A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  * * *

  What a poor liar Consuelo made, even without Alva inquiring about Rutherfurd or challenging the statements Consuelo offered explaining how he’d only wanted to talk to her about her father (“He didn’t want to offend you by saying so when you were nearby”) and about a mutual friend (“She’s quite sick over a rejection from the gentleman she’s set her heart on”) and about her cousin Neily (“He’s seeing a girl Aunt Alice and Uncle Corneil disapprove of”)—in this last case, a truth-based excuse, as word was out widely of his being involved with Miss Grace Wilson, a young woman who had once been attached to his brother Bill. Mamie Fish reported that the Corneil Vanderbilts had forbidden their son from seeing Grace and threatened withdrawal of all support as well as disinheritance. “Bad blood happening there,” she’d said. “It never pays to tell them it’s forbidden. They just try harder and hate you more.”

  Where Consuelo had radiated happiness on her birthday afternoon, during the trip across the Atlantic and as they made their way toward Paris, she radiated anxiety and guilt. Alva remarked on none of it, allowing her daughter to carry on unimpeded (for now) by debate or any overt effort at deterrence. The child believed herself to be in love.

  It was a baseless, artless love, a love brought about by flattery and attentiveness from a lover who was skillful at appearing to be sincere but would only do real harm in the end. This love was a temporary state. Alva would make certain of it.

  * * *

  European gentlemen who had interest in Miss Vanderbilt cared not at all about her father’s divorce so long as he still retained his tens of millions of American dollars. Thus Consuelo’s spring proceeded much the way the previous year’s had, with shopping and parties and dinners and balls and offers of marriage, some of them from the dullest, most tendentious men. Alva relayed to her daughter the story of each man’s request, until Consuelo, growing increasingly disillusioned, complained, “Am I no more than prime horseflesh?”

  “To some of them: no, you are not.”

  As far as Consuelo knew, “Winty” had failed to write even the briefest response to her letters. Neither had he shown up at any of the places she might have expected to see him. She said nothing about it; her demeanor, though, revealed her frustration. Rutherfurd never received Consuelo’s letters because they’d been intercepted. Consuelo never heard from him for the same reason. The two never met up because Alva gave strict notice to key hostesses that if Mr. Rutherfurd was expected, Miss Vanderbilt would be unable to attend.

  Alva had begun to wonder whether the Duke of Marlborough would prove himself an exception among his untroubled-by-divorce European counterparts—that is, titled gentlemen in need of money—when his note arrived: I’ve been traveling this spring but am hoping to see Miss Vanderbilt at Blenheim.

  Alva and Consuelo were in Luxembourg Garden when Alva relayed his message. The weather was fair, the trees thick in leaf. A light breeze made ripples across the bassin. Songbirds chased one another from tree to tree overhead. It was said that Marie de’ Medici’s ghost lent favor to young lovers who visited the park; Alva hoped that favor would also extend to lovers who ought to be together and that having merely one of the pair present in the park would do the trick.

  “I’m not inclined to go,” Consuelo said. “His interest last year was merely polite. He didn’t seem to like me beyond friendship.”

  “Isn’t this evidence that he must?”

  “I don’t see how it is.”

  “He wishes to impress you. The others just come around and say, ‘I’d like your consent in marrying your daughter,’ whereas the duke isn’t presuming you have even the least bit of interest in him. He understands he has to win you over.”

  “Has he said so?”

  “Logic says so.”

  “Logic says he needs money, since the stepmother no longer underwrites the estate.”

  Alva said, “What a cynic you’ve become, and at such a young age.”

  “Am I incorrect?”

  “The estate could benefit from Vanderbilt money, that’s a fact. So then, why doesn’t he pursue Gertrude instead of you? Her father’s wealthier and her parents have no scandals attached to their names.”

  This gave Consuelo pause.

  Alva continued, “And there are many other heiresses whose family names may not carry the cachet yours does but whose fathers would quite willingly trade millions to get their daughters this title. If the duke was actually indifferent to you, he’d pursue one of those blatantly eager girls.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “He may not win you over,” Alva said, “but aren’t you curious to see Blenheim? It’s a genuine palace. And Oxfordshire will be quaint.”

  “If you’re so eager, I suppose I don’t mind going.”

  “What else have we to do with our summer?” Alva said, nonchalant. “The English countryside is as fine a place to spend it as any.”

  * * *

  No one approaching Blenheim could be unaffected by its sheer size and grandeur. One thought of Versailles, minus the gilded accents.

  Consuelo’s remark upon her initial view of it was “Oh, my.”

  Alva, seated beside her in the carriage, said, “Could you see yourself here? I could.”

  “I would never presume…”

  “He’s going to marry someone,” Alva said.

  After greeting them in the broad stone courtyard, Marlborough said, “Would you like some refreshment first, or a tour?”

  “A tour,” said Consuelo.

  He offered her his arm. “Allow me to be your guide.”

  Alva hung back so that she could walk behind them. The duke was slightly shorter than Consuelo, but impeccably presented. From his neat hair to his crisp jacket and pants to his unscuffed shoes, he was a model of the “refined country gentleman at home.”

  He was saying, “First, the overview: In 1704, the first Duke of Marlborough, John Churchill, beat the French in the Battle of Blenheim. As a reward, Queen Anne granted him this land, a great deal of cash, and her consent to build a palace. And as you can see,” he said, “he took the direction very much to heart. I should add that this is the only non-royal palace in all of England.”

  Consuelo said, “You’re right to be proud of it.”

  He led them inside. “You can see, too, that my father wasn’t the steward of it that he might have been. The windows need glazing. We have leaks,” he said, pointing at a water stain on the ceiling of the hall in which they stood. “I would love to restore it to its earlier glory. Your homes are quite impressive, I’m told, so I would imagine you understand the pleasures of fine things well kept.”

  “We do,” Consuelo told him. “My mother is somewhat of an architect herself.”

  “Yes,” said Alva. “We take these things quite seriously.”

  Marlborough smiled. “Excellent.”

  They spent the entire day seeing the house and gardens, Marlborough an affable guide, Consuelo an eager tourist. And while Alva would not have characterized the pair’s relations as anything more than companionable, when Marlborough remarked that he intended to come see the United States that summer and, yes, he would be pleased to stay with them for a time at Marble House, Alva thought companionable might well be sufficient. Whether or not her daughter saw it similarly was quite another question.

  Kimbolton Castle, Mar. 18 ’95

  My dear Alva,

  When word came last year that you were in London, I was distraught about the affair and how terribly I’d wounded you, so I decided not to approach you at all. You were right to shun me by sending no response to my confession and making no effort to see me in person. Word has it that you are again nearby, and so I hope this letter finds you soon, and well.

  Last year I was denying the necessity of telling friends that May had been ill. No need to alarm anyone—nor did I wish to make it seem as if I deserved to be pitied. I, who had wronged you and jeopardized so much. My silence was hope that my suspicion of consumpt
ion was wrong—and indeed, she improved and seemed delicate but well.

  That hope was extinguished four days ago, when, during our stay in Rome, my sweet, beautiful girl collapsed and could not be revived. Alva, she is gone.

  I can’t say whether it is worse for her sister or for me; Alice is her twin and, while they inhabited two identical bodies, they’ve seemed to always have a single heart. Alice, though, has only her loss to endure, whereas I have loss and horrifying guilt for my failure to protect May or heal her, my failure to be the upstanding mother she deserved to have.

  As I have spent these days numbed by the horror, unable to sleep, unwilling to see anyone other than my Alice, who, now that we are home again will not leave her bed, I read of your receiving your divorce on the terms you commanded. The London papers gave every detail. Of course you’re made out to be a demon, and dangerous for setting such an example. If ladies can seek divorce and win not only custody of the children but millions of dollars, too, the whole of society will eventually fall into ruin.

  I say, let it. Like the phoenix, you will rise. Perhaps one day I will, too.

  We bury Lady May tomorrow, here at Kimbolton. I wake and breathe and eat only for the sake of my surviving daughter. God keep her—and you, and yours—safe and healthy.

  Yours—

  Consuelo

  Alva read the letter with one hand pressed to her mouth.

  The horror of it. The wrongness.

  No mother should ever have to outlive her child.

  Through her tears, she went for paper and pen, then sat down and wrote,

  Consuelo,

  We were abroad, so please forgive the tardiness of this reply. Your letter was long delayed, as we had already departed London when it must have come to the hotel …

  My heart could hardly be heavier than it is at this moment. For all that I have steeled myself against you and sworn I would not give you the satisfaction of hearing from me again, I cannot let this terrible news go unanswered. I am so, so sorry for you, and for your Alice, and for May’s suffering.

  I have wanted to ask you, yet could not do it, why you misled me in believing you were a true friend. Or, if you yet believe yourself my friend, how you could lie and betray and lie and betray again and again. If you disdained me so much that you could use me so badly, then pretending friendship (though you claim yours was always true)

  Alva stopped writing and set down her pen. This was not the appropriate time to address that trouble, nor could her mind even begin to organize itself around that difficult subject just now.

  She took a new sheet of paper and tried again. Again, she was unable to offer her condolences without also straying into her justifications for not having written before and trying to litigate all of that. It was as if in opening her heart in a display of sympathy, she could not keep its other needs reined in.

  Yet she could not leave this letter unanswered. Finally she took fresh paper and wrote:

  New York, 28 June 1895

  Duchess Consuelo Montagu and Miss Alice Montagu,

  The children and I wish to extend our most sincere condolences on the loss of Lady May. We are heartsick for you. Lord grant her peaceful rest and a place at His side.

  With sympathy,

  Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt, Consuelo Vanderbilt, Willie Vanderbilt, and Harold Vanderbilt

  IX

  “WE TRULY ENJOYED our time with the duke,” Alva told Lucy Jay, having returned to Newport for the summer.

  They were at a ball being held by one of the newer families in society, a coal-money family far more concerned with currying Alva’s favor than with judging her choice to divorce. To those on this rung of society, a Vanderbilt was a Vanderbilt, and all that mattered was getting one (any one) to one’s party, ever after being able to claim a connection. Probably Ward had recommended the strategy. For Alva’s part, she was willing to indulge any good family, and especially those bold enough to risk Alice’s disapproval. Alice, whose rebuilt house was almost all anyone could talk about.

  Alice was reportedly reveling in the attention, despite the fact that Richard Hunt, having been ground to a nib by both Alice and George, was at this moment lying weak and debilitated in his bed, seeing no visitors. His wife, Catherine Hunt, had admitted to Alva that the end was near. “He wanted me to tell you how grateful he is to you. Not only for your business but your friendship.”

  Alva said tearfully, “I was challenging.”

  “Not as bad as the others.” She smiled. “He loves and admires you.”

  “And I him. Tell him, won’t you?” Wiping her eyes, she’d left the Hunts’ home refusing to believe she might not see him again alive.

  Now she watched from the periphery as Consuelo danced with one of the hostess’s sons in an overcrowded dining-room-cum-ballroom. He was a tall young man, a law student said to be good at polo and friendly with Harry Whitney, Gertrude’s new fiancé. He planned to defend the poor and indigent, and was obviously entranced with Consuelo. If Marlborough didn’t come through, Alva might encourage his interest.

  She said, “Blenheim was remarkable—better than the Breakers, I’ll wager—though the palace does need an influx of cash, and soon.”

  “Was Consuelo impressed?”

  “Oh, quite. Though she played it down afterward.”

  “Let me guess: Mr. Rutherfurd?”

  “She is tenacious,” Alva said. She took a glass of wine from a servant’s tray and walked toward the windows, to get some of the breeze. “Still, I could tell she thought the entire place was marvelous. Being there was like being inside English history! The past dukes are entombed there. The rooms are furnished with the spoils of wars. There is an enormous bust of Louis XIV atop the south portico as if to display the man’s head on a pike for all the populace to see.”

  “When will the duke be here?”

  “Late August, he says.”

  “Will he ask her to marry him?”

  “I wish I knew!”

  “Do you think she’s expecting a proposal?”

  “I think she expected one while we were there, and when it didn’t come she was surprised and disappointed. She wouldn’t have accepted it, honor bound as I’m certain she is to her dear Mr. Rutherfurd. She wants to be flattered, though.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Indeed,” said Alva, whose thoughts turned for a moment to the man whose flattery she always desired. Oliver was away again, stumping with Nebraskan transplant William Jennings Bryan throughout the Midwest on Bryan’s presidential campaign. Oliver posted letters to her from towns she’d never heard of. Osceola. Baraboo. Milan, an Illinois township on the Rock River that said its name MY-lan, to differentiate it from the Italian city of the same spelling—though, as he’d written,

  There is no danger of confusion for any who’ve seen both! They are fine people, however. Farmers, mainly, plus a few Sauk Indians in peaceful coexistence. Bryan is a great friend to the native peoples. We’ve had no trouble. The corn and beef here are the best I’ve had—but none of this is any improvement on your company. I trust you are well. Please write with assurances c/o Chicago general delivery.

  Lucy said, “Consuelo has no idea you’ve been keeping them apart?”

  “None at all. I had hoped she would lose patience with him while we were abroad, and then Marlborough would propose to her and she’d accept out of spite as much as desire. I went so far as to order a wedding gown with this scenario in mind. But she didn’t, and he didn’t. Which is quite all right; she ought not marry anyone unless she believes thoroughly in the merits of the situation—and is correct in that belief, of course.”

  As Alva was speaking, she turned back to watch the dancers and caught sight of Winthrop Rutherfurd, who had joined Consuelo on the dance floor.

  Lucy said, “Did you know he would be here?”

  “I had been assured he would not.”

  Momentarily paralyzed by her daughter’s expression of joy, Alva remembered herself and went straight to the
pair, taking Consuelo by the arm and steering her away from Rutherfurd while telling him, “Do not follow us.”

  “Let me go,” Consuelo said as Alva towed her into the entry hall.

  Alva called to the footman stationed at the door, “Get my coach.”

  “You’re being horrid,” Consuelo said. She tried to turn back toward the ballroom, but Alva held her tightly.

  “That man will ruin your life.”

  “He will not. He loves me.”

  Alva led her outside. “Yes, of course he does. He also loves his mount and Kentucky bourbon, and the prospect of boasting of the ultimate conquest at every club he’ll get to be a member of after snaring a Vanderbilt heiress.”

  Consuelo said, “Then why did he not pursue Gertrude?”

  Alva towed her daughter up to the carriage door. Consuelo climbed inside and Alva followed. The silent coachman closed the door.

  Neither of them spoke during the short ride back to Marble House. When they alighted from the carriage, Alva told her, “Upstairs.”

  Once they were shut into Alva’s bedroom, Consuelo said, “Nothing you do will make any difference. I will marry him. We’ve been engaged for months.”

  “The engagement is off.”

  Consuelo glared at her. “Why are you so determined to ruin my life?”

  “Me? It’s Rutherfurd who’ll ruin it, unless I stop you or stop him.”

  “He told me he was in Paris and London. He said he tried to see me. He said he never got even one of my letters. How could you be that cruel?”

  “How? Because if I were not, he would have taken you off to elope.”

  “I am an adult. I get to choose my husband.”

  “Do you want to become nothing more than a pretty line of credit for a man who could not care less about you?”

  “You don’t know him. He loves me!”

  “All these years while you were curled up in window seats reading poems and philosophy and history books, I was hearing of his exploits. He’s made no secret of trying repeatedly for only rich young ladies’ affections until their fathers put him off—all the while carrying on with married women who’ve treated him like a pet. No sensible person takes him seriously, Consuelo. That’s why he is still unmarried. That’s why he’s preying on a girl like you—you are so perfectly naive that he nearly got away with his plan.”