A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  “He told me you would do this. I don’t care what you say. That’s all just gossip.”

  “My God. You really won’t see it!”

  “He said you’re jealous of me because no one ever loved you and that’s why you’re keeping us apart. You don’t respect me. You don’t believe I can think for myself.”

  “The husband you think you want will make you miserable. How can I possibly allow you to do that to yourself?”

  “Aunt Alice didn’t tell Gertrude who she can or can’t marry.”

  “No, they are doing that to Corneil; Gertrude is far too sensible to choose someone her parents disapprove of.”

  Consuelo cried, “You insult me at every turn!”

  Trying to remain calm, Alva said, “You are confusing an insult with a fact.”

  “Do you deny that I have the right to lead my life however I choose?”

  Alva said, “If you elope with that man, I will personally get a gun and hunt him down and shoot him dead. I mean it, Consuelo. If you cannot see your way clear of him, I will solve the problem once and for all!”

  Consuelo, horrified, turned and left the room.

  Alva rang for the butler, her hand shaking as she pressed the button. When he arrived, she told him, “My daughter does not leave this house without Miss Harper. She will not send a letter or accept a caller unless I approve of it first.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He withdrew, and Alva went to the window. Her chest felt tight and she was sweating. Almost without knowing she was about to do it, she vomited into an urn. Doubled over and panting, she fought another wave of nausea as she moved to ring for a maid, who then found Alva still crouched at the windowsill, now clammy and scared. This had happened on the Valiant, too; perhaps there was something terribly wrong with her.

  “I’m sorry for this,” Alva said, indicating the urn. “Send for the doctor and have Mrs. Jay come in.”

  * * *

  “Am I dying?” she asked the doctor when he’d concluded his examination. Lucy Jay stood nearby, looking as scared as Alva felt. “My father had heart ailments. He never really improved.”

  To say the least.

  “You have suffered a severe strain on both your heart and nervous system, but if you rest and avoid further upset, you should recover.” The doctor produced a bottle of laudanum, instructed Alva on its dosage, and then left with a promise to return the next day.

  Lucy saw him out, saying, “What a relief.”

  “Yes—if he’s correct.”

  “Of course he’s correct. You already look much better.”

  “Don’t tell my daughter.”

  “Don’t tell her? She’s worried about you.”

  “Let her be worried, for a while longer anyway.”

  After a few hours of medicated rest, Alva felt more herself again. The tightness in her chest had eased and the nausea was gone. Even so, she remained sequestered with her curtains drawn and had Lucy enforce a quiet household. Now she would wait for Consuelo to make up her mind.

  On the second day of this, about a half hour after Consuelo was permitted a brief visit in Alva’s dim room, Lucy came in to report, “She asked if I thought you would ever relent, and I told her there was no possibility of that.”

  “Good.”

  “I said, ‘And if your mother is provoked like that again, she could suffer a fatal attack. I doubt you want that on your conscience.’”

  “That’s dire.” And, Alva hoped, an exaggeration of the risk.

  “It is dire, but, well, when needs must. And it was effective!”

  “Yes? Tell me.”

  “She directed me to send word to Mr. Rutherfurd that she would not be marrying him.”

  “Oh, that is excellent news,” said Alva. “Did you send word?” Lucy nodded, and Alva continued, “I hope she made the decision based on the merits of my argument rather than your threat. Or mine. Still, I’ll take what I can get and be glad of it.”

  * * *

  The Duke of Marlborough arrived in Newport late on Saturday on the last weekend of the month. Traveling with a small entourage of servants and a larger collection of trunks, he was installed at Marble House before the public had the opportunity to set eyes on him—a situation distressing to society until it was remedied when he appeared with Alva, Consuelo, Willie, and Harold at Trinity Church the next morning.

  The austere setting, acting, as it did, as a governor on the public’s excited reaction, gave Alva the opportunity to tell Mamie Fish in a voice easily overheard, “I’ll be holding Marble House open beginning at three o’clock this afternoon. The duke is quite eager to meet Newport’s citizens.”

  “I am, quite,” said Marlborough. “Such a charming community.”

  At 3:05, the house was so full that Alva’s footmen and the Newport police had to turn away the remaining crowd.

  * * *

  It was at a time such as this when Alva missed Ward McAllister most.

  Ward had been dining alone at the Union Club in late January when a waiter returned to his table and found him upright but dead. He had been enjoying rib roast with potatoes, peas, and truffles, with a glass of a red wine he’d brought himself. Evidently he had simply … expired. It was not a bad end, and indeed, many said he would have approved of going this way.

  In the past, when Alva had been faced with the kind of social intricacies she was weaving now, she and Ward would be in his home, or, later, in the parlor of 660 Fifth Avenue plotting strategy while upstairs the children played or napped. She could trust him to speak plainly and thoughtfully. She could reveal her anxieties without fear of being seen as selfish or grasping. He had been her friend.

  Perhaps due to the current hour being so late, or to the strain she was under, or to the effects of the drink or the laudanum she’d consumed, Alva could almost persuade herself that Ward was beside her on the settee, his notebook opened on the table in front of them, his pencil gripped by thumb and middle finger of both hands in that way he had …

  Now, let’s set down the goal of your campaign, he would say.

  To see my daughter truly finished with Mr. Rutherfurd and engaged to marry Marlborough.

  Is Rutherfurd still a threat?

  I am keeping my daughter isolated; that’s all I can say for certain.

  Ward would say, Very good, then. You’ve planned a ball with the duke as the guest of honor, yes?

  I did. I’m billing it the way we did when the Duchess of Manchester was the esteemed guest.

  He would hear the bitterness in her tone and say, You mustn’t continue to haul that anvil around on your back, my dear. See how it bends you under its weight! No. That’s in no way useful to you.

  “Useful” has had no part in my reasoning.

  I fail to see evidence of much reasoning myself.

  I haven’t invited you here to lecture me on forgiveness.

  I haven’t begun my lecture! Nor will I, he would add, recognizing that she was nearly at the end of her tether as it was. Tell me about this ball.

  She would describe the extensive preparations being made to Marble House, as well as the favors she had bought, the food she would serve, the guest list she had made—she had included even those who yet refused to receive a divorcée, hoping that their desperate desire to be among those who would speak or dance with the duke would countermand the “rule” to snub her. Later they would justify this with statements claiming Christian tolerance for Alva’s sin. The scenario amused her.

  She had not, however, invited any of the Vanderbilts, whose decisions to side with William she could not excuse. Her heart ached over it, but so be it. Sometimes life was hard.

  I’ve asked Oliver Belmont to receive with me—

  Ah.

  “Ah?”

  You ought to have named him on your agenda as well.

  Oliver is not an item on my agenda.

  And why is that? You’ll fight to engineer the duke’s commitment to a girl whose mother is supposedly out of top s
ociety. You’ll fight to regain your place in the order. But you won’t fight for your chance at happiness?

  Those first two things will result in my happiness.

  Ward would say, Pah. Social standing never brought that, not to you—you’ve got more depth in your little finger than those shallow ladies possess in their entire bodies.

  (A flattering judgment to put in his mouth, she admitted.)

  Leaving that aside, she would say, neither is a man going to bring me happiness.

  Ward would smile sardonically. Please. Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont isn’t “a man.”

  It doesn’t matter. He’s only a dear friend, nothing more.

  Enough of this nonsense, thought Alva, ending her wishful conference and ringing for her maid. She needed some rest. Tomorrow and the following day and the days after that were all filled with the activities she had devised to entertain and impress and inspire the duke, as well as to give her daughter numerous opportunities to share his company.

  Taking a page from Ward’s guide, she had also invited the press, guaranteeing breathless coverage of every event. She would win the duke for Consuelo if it killed her.

  * * *

  Everyone attended the ball.

  * * *

  On a fine September afternoon when all Alva desired at the moment was a quiet hour in a sunlit alcove, the duke invited Consuelo to join him alone in the Gothic Room. Ten minutes later, Consuelo came running to Alva.

  “The duke has asked me to marry him.” She was breathless.

  Thank you, God, thought Alva. She said, “Is it what you want?”

  Consuelo nodded somberly. “It is.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  Her daughter tilted her head. “No,” she said. “No, it doesn’t feel like that, exactly.”

  “I think that’s for the best; to imagine yourself in love now would indicate mere infatuation. Genuine love will occur later.”

  If it occurred at all.

  Neither of them said this.

  “I’ve enjoyed his company a great deal,” Consuelo said. “He’s intelligent, and he seems to truly like me.”

  “I have observed that as well.”

  “I’m confident I’m going to love being the mistress of Blenheim, and I’m eager to serve the Oxfordshire people. It will be such good occupation for me.”

  “Then … shall we cable your father and then make the announcement?” Alva asked. When Consuelo nodded, Alva stood up and hugged her. “Congratulations, my darling girl. I suppose it goes without saying, but I approve heartily. I’m proud of you.”

  * * *

  With fewer than sixty days standing between the promise and its culmination, Alva began assembling the wedding plans as quickly as she could, all the while praying that neither the duke nor her daughter backed out. There was no reason they should. But she had learned that trouble did not heed reason.

  The press treated the news as if it were as important as the presidential campaigns now forming for next fall’s election. And while most reports were fawning accounts of the budding romance between the heiress and the duke, there were a few that claimed Alva had denied her daughter her true love and forced her to marry the duke. Perhaps Rutherfurd was getting his revenge.

  In response, letters arrived with remarks like this:

  Mrs. Vanderbilt: Not only did you cause harm to a good man by divorce, now you are harming America by selling your daughter to a foreigner. Vanderbilt millions belong to this economy. If these dukes and earls and such are so important, let the Brits find their own funds.

  And this:

  Miss Vanderbilt: I saw the newspaper story on how your terrible mother is forcing you to be sold to that short duke. I am more handsome, and taller, and have loved you from afar. Send a kind word and I will rescue you from this sad and awful fate.

  And this:

  People like you deserve to be choked to death.

  Alva hired extra guards and sent a note to Vogue magazine’s editor in chief, Mrs. Josephine Redding, inviting her to tea. During their meeting, Alva said, “We’ve had some troubling press about my daughter’s impending wedding to the ninth Duke of Marlborough. I could use your help in getting the story out correctly. Will you trade true and favorable coverage for exclusive details on the items in her trousseau?”

  Alva did this with other publications as well, offering exclusive information or access or an invitation to the wedding, whichever suited each one’s particular strengths, desires, or audience. All of them were happy to horse-trade this way. A Vanderbilt heiress! The most eligible of England’s dukes! They lapped up every detail, buckles to bows, like cats with milk.

  Alva was exhausted.

  Whatever it takes.

  In the meantime, she attempted to prepare her daughter for what she might expect on her wedding night and afterward. Alva used neither “peg” nor “plank” in her discussion, which took place in Consuelo’s room one evening over wine and cake. She did not want to ruin for her daughter the possibility that she, Consuelo, might find the act less odious than Alva had. And so she described with unprejudiced language the steps Consuelo should expect to take whenever the young duke approached her for “intercourse of a sexual nature, which should be looked on without dread. It’s a natural act and a necessary one.”

  She outlined the probable scene, then said, “You’ll be embarrassed—and that’s appropriate. He’ll likely be embarrassed as well, though he will do his best not to show it. Men are instructed in the specifics. Let him lead you. His … erect organ is made to fit into you between your legs, into the opening there—”

  Consuelo’s eyes had never been larger.

  Alva had to laugh. “It sounds absolutely absurd, I know. This is the way of it, though. He’s required to move himself in and—” (Good lord, this was much more difficult than she’d expected!) “So, then, after a few moments of … that, he’ll have a kind of small convulsion and then withdraw. The convulsing is the method that expels the fluid necessary for you to conceive. All right? Will you look at this cake? My word—chocolate cream layers! Cook’s very good to us, isn’t she?”

  “It sounds horrid!” said Consuelo. Alva knew she did not refer to the cake.

  She said, “So does blood pudding, but you’re very fond of that. Here now, don’t fret over it.” She refilled her daughter’s wineglass and her own. “After the first time, it will be of no consequence at all. Just another part of your routine.”

  During this period of preparation, the duke intended to take in amusements throughout the region and down in Kentucky at the horse farms. Oliver, who after working with Bryan was hearing a call to office himself, took time away from politics to tend the duke. “You need someone looking after your interests,” Oliver told Alva. “I won’t call myself a chaperone. ‘Ambassador,’ that’s the thing. He’s a self-important chap; he’ll like that.”

  America hardly knew what to make of the self-important chap, who could be charming or imperious and was often both. He was not tall, not strapping, not dashing or athletic the way American heroes tended to be. He engaged in no sport outside of bicycling (though he sat a horse as well as anyone)—in short, he was not in any way “clubbable,” though to be sure no club existed that would refuse him membership if he desired to join.

  The press trailed him adoringly, while his representative stayed behind in New York to negotiate terms with William. Marlborough returned to New York in early November, looking forward to having more than two million dollars with which to restore his heritage, as well as a personal allowance of $25,000 quarterly, matching what his future father-in-law would also give the bride. All was well. It was very well, indeed.

  * * *

  On the morning of November 6, St. Thomas Church filled its pews with wedding guests pressed hip to hip and full of self-satisfied pride at being among the invitees, especially given that some five thousand less fortunate but no less avid onlookers thronged the streets outside. Police lines and barriers held back t
he most aggressive of them—handkerchief-waving young women who wanted nothing more from life on this morning than a glimpse of the bride-to-be’s angelic face.

  Alva, still tending to the last of the details inside the church, took stock of the scene there: Duke. Bishops. Flowers. The organist and choir. The Astors. All that was missing was the bride and her father, who was charged with bringing her to the church.

  The appointed hour arrived. No bride.

  Three minutes passed.

  Five.

  People were murmuring. Alva went to her seat. Consuelo and William would arrive at any moment. Of course they would. She sat in the first pew beside her sisters while the groom moved into position at the foot of chancel steps. He wore a tight expression and glanced at Bishop Littlejohn, who returned a smile of encouragement.

  “I shouldn’t have left her before William got there,” Alva told her sisters. But she’d had to be here to oversee things directly. With such a crucial event as this, nothing could be left to chance.

  Armide said, “I’m certain she will be here presently.”

  “I wonder if one of the horses took lame.” Or perhaps Consuelo had a fit of pique and was balking at the gate. Or perhaps, knowing Alva was off to the church, she had waited until the moment she was alone and then run off with Rutherfurd, gleefully punishing Alva for engineering all of this when her heart was now and had ever been his. Perhaps William was now in pursuit of them and hadn’t had time to send word.

  The organist played on. Five more minutes elapsed. The murmuring increased.

  Alva began, “I’m going to go—” when she saw Marlborough and Bishop Littlejohn come to attention. A cheer was rising outside.

  After a minute the chapel’s doors swung open. The “Wedding March” from Lohengrin began, and up the aisle came Consuelo’s bridesmaids, four of them filing to the left of the chancel, the other four moving to the right, exactly as they had rehearsed. The fifty-member choir lifted their voices to God, and in the bridesmaids’ wake came the bride and her father—she, veiled, he, somber-looking, both there.