelo learn about the vagaries of the heart now, this way.

  Lady Lansdowne said, “Then get her some experience, and in the meantime, secure a promise for her yourself. If it turns out she despises the gentleman, whoever he may be, you can reconsider and call it off. Didn’t your mother choose for you?”

  “She would have, if she hadn’t died first.”

  The meeting left Alva hopeful for Consuelo’s prospects. If her daughter could win the approval of Lady Lansdowne, she would easily attract the best prospects from all the good countries. If the Duke of Marlborough proved undesirable for any reason, they would choose some other titled gentleman, some amiable young man whose responsibilities extended beyond keeping a polo pony fed and groomed. Someone with a sense of history. Connections to a deep and abiding past. Someone whose prominence and stature were not determined mainly by his wealth. If Consuelo were to fall for someone, why shouldn’t it be someone with all of this to recommend him?

  With this crystallized mission in mind, Alva was cheered immensely. She had purpose. She had direction. She would do whatever it took to prevent her daughter from becoming just one more vapid society matron who fretted over the skin color of some other lady’s lady’s maid.

  * * *

  The family left India, bound for France and a rejoining with the other gentlemen of their party. Alva kept the prospect of Charles Spencer-Churchill to herself for now; Consuelo would not be able to hear about any other man while she still swooned over Rutherfurd, and she was unlikely to cease her swoon while she still anticipated his company. Alva could wait. There would be plenty of time to reshape her daughter’s desires later.

  By the time they put into the harbor in Nice, Alva had formed a strategy. Regardless of the offers of marriage that would undoubtedly be made in Paris, they would proceed to London and explore the possibilities there. Though Alva and William would select the best husband for her, Consuelo needed to see for herself the variety and quality of gentlemen who were available to her, and how Rutherfurd was diminished in comparison.

  After a visit to the local market and a stop at the post office to retrieve their mail, they boarded their train for Paris. William’s companions were there as well, all of them seated in the parlor car.

  “How lovely to see you gentlemen again,” Alva said as she and the family filed in. She did not look at Oliver.

  The governess continued with Harold into the next car while William said, “I trust none of you has acquired anything undesirable during our separation—no infections, no arrests, no wives, no tattoos.”

  “No tattoos,” Oliver said. Alva glanced his way. His face was browner than when they’d parted, making his blond eyebrows and green eyes stand out. How had he spent the last few weeks? Lounging in the coastal sunshine, perhaps? She hoped he had forgotten their last exchange, hoped she had somehow mistaken it, hoped he did not know what he must know.

  “No wives or any of that,” said Rutherfurd. He did not move toward Consuelo, but the pair exchanged an easily deciphered glance. It was almost sweet, this puppy love Consuelo had for him. Almost.

  William asked, “Who’ll join me for a cigar? We’ve got a smoking car down the way, so as to not offend the ladies.”

  Alva indicated the sack of letters in her hand and said, “Do go on, gentlemen. My daughter and I have to tend to all of this correspondence, anyway.”

  “No cigars for me,” said Rutherfurd. “The smoke irritates the eyes, you see.”

  Consuelo said, “Might I do that later, Mother? I’m interested in seeing the locomotive.”

  Could the child be any more transparent? Alva said, “Are you? Then get Harold and go ahead. He’ll love a chance to talk to the conductor.”

  “He needs to rest. That is, didn’t he say he wanted to?”

  Alva resisted the urge to smile. “I’m certain he did not.”

  “Oh. Well then, good. I’ll get him.” Consuelo left the car, going forward to where the family parlor was hitched while the men, Rutherfurd included, exited to the rear, toward the smoking car attached behind the dining car. Alva now had this parlor to herself.

  She sorted the mail. Near the top of her stack was a thick envelope from the duchess, who was to meet up with them in Paris after having taken her girls to see relatives in Cuba—“a charity trip,” she’d written in her last correspondence, travel she undertook to satisfy an aging aunt who might look upon them favorably both before and after death, if sufficient effort was made. This letter would, Alva thought, be a recounting of that trip. She could not have been more mistaken.

  London, April 17th, 1893

  Alva, dearest—

  Fortified with bourbon, I am putting pen to the page and have promised myself I won’t cease, nor will I flinch, because you are the dearest and truest of the friends I’ve had in this disappointing life of mine. I owe you the same fidelity.

  When my husband died, I expected to feel released. I would soar on the satisfaction of his having suffered at the end, as I have suffered all these years. As he weakened and shrank and wheezed and coughed and spat blood (out of my sight for the most part; my mother-in-law was the one to nurse him), I dined with friends and took the children to the country and sang pleasing songs to myself. Soon, la, la, la, soon the Duke will die, la, la, la, and then I shall celebrate the world having one fewer sorry soul in it—make more room for the rest of us!

  Well, he died, and I waited for that soaring, and it didn’t come.

  Instead, I felt cheated. Cheated, I tell you—because he escaped the slop he made of our lives and left me mired in it, knee-deep and flailing. Yet I had to do and say all the proper things for the children’s sakes, and observe all the correct forms of a Duchess in mourning, and see to all the procedures required for Kim to take the title, and it nearly drove me mad.

  Then one day I got a cable from an old friend who was coming to England. A man for whom I’d had some affection long before, as he had for me—though little had come of it in previous times. Short dalliances for diversion, really, no one the wiser. He was coming, he said, to meet with boat-builders. He was in need of a yacht. A supreme yacht, better than anything anyone had sailed before. Better than his last, the Alva, which had been sunk.

  Alva gasped and read it again, disbelieving.

  William.

  Dalliances.

  No one the wiser.

  The forward door opened and her daughter came in, saying, “I’ve changed my mind.” She didn’t even glance at Alva before seating herself in a chair that faced outward. She sorted through some magazines, settled on one, and began reading it.

  Alva’s face burned. She blinked back her tears. She could not believe the words she’d read, what they meant. The deception. The betrayal.

  Mindful of her daughter’s presence, Alva read further:

  It was loneliness that caused it, this time. Perhaps every time. And I knew how you felt about him. You confessed you had a love if not a lover, and so I reminded myself there was no harm. Again. I didn’t expect it to be more than a night or two. Perhaps it would run a week and then use itself up.

  It was so easy to let t
hings continue, though, when he returned a few months later. The girls adore “Uncle Will,” who is quite the lamb with them.

  We were careful, he and I, but as you know, rumors are currency and they spend well in society. Colonel Mann, with his ubiquitous spies, got word and had his Town Topics column set to run, intending to scandalize everyone involved. But he was “kind” enough to alert William to the impending disaster. Your husband’s “contribution” of $25,000 persuaded Mann to reconsider, thank God, and when the boat was fitted out, I ended the affair for good and all. I hadn’t meant to let it go so long. I don’t love him, never did love him. Ending it was a relief, or at least it was for me.

  He was angry, and didn’t seem at all contrite when I spoke of the immorality of our actions, of feeling guilty for betraying you. Why should he be contrite? He is a man—a very, very rich man.

  Perhaps I was stupid to not accept the role he offered me—or I should say the cash that would have come with being his mistress permanently.

  —No. No, I was not stupid. It’s the whispering voice of avarice in me that writes those words, and I can resist it now, just as I resisted the offer.

  I, the real I, the good I who has been buried alive for too long, will be bereft if I should lose your love, Alva, love that I could not hope to deserve to keep unless I bared my soul to you, as I have now done. Until I hear your response, I will keep away—but whatever else you feel you must do, please, don’t leave me in suspense.

  And don’t fear that there will be further trouble. You can be certain I’m shut of him. My loyalty and my love were always with you, but I didn’t realize until after I’d betrayed you so thoroughly how deeply true that statement actually is.

  Perhaps you won’t forgive me, and my confession will have served no one except myself—and even then it will be a chilly ease in my soul. So be it. Or embrace me as the genuine friend I have always tried to be. You’ve never loved Will, but you have always loved me.

  One more thing, as long as I’m going this far: That day you referred to in your letter last year—the day after the ball, when I asked if you had a secret—I had spent the morning hours in Will’s bed. I’d seen Oliver Belmont with you on the stairs that night, so obviously in love with you, and I was jealous. Jealous of that, of you, your new house, all that money, your being society’s belle. So I sought out the man who’d long before offered to marry me—the man I’d turned down because he had no title—and I allowed him to seduce me.