She yelled out across the rue de Rivoli, across the Tuileries, out to the Seine, to the Left Bank, to all of Paris, to everyone everywhere, “I have led an exemplary life!” Only now it wasn’t a lament, it was a warning.
VI
ALVA COULD NOT afford right now to dwell on her heartache, on the horror of being so deceivable and so deceived. Nor was it profitable to think further, for the moment, on murder or divorce. Extreme action of any kind (exhibited publicly, at least) would not aid her agenda; Consuelo’s betrothal must now happen as soon as possible. Alva had spent most of her life perfecting the art of good behavior; let it serve her for at least a little while longer.
* * *
Consuelo’s society debut was to be at a bal blanc being thrown by the Duc de Gramont for his daughter. She would follow that event with an appearance at Countess Mélanie de Pourtalès’s evening salon two days later—rare events, these salons, now that the countess was up in years and less inclined than she’d once been to entertain at home.
“My mother got us invited to the countess’s salon a time or two,” Alva told her daughter on their way to Worth, where they would order Consuelo’s white gown. “I once dreamt of becoming a regular. To attend is quite an honor, you know.”
“Why is it?” Consuelo asked.
“Because it means the countess recognizes one’s value or contributions.”
They were on rue de la Paix, a street Alva had tread many times on her way to the shop. Worth’s black marble facade was the only significant mark on an otherwise nondescript street. The plainness of the setting was in stark opposition to the wonders one found inside the shop.
“Contributions to what?” said Consuelo.
“To society and culture.”
“I would think it more important to contribute to the public good in some manner. The wealthy have a responsibility to avoid decadence and corruption.”
If only your father thought so.
Alva said, “Indeed we do. What you’ll learn, though, is that in order to gain the power to do significant good, one must first manage to not only survive in the snake pits but succeed in them—the French court, the English court, wherever you eventually find yourself. Countess de Pourtalès and Empress Eugénie and others like them throughout history all understood that in order for a woman to find meaningful occupation, she has to be political, even cunning. Otherwise, what is any woman of wealth and prominence but a decoration? And for only a little while, at that.”
She continued, “You’re going to be a truly beautiful woman. You’ll have years of admiration and adulation. What you have to consider is what you want for yourself afterward.”
The child looked bewildered. Well, she would learn soon enough. Alva would continue to try to illuminate the path for her, to interpret and explain and, if necessary, pull her out of harm’s way, prevent catastrophe. How much simpler it was to raise sons!
As they were about to enter the shop, Consuelo said, “Why must I debut here instead of at my own ball at home, as Gertrude will?”
“Because Gertrude’s mother is satisfied with the prospects there.”
“I know some very fine American gentlemen.”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes.”
A shopgirl held the door open and greeted them in French. “Madame Vanderbilt, Miss Vanderbilt. We are so pleased to have you with us again.”
“A mutual pleasure,” Alva replied. “My daughter needs the perfect white gown, and I’ll want to order some items for her trousseau. I’d love to see Monsieur Worth. Is he in?”
“Sadly, no. His health has been poor. We see him rarely.”
“Please convey my warmest wishes for his return to health.” To her daughter she said, “Monsieur Worth did Empress Eugénie’s trousseau.”
In English, Consuelo asked, “Why are you buying mine now?”
“We won’t be back before next spring,” Alva said. She didn’t say they might not be back at all—or Alva might not, that is, if her outcome made her too poor to travel to Paris let alone be dressed by Worth. She added, “And who knows what will have developed for you by then?”
She and Consuelo were shown to a settee to await a display of prospective gowns. She asked her daughter, “Do you have a particular gentleman in mind? You said you know some fine ones.”
“What? No, no one in particular.”
“Then you might stop fretting about your debut geography and consider les jeunes hommes you’re going to meet at the ball, s’il vous plait.”
“I don’t know if I do please. Papa is so cross lately, and you’ve been…”
“What have I been?”
“Miss Harper likened you to an ox. She said sometimes you just put your head down and push until you get where you wish to be.”
Miss Harper was more observant than Alva would have given her credit for. Alva said, “I suppose I do.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, having her say such a thing?”
“It’s a compliment! Whether she means it to be or not. Listen to me,” Alva said, turning her daughter’s face so that they were looking directly at each other. “This is important: no person’s good opinion of you matters more than your own.”
Shortly a trio of young ladies appeared in all-white gowns of varying style. Each girl and each gown was attractive. Consuelo pointed at the second girl. “I like hers,” she said.
Alva shook her head. “No, the ruching at the neckline is all wrong for you. Next!” she called, and the girls disappeared into the dressing room, returning soon after in new selections. Again Consuelo pointed out one she thought was appealing, and again Alva dismissed all three. When the girls made their third appearance, Alva told the shopgirl, “There. The last one. We’ll have one like that, but I’ll want the sleeve modified.” She stood up and went to the model, then directed the assistant in the alterations she wanted done.
When Alva had finished, Consuelo told her in a low voice, “But I didn’t care as much for that one.”
Alva ushered her over to the dais to have her measurements taken. “It will show you to your best advantage. That’s the objective.”
“They’re all white gowns, and I’m the same in any of them. How can it make that much difference?”
“That you’re asking the question demonstrates how little you understand such things. Which is why I’m making the decisions.” Alva moved so that the seamstress could begin measuring, then continued, “Dressing for occasions is an art. For now, I am the artist and you are the canvas. Together—with Monsieur Worth’s designer’s assistance—we’ll create a portrait of a modest yet remarkable young beauty, and then on the night of the ball we’ll see who the true aficionados are.”
The seamstress smiled at Alva’s remarks. Consuelo was not as entertained. “But you just said it’s my good opinion of myself that matters most.”
“Yes,” Alva said, “and I meant it. But you haven’t learned yet all the factors that make up the basis of that opinion. You’re a month past seventeen! I haven’t finished training you.”
Consuelo muttered, “I’m not one of Papa’s hounds.”
Alva forced herself not to smile at this remark. So her daughter was finally gaining some strength of character! This was another good sign—though expressing it at this precise moment was perhaps less than ideal.
Alva said, “If only it were so easy as training dogs! Children require far more work, and you’re hardly more than a child. Be grateful! Consider what I’ve done for you already.”
“What do you mean?”
“Which languages do you speak?”
“English, German, French, and some Italian and Spanish.”
“What have you studied?”
“History, literature, art, mathematics, geography—”
“And you’ve traveled extensively.”
“Yes.”
“How are you spending your days here?”
“At the museums, and the Théâtre-Français … oh, and at Saint-Sulp
ice on Sundays, especially to hear Monsieur Widor play the organ. He’s an incredible talent. And Miss Harper and I read in the Tuileries Garden … Sometimes I drive in the Bois—”
“Do you hear yourself? What stimulation! What culture! I’ve made sure you had an education as good as any gentleman ever got. Further, you sit a horse as well as anyone, can drive your own gig, know all the dances, and are able to comport yourself equally well with porters as with presidents. Would you not agree that I’ve done a good job with you so far?”
“Well, yes, I suppose you have.”
“You suppose. Good. Well, then, suppose you trust me to continue the job for a little while longer, all right?”
* * *
Alva had imagined this night many times over the years. Her daughter, ever so elegant in white tulle, being escorted to the dance floor again and again, every worthy young man in Paris lining up to take her by the elbow and attempt to dazzle her in a quadrille or with a waltz. Consuelo was having an experience Alva had longed for but never got.
Much had to occur in the space of a single dance, because at a ball such as this, there was no allowance for conversation before or after. Purity, the only commodity an unmarried young woman had some control over, the one thing of value she could offer regardless of her station or her appearance, was what was being advertised here. Behind the scenes were all the political machinations: the conversation and consideration of alliances that might be made if the young lady was in fact everything she ought to be (or if she or her family could persuade everyone that such was the case when it was not).
In Alva’s own youth, the politics of the debut hadn’t mattered to her at all. She had been fixed on the romance of it, the mystery and excitement in wondering which, if any, of the gentlemen who would seek her out would win her father’s approval.
And her daughter—well, Consuelo was fixed on Winthrop Rutherfurd, who was gone to Spain to watch bullfights. If she found tonight romantic, mysterious, or exciting, she was not letting on. Just before they’d left the hotel, Consuelo had said, “How late must we stay?”
From the perimeter, Alva watched as Consuelo greeted each gentleman with a modest smile and then followed all the correct forms throughout the dance, parting with the same modest smile. Those gentlemen who wished a further hearing (which was every one of them, so far) then came to speak to Alva. William was in a salon or drawing room somewhere in the house talking horses or yachts or cigars or racetracks or dogs with another of his set.
This method of bringing a girl out was very different from the approach being enacted for Gertrude. Alice was determined to open the gate to every American heir whose family name sounded good to her ears. Already she was allowing Gertrude to ride out with groups of friends without supervision—much the way Lady C’s mother had once permitted her to do. And look at the results: young and vibrant Miss Consuelo Yznaga had allowed William (and who knew how many others?) to “sample her offerings,” one might say, and then went on to marry just the kind of man who was attracted to just that kind of girl, leading to much unhappiness, infidelities, and at least one egregious betrayal that ruined a lifelong friendship and probably a marriage as well. Alva was not going to release her daughter onto that pathway.
William reappeared at Alva’s side. “She’s the most beautiful girl here,” he said.
Alva said nothing.
He said, “Her mother is beautiful, too.”
Alva left him to stand by himself.
* * *
They had one week left in their Paris tenure. London was next, and in London, a dinner with Lady Albertha Spencer-Churchill and her son the duke—and likely another twenty assorted visitors and friends. Here at the salon of Countess Mélanie de Pourtalès, though, came the possibility of seeing Consuelo’s lustrous dark hair supporting a royal crown, for among the countess’s guests was—
“Prince Francis Joseph of Battenberg,” said the countess. “Many consider him the lesser of the four brothers. But with sufficient capital to underwrite his efforts, he may well rule Bulgaria in due time.”
Alva, seated at the countess’s side, assessed him. Tall and lean, with fine, upright posture, thick hair, handsome features … She said, “Battenberg—isn’t one of them married to the queen’s daughter, Princess Beatrice?”
“That would be Henry. Yes, Victoria consented to a union with the family, bringing great status to all the relations.”
Warming to the possibilities, Alva said, “It’s just as I told my sister-in-law a few years ago: learning German history and language is going to be a genuine benefit to the girls. Her daughter is two years older than mine, but nowhere near as prepared for a position of significance.”
Alva was loosely acquainted with the Battenberg family’s situation. Beyond Henry’s marriage, she recalled that the eldest brother had ruled Bulgaria a decade earlier, but after clashing with Russia and his own government, he’d been forced to abdicate.
She said, “Who is Bulgaria’s monarch now?”
“That would be Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg. The queen is not delighted with the selection,” she said. Alva waited for her to elaborate, but the countess said only, “This one’s quite pleasing to look at, isn’t he?” The countess gave her famed foxlike smile. “Think of how beautiful their children will be.”
“They’ve spent less than a minute in each other’s company and you’ve got them producing heirs!”
“Experience,” said the countess. “He’ll try for her, you’ll see. I like the Battenbergs. They’re going to amount to something.”
Consuelo and the prince sat in conversation for much of the evening. The prince was obvious in his desire to remain at her side. As for Consuelo, Alva noted her flushed skin; having the undivided attention of such a man was a heady experience (and a good comparison to Winty). Alva remembered being in the company of men like the prince, in the days before she was old enough to be considered for anything more than conversation. She remembered how she had glowed in the light of such sophistication, much the way her daughter glowed now. She remembered how her pithy remarks won admiration from such men and won, too (she felt certain at the time), a favored spot in each man’s heart, such that when she was a little bit older—not much longer, she would tell herself, not long now—one of them (the best one, whoever he might be) would come to see her father with an offer of marriage.
Alva said, “If not for my mother—”
“You might have worn a crown? Perhaps so. We all felt sad for your sisters and you. Yet you have prevailed! You rule the premier citizens in America, no? You can buy yourself a crown as impressive as any you might have received.”
“I may lead, but I don’t rule. And should I buy a crown, I still can’t buy a title,” Alva said. “I can’t purchase the status and prestige the top houses have—though I will say, I’ve learned that a title is no guarantee of superior character.”
“Do tell,” said the countess.
“England’s Manchester.”
And his wife.
“Ah, yes. One must choose carefully, if one can choose.”
“At any rate, it’s youth that truly rules in America. With few exceptions, older ladies may as well not exist. One of the many things I so admire about the French is that a woman of power and grace like yourself never loses her power.”
“Not unless she squanders it,” said the countess. “Or lets it go.”
“No risk of that with you.”
“None at all. Nor will you lose yours, if you make the correct choices.” The countess’s gaze was on Consuelo and the prince. Alva, though, thought of William.
* * *
Much as Alva had been ignoring her husband and the trouble he’d made for her, what the countess said stayed with her into the small hours of the night.
She did not wish to lose everything she had worked so hard to gain. Yet what she would preserve by inaction would be polluted by her knowledge of what had happened.
Was polluted luxury better, thoug
h, than being poor and ostracized?
The answer had been so clear to her younger self.
* * *
After spending a sleepless night imagining what women like the countess and the empress might do in her place, Alva sent William a note inviting him to breakfast in her room. She chose a conservative blue serge dress and pinned her hair close to her head. Face powder, to hide the evidence of her sleeplessness. Single pearls at her ears.
Thus costumed, she had the breakfast brought in on a cart and now she waited, sitting up straight at the small table, breathing deeply, ready to put on a show once again.
William arrived and took the chair across from her. “I trust you’re well this morning,” he said as he lifted lids from platters and began filling his plate.
Her head ached. Her stomach was knotted. She said, “Very well, thank you.”
“Are you not going to eat?” he asked, noticing she had only her coffee before her.
“I’ve decided: I am going to sue for divorce on the basis of infidelity.”
He had a bite of sausage. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m not asking your permission.”
“What you said that first night, about protecting our daughter and the Montagu girls…” He bit into his toast, chewed, swallowed. “There can’t be any divorce. Besides which, I don’t want a divorce. We’re managing. We’ll manage even better if you’ll try.”
Alva said, “Let’s try this. After the children and I leave for London, you’re going to hire a woman here in Paris to pose as your mistress. You’ll get her a flat in a nice building, with staff, and meet her there regularly. You’ll take her to the races. You’ll make certain your friends see the two of you together. It needn’t last long. Or if you like each other, keep her. I don’t especially care. When the news of your behavior breaks, I will make a visible show of outrage and then have my attorney proceed. Our settlement will include a cash award, along with sufficient funds for running Marble House and a new place in the city—you’ve ruined our home, so it’s yours. The settlement will also include support for the children, who’ll remain in my charge.” She pushed a folded sheet of paper across the table. “Here, I’ve outlined the details for you.”
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 31
