William stared at her. She sat as still as she could, straight-backed, impassive. Her head throbbed.
He said, “I’m to stage an infidelity so that you can get a divorce.”
“No, you’re to stage one so that you protect the girls’ reputations.”
“But I can do that by doing nothing. Why would I agree to your plan? I told you, I don’t wish to be divorced.”
“Well, I don’t wish to be married to a man so duplicitous that he could carry on with my best friend while naming his yachts after me.”
“Alva, she means nothing to me. You’re the one I—”
“Don’t you dare say love. Don’t you perjure yourself just to save some money and a little pride.”
“Whatever I say, it’s not going to make any difference.”
“Finally you’re seeing me clearly. Good.”
“Yes, I see that you are willing to undo everything you’ve accomplished these twenty years just to soothe your own pride.”
“I prefer to think of it as retaining my self-respect.”
“And for that you’d willfully spoil your own daughter’s chances to marry well.”
“You are the one who caused this. I am mitigating the scandal. This way you look merely stupid instead of evil, heartless, and cruel. Divorce in this circumstance won’t be so troubling for her. One of her better prospects is the son of divorced parents himself.”
“How righteous you sound.”
“And why do you suppose that is? Now, I’m due at Maison Doucet in twenty minutes,” she lied. “Do I have your commitment to follow this plan?”
“If I refuse?”
“Colonel Mann will gleefully report my affirmation of your trysts with the duchess. It will be an even better story than the one he had intended to print before you paid him off.”
He had another bite of sausage, shaking his head as he chewed. “You won’t do that to the girls.”
Coldly she said, “I would rather not, it’s true. But if you once again do only what you desire, imagining, as ever, that you can yet get away with it, I will expose you.”
She watched his face. Did he believe her?
He said, “I don’t know why you can’t simply let it alone.”
“No, it is quite obvious that you don’t.”
He took the folded paper and put it in his breast pocket. “I’ll consider this.” Saying nothing further, he left the room.
Alva remained in her chair feeling deflated. The headache now came full on.
He would consider it. He would consider it, because he could.
* * *
Prince Francis Joseph called on Consuelo the following afternoon. Alva sat at the far end of the suite’s drawing room pretending to be occupied with her correspondence while keeping an ear on the conversation, which had evolved into a monologue by the prince.
“Sofia, seat of Bulgarian rule, isn’t Paris, of course. I did spend many pleasant days there, though, before my brother was abducted and forced to give up the throne. The weather is very fine. I won’t trouble you with the political claptrap required for my election to rule. Very likely it will all be accomplished peacefully…”
Consuelo’s expression today was not the flattered and flushed ingénue of the previous evening. As the prince went on about his schemes, she wore a smile and gave the appearance of genuine interest in all the prince had to say, but in her eyes—perhaps not obvious to the prince but clear enough to Alva, who could guess her thoughts—was apprehension.
Alva, too, was apprehensive. Though some of her courage to coerce William had been drawn on the possibility that the prince would propose marriage, was this man, attractive and exalted as he might be, good for Consuelo? What’s more, the continual arranging and rearranging of political alliances in the Balkans and with the Balkans could mean that even if Prince Francis Joseph succeeded in his plan to unseat Prince Ferdinand, he might face incursion himself. The risk of instability and upheaval had to be balanced against the benefits Consuelo would derive from a royal title, a royal life. Few young women ever got such opportunities.
“… and therefore,” the prince was saying as he stood, “I must reluctantly take my leave. Thank you for your hospitality. I have enjoyed our acquaintance and hope to continue it.”
Consuelo nodded and extended her hand. “The pleasure was mine.”
Alva saw him out. When she returned to the drawing room, Consuelo was absent. Alva found her at the desk in her bedroom, readying a pen with ink.
“Pressing business?” she asked.
“I’m writing down some of my thoughts. Gertrude keeps diaries. She says it helps order her mind. I thought I might try it.”
“He’s an excellent gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Yes, quite.”
“If he succeeds in his plans, he’ll be powerful in his little corner of the world.”
“He said he’s been reading the Greeks. It’s good that he does that. Read, I mean.”
“The countess is eager to see you two paired.”
“He told me. Yet it seems so … That is, she knows me so little.”
“You make a good impression,” Alva said, leaving aside the matters of political allegiances and the intricate webs tying together generosity and self-interest that informed the countess’s opinion.
She changed the subject. “Won’t it be lovely to have an evening to ourselves? Harold has said he’s ready to challenge you in bezique.”
“Will you play with him?” Consuelo asked, turning back to the desk. “I’m in no mood for it.”
“He’ll be disappointed, but I will, yes, if he’ll settle for me.”
Alva, too, was in no mood for bezique (though she would pretend for Harold’s sake). Challenging William in a game of far higher stakes hadn’t brought her the satisfaction she thought it might. Nothing was clear. She felt like an ox trudging through mud in a rainstorm.
The prince’s proposal of marriage came three hours later, relayed to Alva along with a note from her husband giving his consent, if Consuelo desired it. Leaving Harold to eat his dinner with Miss Harper, Alva took Consuelo to a quiet table in the ladies’ dining room and, once they’d gotten their wine and their soup, presented the prince’s note to her.
“It seems you’ve dazzled Francis Joseph of Battenberg more than sufficiently. What do you think of that?”
“I—well, I am terribly flattered, of course…” Consuelo’s wide brown eyes were even wider than usual, and her expression conveyed fear as much as excitement. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a nervous laugh. “It’s an honor, isn’t it?”
“It is exceptional. He has his choice of all the young ladies.”
“But it could very well be Papa’s money that impresses him most.”
“We know your being so well fixed is almost always going to be some consideration,” Alva said as their dinner was presented. (Roasted duck, with stuffed figs and sliced carrots and a lovely frisée surround. If she failed with William, she would dearly miss eating so well.)
She continued, “There are very, very few men who would be on equal footing with you as regards money.”
“I do think he likes me.”
“I believe he does.”
“And he’s quite handsome.”
“He is.”
Consuelo clutched her hands. “Suppose he’s the only one who will ask? If I turn him down, I might end up like Aunt Armide.”
“There will be others. There already have been.”
“What? Which others?”
“Several of your partners at the Duc de Gramont’s ball. They put their proposals to your father and me, and we thanked them and sent them on their ways.”
“Several?”
“Rest assured that if you turn down the prince, other offers will follow.”
“What if I had wished to consider one of the ones you rejected?”
Alva tried the wine, then said, “I promise you, they weren’t worth considering. This wine, however, is lo
vely.”
“What of Kim?” Consuelo asked, referring to the duchess’s son. “That is, the duke.”
“You and Kim? That’s only ever been a joke. Besides, he isn’t right for you.”
“You always say I should have a title.”
“I would see you married to a footman before I would consider young Manchester. Please tell me you aren’t serious in your interest.”
Consuelo shook her head. “No. I only wondered what you would say. Will we see the twins, at least? I thought they were coming to Paris.”
“Their plans have changed.”
Alva thought of the letter, which was beside her in her satchel. She had it with her at all times, as insurance, but had not replied to it. Nor did she intend to reply.
She stayed quiet while Consuelo pushed several carrot slices from one side of her plate to the other.
Consuelo said, “What does Papa think? Of Prince Francis Joseph, I mean.”
“He thinks this one is worth considering. Obviously I agree.”
More carrots were relocated, and then Consuelo said, “He’s very nice, but I feel … I feel as though I could be almost any sort of girl and it wouldn’t make a difference to him, as long as I was well mannered and my name was Miss Vanderbilt.”
“Many of history’s great unions have begun on similar terms.”
“Am I wrong to wish to be desired for myself?”
“No, but you need to recognize that such regard often comes later, when the acquaintance is deepened by time and experience.”
“Then you think I would be wrong to refuse him.”
Alva paused before answering. Certainly there was a tremendous advantage in deferring risk and arranging Consuelo’s marriage now. Still, the larger goal was to ensure her daughter a future that was both happy and secure. The Duke of Marlborough would offer much more in that regard. If he offered. Which he might not do. Or he might. And if he did, Consuelo would live in England, not Bulgaria, and no one would attempt to overthrow her husband and there would be no risk of (she could hardly bear to think of it) the kind of angry mobs and guillotines that other queens had faced. Not that this was likely. But then, wouldn’t Marie Antoinette have thought the same?
Alva said, “As your mother, I would feel much better if he were already Bulgaria’s beloved regent.”
Consuelo was visibly relieved. “Then I should refuse. I should wait for an offer I like better.”
“Yes,” Alva said, praying neither of them was making a mistake. “We’ll put this situation to rest and carry on with our London trip as planned.”
* * *
The morning of their departure, Alva received a note from William asking that she meet with him in his suite at eleven A.M.: We should finalize things before you leave.
He was ready to agree to her terms, then. Good. The sooner all of this was behind them, the better.
She arrived at the appointed time, saying as she entered, “All right, let’s be quick about this—”
She stopped. Corneil was standing to the right of the door. His arms were folded, and he wore a pained expression. “Hello, Alva.”
William said, “He’s hoping we’ll permit him a hearing on our difficulties.”
“You might have told me he was coming.”
“Please,” Corneil said. “Let’s sit down. Would you like anything? We can order up coffee, some pastry—”
“Nothing, thank you,” Alva said, seating herself in an armchair. “Be brief. The children and I leave on the train to Calais at three and there’s still packing to do.”
The men sat, and Corneil began, “I came as soon as William cabled me. He is greatly distressed by the turn of events—”
“What do you want?” Alva said.
“To preserve your marriage. There’s no need for this misunderstanding to end an almost twenty-year union.”
“There is no misunderstanding. The facts are clear. Has William not made them out to you? He and Lady Mandeville were lovers for all of those years, a situation made known to me only because she saw fit to confess it. Do we all understand now?”
The men glanced at each other. Then Corneil replied, “I misspoke. Yes, my brother behaved badly, and he’s sorry for it.”
“I believe he is.”
“Then why do you delay your forgiveness?” Corneil said. “He’s made a very, very good life for you, Alva. What’s more, you made a vow to God. You must not take that lightly. There are consequences to breaking it—”
“I’ll go to hell, you mean? What a convenient argument! A man may do as he will as regards his vows, but if a woman should break them, she faces eternal damnation.”
“My God, you’re hardheaded,” William said, getting up to pace the room.
Corneil asked, “Alva, what would you gain in obtaining a divorce? No respectable woman will receive you. What kind of life will you have? And think of the effect on the children—and on my mother, whose health is increasingly poor. You’re angry. I understand. But William will reform,” he said, beckoning William back to his chair. “He’ll make it up to you, and you can resume your lives as before. How can you claim to be offended by his betrayal if you don’t even love him enough to forgive him? To divorce under these conditions is a wholly selfish act.”
Alva focused her gaze on her gloves, on the delicate embroidery that Mary had taken such care with. Corneil was correct. She couldn’t argue with a single point he’d made.
And she had no actual leverage to get her way; her threat to expose William was a bluff. If he called her on it, that would be one more humiliation she would suffer at his hands. If she also lost her lawsuit, that would put an end to her for good and all.
How much easier it would be to capitulate than to fight.
She could simply agree with Corneil, let all of this go, and then make a separate life for herself the way the duchess had done. Yes, that, too, would mean that William had won yet again, but perhaps that was the price she deserved to pay for having sat in the Greenbrier’s garden that night long ago and falsely secured his proposal.
How clever she had thought herself. How charming, how persuasive. Heroic, even. Her troubles were over forever.
She had fooled herself, then. Was she fooling herself this time, too?
Alva looked up at Corneil. She said, “You’re absolutely right.”
“I am so glad to hear this. William, didn’t I tell you she would come around?”
What self-satisfied expressions the two men now wore as they looked at each other. How accustomed they were to having their way! Thus it was with great pleasure that Alva said, “Your gloating is premature; I haven’t finished. I agree with all you said and I am going to divorce your brother. It’s time some woman set an example, or this kind of treatment will never end.”
“Unbelievable!” William said, launching himself from his chair. “You seem to think you’re entitled to everything.”
“No, merely respect.”
Corneil said, “I implore you to reconsider. The example you should be setting is one of Christian forgiveness. Otherwise you will have to answer to God.”
“Which I will gladly do.” She looked at William. “I won’t ask you again: do you intend to be honorable and carry out our plan?”
“Your plan.”
She waited.
He said tersely, “As I’ve always told you, I am a man of honor. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Wise decision,” Alva said. “You might also inform the duchess of these developments. She’ll want to know that her letter has had good effect.”
When Alva was clear of the room with the door closed behind her, she stood for a moment in the hotel’s corridor and turned her gaze to the ceiling.
She had won.
Better than that, William had not won.
Some time ago, she had attended a lecture at which Victoria Woodhull argued that God was female. Today was the first time Alva thought the argument could be right.
VII
&n
bsp; LONDON IN AUGUST was no great pleasure. The sky wouldn’t commit to full-on sunshine, lending the days a halfhearted haze of indifference that Alva hoped would not follow them into the country, to the house she’d let near Marlow. She’d taken the house on an impulse, preferring not to wait in Newport for William’s public infidelity to play out. In Newport, she would have to see Alice and submit to reiterations of Corneil’s damnation declaration. Or, if Alice was as yet in the dark on this matter, Alva would have to pretend that nothing unusual was afoot. Better to while away what was left of the summer on the banks of the Thames, where Lucy Jay and her daughters would join them. Willie and his tutor were due there as well.
First, though, Lady Paget would dominate their schedule. One of Bertie’s favorites at court, the former Minnie Stevens had been part of Alva’s set in the early ’70s before marrying an English lord’s son. She had become a sharp-eyed quick wit whose opinions were both sought and celebrated. She would not only act as ambassador for Alva with Lady Albertha and her son the duke, she would also see that Consuelo was, as she’d put it in a letter to Alva, “rigged up” for the rest of London society so that regardless of the duke’s response and inclinations, Consuelo would make the strongest possible impression on every gentleman who met her and on the public besides.
Alva brought her daughter to meet Lady Paget at her Belgrave Square home. Buckingham Palace Gardens was just down the street.
“She’s pretty enough,” Lady Paget said upon seeing Consuelo. “But her style is far too innocent for this scene. You absolutely must put her in satin for our dinner party Thursday evening. See that she shows more of that marvelously milky skin. Gloves past her elbows. A ribbon at her neck.” She inspected Consuelo as if she were a mannequin standing before them.
Alva said, “Satin? She’s got nothing in satin. We’ll have to get a seamstress—today.”
“Do. He won’t be able to resist her, turned out like a true sophisticate.”
The “he” of her statement was Charles Spencer-Churchill, the duke. Also present would be his mother and his aunt, Jennie, along with Jennie’s son Winston, who was on leave from the Royal Military College. Jennie had written that Winston was “positively obsessed” with being in the cavalry, as he’d been a poor student in his previous school and was determined to make something worthwhile of himself. Two years earlier, he’d nearly died from injuries he sustained after falling from a bridge, so Alva was pleased to know he was getting on. She hoped Jennie did not see him or his younger brother as prospects for Consuelo; the duke was the prize here.
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 32
