A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  Alva, men are either pit vipers like my husband or self-satisfied playboys like Bertie and Will and too many others I’ve known.

  Does love exist?

  ~C.

  Numbed, Alva folded the letter and returned it to its envelope, then put the envelope in her satchel. The train was moving now, chugging into the countryside, the snow-topped Alps visible out her window. The men might rejoin them at any moment. It would be another two hours until they’d all go to dinner. Even longer to get to Paris. How was she to survive and not make a scene, or even give herself away?

  “I want off this train.”

  Consuelo said, “Did you say something, Mother?”

  This life! What had she done, bringing a daughter into such a trap as every man laid for women like them? Good, dutiful women, women who could be counted on, who could be trusted. Even they could be horribly misused.

  “What?” Alva said. “No. Talking to myself.”

  How long did she sit there, swaying with the car’s rhythm, unable to act, unable to think beyond the words she had read? That she’d been so thoroughly betrayed by the two of them was a blade in her heart. Surely her blood was draining out of her body, and in another moment or two she would slump to the floor, freed from her horror and embarrassment.

  William, devoted to her. His angel, he had called her.

  Being away changed William. He’s more considerate now. How stupid she’d been! Stupid in every way. And her friend, giving Alva her handoffs and then taking them back for amusement whenever it suited her—and now claiming to love her. Oh, yes, love had compelled her to reveal this tawdry scenario. Love had compelled her to reject William’s offer of conditional support. Alva hoped the duchess didn’t love all her friends so well!

  The sound of the door opening ended her trance. William led his friends into the car, the lot of them reeking of cigar smoke. Look at him, she thought, so self-satisfied, so assured of his privilege, his command of the world in which he lives. Who had better horses, a better yacht, more attractive children, a more accomplished wife? Whose grandfather and father had been among the richest men in the world? Whose family dominated Manhattan’s and Newport’s most exclusive avenues with the most impressive homes? Who was still as fit and well turned out at forty-three as he had been at twenty-three? He had all his hair. He had his choice of horses and wines and women and friends and occupations, and his days were completely his own. If he wanted to go roaming for months on end, he went. If he wanted to betray his wife with her best friend, he did it. The cost of any and all of it was merely money, and he had more of that than he could ever spend.

  As the men approached, Alva said, “I’m going to take a walk.” Then she stood up and left the car’s opposite end.

  Standing on the gangway, she peered down as the train sped onward, the ground a blur of rocks and rail. She could throw herself out, right here between the cars. Say nothing to anyone, be gone long before anyone thought to wonder why she hadn’t returned. Become merely a body beside a track. A tangle of skirts and gravel. Blood, too, she supposed. End her humiliation quickly, all at once. Wouldn’t William and his two-faced whore be sorry then?

  “Probably not,” she said.

  Remembering she still had children to raise, a daughter to marry into something better, please God, she stepped across the coupling and into the next car.

  * * *

  Alva paced the string of cars, once, twice, and back again, and then, when everyone went to dinner, hid herself in her berth proclaiming a headache. When the train arrived at Paris’s Gare de Lyon, she pretended exhaustion, said little except au revoir to the men. She avoided Oliver’s questioning gaze and herded the children into the hansom, curtly bidding William to stay behind with the governess and other servants, to make certain all their trunks were accounted for. “It’s late. The children are tired. We’ll see you at breakfast.”

  They were tired. Harold let his head droop against Alva’s shoulder and was asleep moments later. Consuelo leaned her elbow on the bench’s arm, chin in hand, and yawned mightily before closing her eyes. Lulled by the sway of the cab and the sound of hooves on bricks, Alva allowed herself a few minutes’ rest, too.

  * * *

  The Hôtel Continental’s views of the Tuileries brought to mind childhood nights when she’d watched the beautiful carriages as they rolled along the rue de Rivoli and had imagined herself grown up, a fine lady with the glossiest carriage, the best horses—a matched team that would toss their manes as they pranced, lamplight making their flanks gleam. Everyone would see her, admire her, recognize her as one of the great ladies of Paris. How easy it had all seemed then. How fulfilling such a life would be.

  Alone in her room, she stood on the balcony. To her left, Notre-Dame. To her right, Eiffel’s Tower—lighted, Monsieur Eiffel had said when he gave them a tour, with ten thousand gas lamps. “Already it is a technology of the past,” he said. “One day they will be replaced with Mr. Edison’s wires and bulbs. Man ever desires what’s newer, more vivid.”

  The Duchess of Manchester was not newer than Alva. She was, however, more vivid. By certain measures, anyway.

  Inside, Alva took the letter from her satchel and spread it over the desk. Her once-dear friend’s handwriting was small, tidy, as precise as a good artist’s line work.

  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 …

  This was no impulsive note. She had considered it as carefully as she had written it.

  “Selfish,” Alva said. “Confession aids only the sinner.”

  Her heart felt heavy inside her breast, as if it had filled with sludge and swelled four times its size, crowding her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe. Her stomach, empty, roiled anyway. Her mind raced from memory to memory, recasting so many conversations and situations in this new garish light. She had not even suspected. God, how they must have laughed at her!

  And all the while, she had been scrupulous in her own behavior.

  Alva clutched the chair’s arm as if it were a dagger. William, an adulterer. A liar and a cheat even as he had harassed Mary and run her off, claiming to be protecting the family’s interests—protecting Alva’s own interests. So righteous and honorable, that was him. Ha! The joke was on her.

  She was not going to let him get away with this. She would do … something. Kill him, perhaps. Really, it was so much wiser to kill him than herself. Courts across the land were acquitting justified murderers every day.

  Or, though she might derive less satisfaction from the act, she could divorce him. His blatant infidelity gave her legal cause in New York.

  In either case, the details of his infidelity would be made public by papers across America with lip-smacking pleasure. A widowed American duchess whose best friend was the wife of her millionaire lover—the playboy Vanderbilt, the one everyone knew let his brother do all the work. A duchess who’d helped the friend overtake New York society in the legendary ’83 costume ball, whose namesake was the friend’s daughter and whose own daughter was named in part for the friend whose own husband had been a dissolute womanizer and died in ignominy. The whole situation was tangled and sordid. Damage to Alva’s own reputation aside, the resulting scandal could hinder or even ruin Consuelo’s chances to make the right marriage, and would certainly destroy the twins’ chances, damaged as they already were by their own father’s behavior.

  Too, Alva had to think of the consequences her actions would have on her own future, and her sons’. She might lose guardianship of her children if a judge felt she ought to have done what every other good, God-fearing wife did—that being to stop complaining and just let the poor husband have his fun. And it was one thing to feel righteous in the face of social scorn, but quite another to be poor and to be cast out of society. She would have to sell Marble House and budget the proceeds for the rest of he
r life.

  What sad irony it would be if in rescuing her pride, she ended up no better off than if she’d never married into money. Henry James would give such a character just that end.

  “I won’t allow it,” she said to herself.

  “Oh, won’t you?” her self replied. “How do you imagine you’ll prevent it?”

  “Make a separate life,” she said. Live apart from William in London, say, or Paris. He probably wouldn’t protest. He would keep paying the bills. She would carry no overt stain on her reputation.

  Still, everyone would know they’d separated. Much would be made of her absence from New York, and speculation would be rampant. She would be blamed. She would be blamed! Because no right-thinking lady could possibly wish to leave an amiable gentleman like him. She’d have money and all its accoutrements, but she’d have neither respect nor self-respect and would die a lonely, sour old woman.

  Or … she could do nothing at all about it, simply carry on as usual.

  “No, I can’t,” she said.

  She was damned in some measure no matter which path she took. “That sounds like a Mr. James story, too.” She gave a wry laugh that was a half-sob. “He does understand society.”

  The sound of someone trying the doorknob made her nearly jump out of her skin. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s William. Will you let me come in?”

  “Your room is across the hall.”

  “Alva, open the door.”

  She ignored him.

  A minute later came the sound of a key in the lock and of William’s voice saying, “Merci beaucoup,” as the door opened.

  “What’s going on?” he said, closing the door behind him. “You claimed to be exhausted, and yet here you are still up—not even dressed for bed.” His tone was terse. “Oliver and I had a drink near the station. ‘What’s the matter with Alva?’ he asked. ‘Is she ill? Should you send for a doctor?’ He was quite solicitous of you.”

  “It’s late,” she said. “We can speak in the morning.”

  “The two of you are always conversing,” he went on, ignoring her. “What do you discuss? You don’t give a fig for horses—”

  “I enjoy riding,” she said, seeing little choice but to play this out. Did he imagine that somehow her odd behavior today had to do with Oliver? Was he jealous again?

  “Riding, yes, but not racing or breeding, which is all he ever seems to want to discuss with me. So what is it?”

  “I told you. Horses.”

  “Alva.”

  “The Belmont Stakes,” she said blithely. She would not make this easy for him. “August can’t seem to breed a winner. Different feed for the mares might help.”

  “You expect me to believe that’s the extent of it.”

  “All right, I confess: that is not all we’ve discussed. We’ve also spoken about architecture and building materials and furnishings, and national monetary policy, and whether he and Perry will ever agree on the merits of progressivism; Perry is just so wed to the past. We’ve talked about the children.”

  “What about me?”

  “You?” Alva said.

  “Does he talk about me—claim I’m involved with other women, for example?”

  Now this was an interesting turn. Alva said, “Why would he?”

  “Because he’s in love with you—not that he’ll admit it, and feeding you lies about me would help his case. I expect he would say anything. The worse the better, for his purposes!”

  “Oliver Belmont is not in love—” Just then, Alva understood something, or thought she did. “Wait,” she said. “Oliver knows?”

  William’s infidelity must have been what Oliver had in mind when they’d spoken that day on the yacht. Hearing her remark about how willful ignorance could suffice for naiveté, he must have thought she’d found out and was pretending ignorance, the way so many wives in her position did. With her own guilty conscience, she had mistaken his query about her happiness.

  But wait—he knew about William and yet never raised the subject with her? All that time when William was away, not a word! Escorting her everywhere—to keep her occupied and therefore distracting her from any suspicions. Protecting his friend, no doubt—until her remark about willful ignorance gave him the impression she had found out.

  How dare he question her apparent decision to pretend happiness when he was part of the deception!

  He was part of the deception. Oliver, a liar.

  Well, she’d wanted a cure for her stupid, desperate feelings about him. Now she had it.

  William said, “Oliver knows what?”

  “About you and the duchess. I have her confession in a letter.”

  William got very still for a moment. Then he said, “I’d like to see that letter.”

  “It’s put away for safekeeping.”

  “Well, whatever she said, it isn’t true. She’s distraught—perhaps even disturbed. Mandeville left her in trying circumstances. I did see her briefly, as you know, but there was nothing to it. You can’t trust her, Alva. She gambles. She’s in debt—”

  “She could have no possible reason to state the things she did in the way she did unless they were true.” Alva’s throat tightened as she spoke. “If you have any regard for me, any honor or self-respect, you’ll end this charade.”

  William dropped into a chair and put his hands to his face. Then, lowering his hands, he said, “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “How ironic. To me, it means everything.”

  “Why should it? I have given you every single thing you’ve desired. Men have … well, we have ongoing … needs, you see, and I couldn’t burden you with…” He trailed off. His face was red.

  Alva said quietly, “She was my closest friend. Whether she was willing or not, couldn’t you at least have gone a bit further afield?”

  William made no reply.

  “You have betrayed and insulted me,” Alva said, “but worse, you have failed the children—ours and hers. It’s unconscionable, the way you put the girls’ futures at risk. If word gets out—”

  “It won’t.”

  “You had better pray it doesn’t. Because if it does, our daughter’s prospects are ruined. The stain on her reputation will be permanent. And considering how the twins’ circumstances are reduced already—”

  “All right, yes, it was ill advised! But I didn’t exactly do it myself. She—”

  “If not for the girls, I’d parade both of you before the courts like the criminals you are. But I know what it’s like to have to compromise on a husband, and I won’t put that on any of them.”

  “You’re saying I was a compromise?”

  “I am, yes,” she said. “I might have done better.”

  “What, like Consuelo with Mandeville? Look where that got her.”

  “Yes, look. Poor thing. Had she only married you when she had the chance, an American gentleman could have betrayed her. So much better for her.”

  “I gave you Marble House! I didn’t have to do that—or any of the other things I’ve done for you. I am as decent a man as there is, and any other woman would be grateful.”

  She said, “Grateful to be betrayed? Suppose I had done it to you?”

  “Your moral superiority—”

  “Is correct and earned! Can you honestly claim it isn’t?”

  For several moments he didn’t reply. Then he said, “I suppose it is.”

  He raked his hair. He stood. He walked the room from end to end and back. “I’m actually glad to have this out. It’s finished—did she say that? I wanted to end it cleanly, but I felt morally obliged to offer support. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

  “What, as easily as that? I don’t know yet what I’m going to do.”

  “Do? What is there to do? I’ve told you that it’s over, and I’m sorry. What more could you need?”

  Alva stared at him. He was sincere.

  She said, “I need time to consider everything clearly.”

  “You can�
��t be thinking about divorce,” he scoffed. “That would be ridiculous.”

  The presumption in his remark was too much to bear. “You will not tell me what I can or cannot consider.” She got up. “Quite honestly, I’ve had all I can stand of you just now. Get out of my room. Now.”

  “My dear,” he said, reaching for her.

  “Don’t,” she said, moving away from him. She was trembling. “If I thought I could get away with it, I would pull your heart right out of your chest and feed it to your dogs.”

  He put up his hands. “All right. But tomorrow—”

  “Get out.”

  “You’re correct in your anger. But—”

  “Go!” She grabbed the first thing in her reach—a plate still piled with cherry wafers—and threw it at him. It hit the mantel and shattered.

  If she had not been so upset, she might have laughed at how he bolted from the room.

  Alva locked her door. Then she picked up a pillow, put it to her face, and screamed.

  When she was calmer, she went again onto the balcony to lick her wounds. She did not like to feel sorry for herself. After all, here she was in the best hotel in Paris. The hotel’s safe held on her behalf a strand of pearls that had belonged to the empress whose palace had been right across this street. She had borne three children, all of whom were alive and healthful—as she was herself.

  Yet she was feeling pitiable—and did she not deserve to? She was a queen of society, an angel in the house, a benefactress to those in need, and still her husband had betrayed her. His best friend—who had once claimed to love her—had been complicit in the deceit. And her own best friend was the mistress in this sordid affair. Perhaps the worst part of all was that in her pain she could not turn to the one friend who had been her comfort and confidante all these years.

  And why? Why had this happened to her? She had led an exemplary life, damn it.