by Renée Rosen
“I can’t talk about this right now. Please, just let me be.”
But Caroline didn’t know how to let anything just be. It wasn’t in her nature. She was a doer, an organizer—the one who smoothed ruffled feathers, who made problems disappear, who—in the eyes of her children—possessed mythic powers. But for once, Caroline was at a loss. There was no good outcome for this.
No one teaches you how to be a mother, she thought, easing off the bed. They teach you everything else—how to set a proper table and dance the cotillion, speak French, but there were no lessons for raising children. Unlike her own mother, and despite having a staff of nurses and governesses, Caroline had always been involved with her children. She’d bathed them herself, changed them, read them bedtime stories. It was all trial and error, and Emily, being her first, was the recipient of more than her share of mistakes. Caroline feared she was about to make another one where Van Alen was concerned.
She wandered into her bedroom and leaned up against the back of the door, staring about the room. It was large, large enough to double as her office, and in the corner was her desk, designed for her in Paris by Alfred Emmanuel Louis Beurdeley. She’d fallen behind in her correspondence and thought some letter writing would take her mind off things. Removing a piece of vellum stationery, off-white with her name engraved at the top, she began a letter to Matilda Browning, a cousin twice removed who’d been seeking advice on her daughter’s debut. An acrid scent escaped from the crystal ink bottles on the silver footed tray as she studied what she’d written. She was unhappy with her penmanship. The D in Dear was not in alignment with the C in Cousin or the M in Matilda. She tore it up and started over again but only got halfway through before she tore that one up as well.
Caroline gave up and went over to the leather club chair where she had a splendid view of the cliffs and the water. The sound of the waves breaking usually brought her solace, but not on that day. Resting her head in her hands, she asked, What am I to do? What have I done wrong?
When she considered all her daughters, Helen was the only one who seemed content to follow in Caroline’s footsteps and build her life in society, whereas Charlotte, well, Charlotte was a rebel. Contrary in nature, she’d deliberately take an interest in just about anything and anyone that Caroline would oppose. And then there was Carrie. Her youngest daughter loved to draw, to paint, rendering portraits of her sisters, her brother—anyone willing to sit still long enough for her to capture. And she wasn’t without talent . . .
Caroline recognized that her daughters were coming into their own, developing their own interests and passions, but she didn’t know how to let go and trust that they’d find their way. She’d tried so hard to wrap her arms around them all, contain them, keep them from straying into unknown territory, but she was losing that battle. The one thing she knew was that she didn’t want to be like her mother. Caroline cringed each time she’d catch herself saying things like Did you do something to your hair? Meaning, whatever it was, she didn’t like it. Or Why? Because I say so. Or Shoulders back, young lady and What did I tell you about ____?
But she couldn’t dwell on that just now. Her mind was blistering with worry over Emily and fears about the duel. By ignoring General Van Alen’s request for an apology, William had as good as accepted the challenge, and the very thought of her husband dueling with Van Alen left Caroline with a pit in her stomach. Van Alen was an expert marksman. A duel with him was a death wish.
There was a knock on the door, and Hade appeared with a decanter and a crystal tulip-cut copita glass on a silver tray. “I thought perhaps a bit of sherry might be in order, madam.”
Hade had been with Caroline for only a few years, having replaced her previous butler who’d perished in his sleep one night. Hade had come to the Astors highly recommended and quickly proved himself to be a gentleman, devoted to a life of service. Nearly middle-aged, he had a tinge of gray in his otherwise dark hair. He was tall and lean and spoke with a deep, rich baritone. One of Hade’s greatest assets, aside from her children adoring him, was his uncanny ability to anticipate Caroline’s every need, whether that be adding a log to the fire or bringing her a cup of tea—or, in this case, something stronger.
Caroline never drank in the afternoon, but she made an exception that day and was grateful that Hade had left the decanter for her. She took a sip, feeling the warmth spread across her chest. After finishing the one sherry, Caroline contemplated another. Emily was still in her room, Helen and Charlotte were at the beach, Carrie was sketching her grandmother on the veranda, and Jack was out walking with his governess, who had promised him biscuits in exchange for a little exercise. Caroline poured a second glass and sipped it while rehearsing her lines. When she felt prepared, she finished the last of her sherry, set the decanter aside and went off in search of William.
She found him in the game room, sitting on the edge of the settee, surrounded by his various sailing trophies. He was lacing up his white balmoral footwear with the rubber soles that he always wore on his yacht.
Her heart sank. “You’re going sailing?”
“Yes, and why not?”
“Today of all days?” She was still standing in the entranceway, squeezing the doorjamb, staring at the billiard balls scattered across the table.
“And what would you prefer I do? Sit here, fretting, waiting for Emily to appear? She’ll come out of her room when she’s good and ready.”
Emily? She wasn’t nearly as worried about Emily as she was about him. Her gut tightened. “William, you absolutely must stay here and write your apology to—”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind.”
This was exactly what she’d feared; he was too proud to back down. She made her way over to a chair, perched herself on the edge, trying to think of a way to reach him. She wanted to say she feared for him, that his children needed him, that she needed him. She wanted to say she loved him, but what she said instead was: “You’re a fool. Van Alen is a brigadier general. Your hands shake unless you’re holding a drink. He’ll kill you on the count of ten.”
William stood up and crossed the room, turning his back to her, feigning interest in something outside the window. But she could see his reflection in the glass, the way his face was locked in a grimace. He was rattled. They both knew she was right.
“Did you hear what I said, William? You cannot go through with this duel.”
“I have to.” Still turned away from her, he added, “Would you prefer I apologize, give my blessings to this preposterous marriage and let my daughter marry a man who would be an utter embarrassment to this family? Is that what you want me to do?”
Caroline got up from her chair, went to her husband’s side, placed her hand on his and simply said, “Yes.”
And that was how her daughter Miss Emily Astor became engaged to Mr. James Van Alen Jr.
CHAPTER NINE
Society
NEW YORK
From drawing room to drawing room, there is only one thing we talk about these days: the Astor wedding. Or more specifically: Why on earth is Emily Astor marrying James Van Alen? These days fashionable ladies—debutantes without half the pedigree of Emily Astor—marry dukes, earls, viscounts, barons—men with real British accents!
Alice Heine is now Duchess de Richelieu; Jennie Jerome is Lady Randolph Churchill. Consuelo Yznaga has recently become engaged to Viscount Mandeville, and just last week we learned that Minnie Stevens has become affianced to Captain Arthur Paget, whose grandfather is the first Marquess of Anglesey. Soon enough we’ll be calling her Lady Paget. How is it possible, then, with all the world marrying into nobility, that Mrs. Astor’s eldest daughter would marry someone who not only isn’t a Knickerbocker but is a Van Alen? Simply unheard of.
Already so many details of the wedding have begun to surface. Ophelia heard the guest list includes President Grant and the British prime minister. The menu is rumored to ha
ve grown from six to nine courses. The flower arrangements are expected to be so elaborate that one florist can’t possibly handle the order, so Mrs. Astor has employed both Howard Fleishman and Klunder, Hodgson, Wadley & Smythe. It’s obvious that Mrs. Astor is determined to surpass even her own superlative standards for entertaining, and for the next two weeks, each of us frantically checks our mail, hoping to receive a coveted invitation to what is being hailed the wedding of the decade.
CHAPTER TEN
Caroline
If William looked at his timepiece once more, if he clacked it open and snapped it shut again, Caroline was going to scream. And she never screamed. Instead, she waited, counted to ten. In less than twenty-four hours, their daughter was getting married, and William had just announced that he was not going to walk Emily down the aisle. Caroline knew he didn’t mean it, that he simply liked the sound of it, that it gave him some false sense of control over the situation.
“Why not just have Waldorf give her away?” he said. Clack. Snap. “He’s running for the senate. Surely that should impress everyone.”
“Waldorf is not her father.”
“Oh, come now, Lina. You’re not fooling anyone.” He set the timepiece down. “You can invite as many presidents, as many dukes and duchesses—invite the goddamn queen of England—it won’t change a thing.”
Maybe it wouldn’t change the situation, but it was certainly providing enough dazzling distractions to give the gossips something else to focus on. She had painstakingly curated the guest list, one that was so ultra-exclusive she’d even crossed off several of the bride and groom’s requests. As she explained to Emily, there simply wouldn’t be room for several of James’s friends such as that young Vanderbilt and his brash wife.
“I tell you, Lina,” William said, reaching for his timepiece again, “everyone knows this wedding is a farce.”
“This marriage may be a farce, but it saved your life, and now I’m going to save Emily’s reputation. And I don’t care how many dignitaries it takes to do it.”
“But you—”
“You are going to walk your daughter down the aisle tomorrow, and you will play the part of the proud father. Because if you don’t, you’ll only fuel more talk.”
“But you can’t stop them from talking,” William said, flailing his arms until a streak of pain crossed his face, his thrashing about becoming less vigorous. She knew his shoulder was bothering him. A remnant from a riding accident when he was eighteen. Thrown from a horse, he’d dislocated it. It had started bothering him in recent years, on damp days, cold days, nights when he’d slept wrong.
She went over to massage the spot she knew so well, the spot she’d rubbed many a time with liniment oil. He allowed himself to sink into her touch for a moment before shaking it off.
Changing his tone, he took on a British accent. “Van Alen’s probably spit shining his monocle right now—egads!” He laughed.
She didn’t.
“Oh, come on now, Lina. You used to find it funny whenever I imitated that buffoon.”
“That buffoon is about to become a member of our family.”
“This wedding is a sham,” he said, returning to his earlier argument, picking up the timepiece again. He muttered something else under his breath and sighed. “Well, I’m not staying for the reception, I can tell you that right now . . .” Clack. Snap. “I’m getting on my yacht and . . .”
She had allowed him to sound off, much in the same way that she tolerated little Jack’s tantrums when denied a second fruit tart or chocolate biscuit. She half expected William to stomp his foot. “Well,” she said, picking a piece of lint off his lapel, “unless you have anything more to say, I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
She turned toward the door. Their argument was over. She had conceded on his behalf. He was going to give his daughter away the next day and he would attend the reception, too. There wasn’t a thing he could do about it, either. She was the queen of New York society, but that didn’t make him the king. And he knew it. As a mere wife, she might not have any legal rights, but she had other means available to her. If she’d wanted, Caroline could have had William banished from every men’s club including his precious yachting club. She could have seen to it that he would never again be welcome at another poker table or invited on another fox hunt or coaching party. Of course, she never would have done any of those things because, heaven help her, she still loved him.
* * *
—
Caroline hadn’t been a young bride when she married William. Until she met him, her heart had belonged to Horace Wellsby, the son of her father’s lawyer. One day while Mr. Wellsby was behind closed doors with her father, Horace had smiled at her, and she lived on that for a week. After a month of secretive courting, he worked up the nerve to kiss her. She was twenty years old. It was her first kiss.
Caroline couldn’t contain her excitement, and when she returned home that day, she blurted out, “Oh, Mother—I think I’m in love.”
Her mother had seemed pleased, as if to say, It’s about time. Resting her embroidery hoop in her lap, she wanted to know more. “Who is he? Do we know the family? Who are his people?”
“Actually, I’ve known him quite some time. It’s Horace. Horace Wellsby, Mr. Wellsby’s son.”
Her mother’s expression sagged, changing entirely. “Oh, Lina.” She shook her head. “The lawyer’s son? No, no, no.” She placed the embroidery hoop on the side table. “You must put an end to this. Now. You are not to see that boy again. Do you understand?”
Caroline did understand. She understood because Caroline had never once defied her mother, had never challenged her on anything. So she never saw Horace again because going against her mother’s wishes would have been blasphemous.
Two years had passed since her first and only kiss. Caroline was beginning to fear it might be her last and that she’d end up a spinster, when suddenly William Backhouse Astor Jr. came into her life.
Her mother had arranged it, inviting William and his parents for dinner. Though William was only two years older than her, he seemed so much more mature. One look at his whiskers, his broad shoulders, and Caroline was terrified. He was a man whereas Horace had still been a boy. What is Mother thinking? He would never be interested in someone like her. William had recently returned after living abroad for two years and regaled them with stories of his travels. Caroline hardly said two words throughout the meal.
After dinner, the two of them sat in the parlor. Caroline was afraid of being alone with him and couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.
“Our mothers cooked this whole thing up, you know,” he said conspiratorially.
Caroline kept her eyes trained on her hands. “I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry?” He rocked back and laughed. “I’m not.”
Speaking into her hands she said, “Please, don’t make fun of me.”
“You know what your problem is? You don’t see yourself the way others see you.”
That was just the thing. She was afraid she did. She was certain that her most appealing attribute was her Dutch ancestry.
“You’re an interesting girl, Caroline Webster Schermerhorn. You’re very different from the other girls—I’ll give you that. But you’ve got something”—he reached over for her hand—“something special.”
She looked at him, still not sure of what to say. She knew by the heat rising on her face that her cheeks were turning red.
He suggested they spend more time together, get to know each other better. If they’d had a chaperone with them, Caroline couldn’t recall it. All she remembered was him—William Backhouse Astor Jr. The first time he kissed her, well, she realized her kiss with Horace hadn’t counted. William had melted her on the spot.
They were married, and nine months later, Caroline gave birth to Emily.
William’s disappointment at having produced a daughter was not lost on anyone. Especially Caroline, who felt she’d failed him. One year later, Helen was born, and over the next six years, two more daughters arrived, Charlotte followed by Carrie. The girls were each so different, as if they’d come into this world with their personalities already intact, just waiting to open and blossom.
William had all but given up on a male heir. Perhaps that was why he’d gravitated to Charlotte. His Charlie wasn’t like the others. She didn’t cry, wanting to be picked up and coddled. No, she’d fall and get right back up, ever more determined.
As the girls grew older and no longer needed Caroline as much, she found herself becoming more involved in society, hosting dinner parties and balls. She was busy, almost too busy to realize what was happening to her marriage.
That was when William began spending more time on his yacht or out with his horses. She suspected there was another woman—or women—but pushed the thought from her mind until her suspicions were proven true. The perfume and rouge she’d discovered on his handkerchief could only mean one thing. Caroline was crushed, certain it was the baby weight she’d failed to shed that had driven him away. Over the next three months, she’d starved herself back to a twenty-two-inch waist. Still William kept his distance. She was furious but also heartbroken. Each time he was out late, or didn’t come home till dawn, Caroline sat up, waiting, going to the window, looking, watching, hoping he’d appear. And when he did finally show up, drunk and unapologetic, Caroline did what she’d seen her mother do when her husband strayed: she looked the other way.
Just when she was sure she’d lost William’s affections forever, one night, he decided not to go out after dinner and instead, later that evening, he came to her room. That was the night that John “Jack” Jacob Astor IV was conceived. At last, a son.
It was also the last time William had stepped foot inside her bedroom.
