Consuelo had kept her gaze straight ahead throughout the discussion. Now Alva said to her, “I expect you’re bored by our chatter. Did you want to stay and have tea?” Consuelo gave a quick shake of her head. “All right, then. Lady Paget’s man will put you in a cab for the hotel. You might have Miss Harper go over English history and geography with you. I know you’ve studied it, but a refresher will give you confidence when we’re at dinner.”
When Consuelo had gone, Alva and Lady Paget discussed the duke. He was twenty-three years old but appeared younger, she said, as he was blond and boyish in his features and build. Born in India during his father’s post there, he’d gained his title upon his father’s death two years earlier. He was educated at Trinity College.
Lady Paget said, “He’s not especially passionate about anything, really.”
“That will be a relief after Prince Francis Joseph.”
“Perhaps she’ll bring out his passions,” said Lady Paget with a wink. “We should encourage her to try.”
“Please. This is my daughter we’re speaking of.”
“It works. Proven successful by yours truly, and of course our Duchess and Lady Churchill. Why didn’t you marry in?”
“No money.”
“Oh, yes—one forgets, what with how well fixed you are now.”
Lady Paget said that Blenheim, the duke’s estate, was much as Lady Lansdowne had described. “The stepmother and her money brought electricity and a heating system, both of which have done wonders in making the palace habitable. The house alone covers something like seven acres. That’s a lot of stone. Quite impressive. Its town, Woodstock, is a charming place. Lots of history there.”
“Consuelo will like that,” Alva said.
“Who wouldn’t? We’ll get Sunny—that’s what we call the duke—to tell her all.”
“Is he sunny? In temperament?”
“It’s for Sunderland. He’s Earl of Sunderland. I don’t actually know if I’ve ever seen him smile.”
* * *
Having procured the correct dress and accessories, on the night of the dinner a more sophisticated-looking Consuelo sat with the young duke to her right and his cousin to her left, and from Alva’s perspective appeared to be delighting in their conversation throughout the meal and afterward as well. A few glasses of wine into the evening, Alva told Lady Paget, “Sunny is shining on my girl,” causing her friend to snort with laughter.
Too, Alva observed that although her daughter was well aware that the duke was a prospect, she seemed to forget this in the course of the evening and was simply enjoying herself.
The months ahead were going to be difficult; Consuelo in particular was going to be upset by the gossip and subsequent divorce. She revered her father—and why wouldn’t she? He was her very own king, ever kind to her, ever the golden boy of his youth. For now, though, she was reveling in the attention of two engaging young men, finally having a taste of what adult life could bring her. Alva was certain her daughter would only grow prettier and more confident. She would make a significant marriage that would, Alva hoped, become a love match. She would have everything Alva herself had been denied.
Lady Paget told Alva, “I do believe you’re off to the races. How marvelous you must feel about everything. What a life you’ve made for yourself!”
“Haven’t I just?” Alva said.
* * *
The World got hold of the story first. William K. Vanderbilt had been seen in Paris repeatedly in the company of a Miss Nellie Neustretter, a comely American of perhaps thirty years. Eager detectives ferreted out the details: The object of Mr. Vanderbilt’s open affections hailed from San Francisco but was enjoying her time on the Continent. She was installed in a fashionable apartment, where the servants had been observed wearing Vanderbilt livery.
The first reporter to spot Alva in New York rushed up to her on the street outside the Fifth Avenue house, where she’d been staying only to keep up appearances. The marvel of her home was lost on her now. She roamed it the way Mr. Stewart’s ghost roamed his mansion, dismayed that a once-excellent existence could be ruined so abruptly.
“Mrs. Vanderbilt,” the reporter called as he approached, “do you have any comment regarding Miss Neustretter and your husband?”
“I’m beyond outrage,” she said, quite truthfully. “He should be ashamed of himself. Don’t you think so?”
The reporter removed his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“For the sake of my children’s pride and my own, I won’t allow this insult to stand. You may quote me on that.”
Now Alva could proceed.
She met with her attorney, Mr. Joseph Choate, evidence in hand: the World’s report and three others like it, along with a cable from William in which he stated, I regret that I am able to confirm the reports. Additionally, she had produced with care a document that specified the terms of the settlement to which William had already agreed: she would receive two million dollars, custody of all three children, and one hundred thousand dollars annually for each of the children’s upkeep, money that would later continue to be apportioned to each of them as they came of age. She would relinquish the Fifth Avenue home in favor of a new, more suitable townhouse on East Seventy-second Street.
She gave over the documents to Mr. Choate, a tall man with thick gray hair and a waxed mustache. She said, “This should suffice for the judge, wouldn’t you agree?”
He examined the papers. “It’s without question. Also without question: your right to feel aggrieved. However, I really must advise you, Mrs. Vanderbilt, that taking this action will result in a terrible disservice to your class, and therefore I recommend you don’t pursue the lawsuit.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Leaning back in his chair, he lit a pipe and said, “If we view topmost society as a piece of fabric, we can think of each member as a thread in that fabric. Part of what holds it together—weaves it into a thing of strength such that each of us is clothed, protected, by that fabric—is the concentration of assets and power in the hands of particularly accomplished men, your husband being such a one. These men see to the care and well-being and material needs of their respective families, resulting in societal harmony—or let’s say a fine overcoat that covers everyone, keeps you safe and warm. If you persist in your suit, you divide Mr. Vanderbilt’s assets, thus weakening the fabric. Your example could plant in other ladies’ minds the notion that they, too, can take their offenses to the courts, resulting in further subdivision and thus further weakening. The coat is moth-eaten and worthless.
“What’s more,” he continued, “ladies have no capacity for managing assets. A household is nothing like a portfolio of investment holdings. The money you and others would win will invariably be misspent, wasted—weakening the fabric further, as you’ll become destitute and unable to give proper care to yourselves, your children, your homes. I’m certain you are intelligent enough to see where this could lead.”
Alva said, “Your concern is admirable. We certainly don’t want to be the architects of society’s downfall.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “Then you understand me well.”
“Oh, indeed, I understand you very well. And your theory is quite interesting. The trouble with theories, however, is that one can’t know what is true unless the theory is tested empirically. You may be correct that if I pursue my case, moral society’s overcoat will unravel to strings and leave the lot of us exposed to life’s harshest elements; I’m quite curious to know. So please do file the lawsuit and send all further correspondence and inquiries to me at the Seventy-second Street address.”
“Madame—”
“Shall I seek another attorney whose theories won’t hinder his ability to do the job I’m paying him for?”
He said, “I entreat you: This is no game. You might satisfy yourself, all right, but would you wish for other ladies to ruin their families?”
“I would like gentlemen to stop provoking in their wives
the desire to divorce them! Perhaps that is the lesson our esteemed friends will take away from this parting of one of our ‘great men’ from so much of his money.”
* * *
Alva was back at 660 Fifth Avenue for perhaps twenty minutes when Alice arrived with Mrs. Vanderbilt, who was thin and pale and shorter, it seemed, than the last time Alva had seen her.
She took Alva’s hand. “William didn’t mean anything by it. He’s always been a little impulsive, a little less serious than Corneil. It’s his nature.”
Alva helped her to a chair in the parlor. “Respectfully, I’ve lived with William for twenty years, which, given his time away at school, is longer than he spent with you, and much more recent. I know precisely how he is. I’m sorry for the distress this is causing you. But you must see how my action is necessary and correct.”
Alice sat next to their mother-in-law. “I’m afraid you’re deluding yourself. What we see—what everyone sees—is an angry, bitter woman selfishly lashing out because she was offended.”
“It isn’t anger, it’s passion, and I am entitled. William has embarrassed me, misused me, betrayed and disrespected me. I deserved none of it.”
“There, you see?” said Alice. “Anger.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt said, “He didn’t mean to harm you, surely you know that. That Paris woman, she’s nothing more than an amusement.”
“So he’s excused from consequence?” She turned to Alice. “This is what we want our sons to emulate?”
Alice said, “To forgive is divine.”
“Then William can get his forgiveness from God directly,” Alva said, sitting down across from them. “I don’t mean to be glib. I really do want you to understand: If these men never suffer for their wrongs, they will never change their ways. Why should they?”
Alice said, “I don’t know that they can. It’s men’s nature to—”
“Does Corneil have lovers?”
“Of course not! He’s not that kind of man.”
Alva asked Mrs. Vanderbilt, “Did you ever suffer this kind of humiliation?”
Mrs. Vanderbilt shook her head.
“Then it isn’t men’s nature, is it? They choose. Neither of you has the first idea how this feels.”
“I’m reluctant to say this,” Alice began, “but … perhaps if you had been a better wife to him, he wouldn’t have strayed.”
Alva clenched her fists. Now she was angry. “Has the Vanderbilt name blinded you to simple right and wrong?” She pounded one fist on the table beside her, saying, “I am the offended party.”
Alice stood up. “Come, Mother V. We’ve wasted our time here.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt rose with difficulty. Alva approached her and took her hands. “You have always been a kind and reasonable woman. You must be able to see my viewpoint.”
Alice pulled Mrs. Vanderbilt’s arm to forcibly move her away from Alva toward the door. Mrs. Vanderbilt, though her expression was one of sadness and distress, made no reply, nor did she resist being shepherded away.
Alice said, “I fear for your soul, Alva. Nothing good will come of this. God’s wrath is just and mighty.”
“What did you do to incur it?”
“Pardon me?”
“This wrathful God—what sin did you commit to bring that wrath down upon your innocent children?”
As the words were leaving Alva’s mouth, she knew she’d gone too far. Alice’s horrified expression only confirmed it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I know it isn’t your fault—”
“You are no lady,” Alice told her, pausing at the door. “I always felt it but hoped I was wrong. May the Lord forgive you.”
* * *
On the evening before Willie was due to return to St. Mark’s for the start of autumn term, William arrived—from Paris, presumably, though Alva didn’t ask and he hadn’t said when he’d cabled her to expect him.
She and Consuelo were in the library when he came in. Consuelo, who had chosen willful disbelief when Alva told her and Willie what their father had done, sprung from her chair. “Papa! Welcome home.”
Embracing Consuelo, William said, “You’re a sight for these weary eyes.”
“It’s ‘sore’ eyes, and I’m glad. Not that they’re sore. Or weary. I’m glad you’re pleased to see me.”
He laughed. “I understand. Tell me,” he said, releasing her, “are your brothers at home, too? I’m afraid I have other business later this evening, so I can’t stay long.”
“You’ve only just arrived,” Consuelo said.
Alva told him, “They’re in. Shall we do this right now?” When he nodded, she called them down.
Consuelo said, “Do what right now?”
“A little family conference,” William told her.
The boys hurried in, happy to see their father. If she didn’t think about what the papers had reported, didn’t allow herself to remember the confession, didn’t indulge her disappointment, she could find this scene heartwarming. The five of them hadn’t been all together since last Christmastime.
With greetings done, William said, “Everyone take a seat.” Then he turned to Alva. “The floor is yours.”
“I’m doing this?”
“It was your idea.”
He and the children watched her expectantly. She said, “All right. Well, I’ll get straight to it. Due to the … situation, which could not be resolved by any other action, your father and I are divorcing. You’ll continue to live with me, but not here. I’ve taken a house for us east of the park. It isn’t far.”
The older two wore expressions of shock. Harold said, “What is divorcing?”
Alva said, “It means we won’t be married any longer. We’ll live apart.”
“Then … who will be my father?”
“I will,” William said, going to sit next to him. “A divorce isn’t anything to do with children, only adults.”
Harold still looked confused.
Alva said, “We are still your mother and father. We just won’t be wife and husband to each other.”
He said, “Oh.”
Willie stood up. “You’ll excuse me.” Without looking at either of his parents, he strode from the room.
Consuelo was on the verge of tears. She said, “Why are you doing this?”
Alva said, “You know the source of the trouble.”
“I thought it was a lie.”
Harold said, “What was a lie?”
“Daddy?” Consuelo said, and William shifted his gaze away.
Alva told Harold, “She thought it was a lie that your father and I have had a falling-out. We have, that’s the truth, and we’ve agreed to divorce because of it.”
“Your mother insisted,” William said.
“Is it true?” Consuelo asked him. “The … the reason?”
“William,” Alva said. “Answer your daughter.”
He said, “I made a mistake.”
Consuelo looked stricken and Alva said, “We can talk about this further another time. What we want you to know—all of you,” she said, gesturing toward upstairs, where Willie had gone, “is that nothing else need change in any significant way. We’ll continue to care for you as we always have, but you will spend time with us separately.”
William said, “This Christmas, for example. I’m going to take the three of you to Palm Beach.”
Alva’s mouth dropped open. He’d said nothing about this previously. Now he looked her way and smiled, as if daring her to protest.
“You see?” she said brightly. “Won’t that be lovely? You’ll have a grand time.”
Consuelo’s gaze was on her lap. “I can’t believe you would do this to us.” She looked up at Alva.
“I know it’s hard,” Alva began, but Consuelo was on her feet and moving for the doorway before Alva could finish the sentence.
Harold, still seated, was crying. William said to him, “Let’s go find your brother, shall we? I heard a joke I want to tell you both.”
As they were leaving the room, he looked over his shoulder at Alva. “Well done,” he said.
* * *
Mamie Fish saw it her way, at least.
“They’ll be fine,” she said, after hearing Alva’s account of the scene with William and the children. She’d come to see Alva’s new townhouse, now that Alva was getting settled in. Mamie said, “Nobody died.”
“You wouldn’t know it from the way Consuelo mopes about.”
“She’s too young to see how you’re a warrior for the Woman’s Cause. You should tell her she’s lucky you didn’t take a more old-fashioned approach and shoot him dead.”
“I have considered it—shooting him, I mean. I might fare better in society if I did,” Alva said.
Now that word of the impending divorce was out, almost no one would receive her. The women were cowards, the lot of them, afraid to be seen in her company lest they subject themselves to Alice’s scorn.
“It isn’t too late,” Mamie said. “I’ve got a gun. I’ll even teach you how to use it.”
“You are a good and generous friend.”
Mamie poured bourbon for both of them. “When do you have your day in court?”
“Not until next spring. I suspect the attorneys and judge imagine that if they drag this out, I’ll become remorseful and change my mind.”
“The ladies are saying you will.”
“I admit, the thought crosses my mind now and then. One tires of pushing a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down. But then I remind myself of what you said—I’m a warrior. I am a warrior.” She went over to the stairs and called, “I am a warrior, Consuelo!”
“Come to the Maternity Charities committee meeting at Laura Davies’s house next Tuesday,” Mamie said. “Show them what you’re made of. It’ll do everyone good. Four-thirty o’clock.”
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 33
