The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  “Come now, Charlotte,” said Carrie, yanking her back down on the settee.

  “Peter Marié is far too old for you—besides, you know his reputation. He’ll never marry you.”

  “Good,” she said. “I don’t want to get married.”

  “Nonsense. And you should know, young lady, that people are starting to talk.”

  “So what?” said Charlotte. “Let them talk. I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do care.” A flash of anger rose up inside Caroline. She was shaking and handed off her cup to Hade, fearing she might spill her tea.

  “Don’t you see?” said Charlotte, not backing down in the least. “I don’t care what society thinks. All those matrons are wasting their lives. What do they do all day other than make social calls, throw parties and wait on tenterhooks for their precious invitations to arrive from Mrs. Astor?”

  “Honestly, where is this indignant behavior coming from?” Caroline stared at her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother.” Charlotte gave off a mean-spirited laugh. “Are we expected to bow down to you, too? We’re your daughters, not your loyal subjects. And I’m not afraid of you. My goodness, even Father is terrified of you. Everyone’s terrified of you.”

  Caroline was silenced, at a loss. She closed her eyes and waved her hands. “Go, go,” she said. “Leave me be.” The knot in her stomach coiled tighter.

  Once again, she felt trapped between her mother’s world and the here and now. Were her daughters really so out of line? Were their actions the catastrophe she was making them out to be? Honestly, she didn’t know anymore. So her girls were flirtatious—maybe Caroline would have behaved the same way if she’d had their beauty, their confidence instead of being shy and too insecure to have even tried. She had modern girls, forward thinking, perplexing. Lately Charlotte had been talking about wanting to feed the poor, and Carrie wanted to study the artwork of great masters. But whatever for? Caroline wanted to say. The poor would only be hungry again, and it wasn’t as if Carrie was going to become an artist herself.

  She heard the girls’ footsteps, the stomping, the groan of the drawing room door, and when she opened her eyes again it was just her and Hade, who stood at her side, still holding her teacup. He had witnessed the children’s occasional temper tantrums, their adolescent outbursts, but this was the first time he’d ever seen one of them talk back to her. She was embarrassed, and knowing she couldn’t ignore what he’d seen, she turned to him and said, “I’m sorry you had to witness that. I don’t know what’s gotten into Charlotte.”

  “Miss Charlotte can be a very high-spirited young lady.” He offered a subtle bow as he handed back Caroline’s teacup.

  “Hade?” She looked at him and hesitated for a moment before asking, “Are you afraid of me?”

  Hade offered a faint half smile and with his deep voice said, “I highly respect you and admire your strength, but no, madam, I am not afraid of you.”

  Caroline sipped her tea, still pondering. “Hade?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  She paused as she was about to do something unnatural for her. She was accustomed to everyone asking her for advice and now she was the one who needed help. “Was I too hard on them just now?”

  She watched his shoulders pull back as he drew a sudden breath, suggesting that he also found this break in her formal veneer unprecedented. Perhaps even uncomfortable. It was the first time the two of them had discussed anything other than menus and household needs. After a thoughtful moment he said, “Your daughters are of a certain age. They’re growing up. Bound to make mistakes. That’s how we learn, isn’t it? I recall my own daughters making a few mistakes when they were growing up.”

  Daughters? Hade has children? She realized she had never considered his life prior to him coming into hers. And what about Mrs. Hade? There had been a wife—or maybe there still was an estranged one. She’d never before thought of Hade as someone’s husband. She simply couldn’t think of him that way. It was no different than not thinking about what was under a priest’s robe, or what her parents had done to conceive her. She could not think of Hade as a red-blooded man. It would require a complete reframing of someone she’d always thought of as only her butler.

  “I myself was known to make a mistake or two when I was their age,” Hade said now, bringing Caroline back to the moment. “Sometimes we need to allow our children to falter.”

  “I see.” She felt a bit shocked. Though he hadn’t come right out and said it, she realized that Hade had just told her, Yes, you were too hard on them. Aside from her husband and, of course, her mother, Caroline was used to everyone agreeing with her, telling her what she wanted, or what they thought she wanted to hear. Everyone tried so to please and impress her. Perhaps they were all afraid of her. But not Hade. It was strangely refreshing to have someone finally tell her the truth. Yes, Charlotte had spoken her mind, but that was all anger and disrespect—meant to wound her. But just now Hade had dared to calmly point out that she—Mrs. Astor—had been wrong.

  Until that moment, she didn’t realize how much she’d missed being treated like Caroline, like Lina. In a world where everyone wanted something from her, whether it was an introduction for their daughters or an invitation to her balls, it made her wonder who she could trust. Which acts of kindness shown her way were sincere? Which were only to curry favor? Most of all, though, she wondered if anyone truly liked her.

  She needed a friend, a true friend. And Ward McAllister didn’t count. Though he knew her better than most—though she confided in him and at times swore he was the only one who truly understood her—Ward could be just as bad as the rest. Especially lately. There was a time when they were equals, partners in preserving society, but now he only saw her as Mrs. Astor, not Caroline, not Lina. Ward knew that without her, the self-proclaimed social arbiter would have nothing to arbitrate. And truth be told, she needed him as well to help her uphold society. So they leaned on each other, two sides coming together to form an apex. They knew they had to move as one lest the whole thing collapse.

  “Will there be anything else, madam?”

  Caroline refused to look at him. She felt so exposed, so flustered, and had already made herself far too vulnerable. All she could do was close her eyes and dismiss him with a wave of her hand. And yet, when she heard the door close behind him, she wished she had asked him to stay.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alva

  NEW YORK, 1878

  After countless court filings and emergency family meetings, Jeremiah finally backed down and settled the lawsuit for $600,000—$200,000 of which was in cash with the remaining $400,000 placed in a trust controlled by Billy.

  Willie, with his $2 million safe at hand, surprised Alva one night, coming home with a set of blueprints for their new home. Handing the baby off to the nurse, she eagerly looked over Willie’s shoulder at the plans he’d rolled out on his library desk.

  “Now see this here?” He pointed to the upper right-hand corner. “This is where the ballroom will be, and this over here is the dining room. You’ll be able to comfortably seat fifty guests in there. Maybe more.”

  She clasped her hands, truly tickled. “Oh, Willie K.!” At last she’d have a home she would be proud to entertain in, a home she could decorate any way she liked. A place to dazzle and impress—a most important asset if she was going to make her play for the reins of society. She walked around the desk to view the blueprints from every possible angle, and with each new glance, her excitement grew.

  At least it did until the following week when she was invited to luncheon at Cornelia Stewart’s palatial mansion on Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue, across the street from the Astors’ brownstones. It was the first time Alva had ever been inside Cornelia’s home. As the liveried butler showed her into the drawing room, Alva was greeted by Cornelia, another redhead, though her hair was more coppery than Alva’s. She wo
re a strong floral perfume and an enormous emerald brooch. Cornelia’s late husband had been the dry goods merchant Alexander T. Stewart. His store was still thriving, one they all frequented. In fact, the muff Alva had with her that day had been purchased at his store.

  Alexander had been a wealthy man, but not as wealthy as Willie and yet just look at how they lived! Alva was positively spellbound. The whole time Cettie Rockefeller was talking to her, Alva was admiring the Parian marble. While Ophelia Meade told her a bit of gossip about Mr. Brandon’s latest mistress, Alva was making note of the gilded whitewood furnishings and the fresco ceilings that had been commissioned from Mario Brigaldi, a prominent Italian artist.

  Later, while seated at a long table, Alva struggled to stay engaged in the conversations around her, to get through her vermicelli soup, the lobster rissoles, roasted lamb and Neapolitan cakes. She was still taking in the details of the magnificent dining room while envy churned in the pit of her stomach. The plans for her new house that had once delighted her now seemed bland in comparison to the Stewarts’.

  After luncheon, as Alva’s carriage made its way down Fifth Avenue, she couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling creeping up on her. By the time she returned home, she was clobbered by the horrible realization that all her husband could give her—even with his inheritance—was never going to be enough. True to form, just as she’d once envied anyone with a prettier rag doll, a faster wagon, a fancier dress, Alva wanted to have the best, to be the best. So Alva didn’t just want a house like the Stewarts’. No, she wanted one that was even bigger, even better.

  She feared she’d never be fulfilled. It happened every time. Just when she thought she had all that she wanted, that her cup had indeed runneth over, some trapdoor inside her would open and let everything drain out, leaving her empty once again. And that’s when she would up the ante. No sooner had her husband inherited $2 million than she wanted $2 million more. It was obvious now that she was destined to be unhappy, unfulfilled. She was insatiable, her desires too vast. If she ever wanted to be content, she was going to have to learn to settle for less and be grateful for what she had.

  Alva wrestled with this for the next several days. After all, who was she to have such lofty dreams? What right did she have to demand so much from the world? How quickly she had become accustomed to the Vanderbilt riches—plentiful food, the finest jewelry, clothing of the best fabrics and designed by the most talented couturiers. The more she had, the more she wanted. She was becoming greedy, taking such luxuries for granted, which she swore she’d never do. She had to right her ways. And quickly.

  She tried convincing herself that a grand home wasn’t important. And yet she’d seen what owning a magnificent mansion like the Stewarts’ had done for Cornelia. Before building that house Cornelia Stewart was considered a swell—a swell of the worst kind. Flashy and ostentatious. The Knickerbockers had refused to open their doors to her. But all that changed with the house—the house that had already eclipsed Alva and Willie K.’s best efforts.

  She would have to find another way to get ahead, a way based on her own merits, her own wits. She told herself it would be more gratifying that way. Wouldn’t it be?

  * * *

  —

  But all those mental calisthenics fell apart one afternoon during a visit with Jeremiah. While Willie and the rest of the Vanderbilts wanted nothing more to do with him, Alva had settled back into her friendship with him. After all, he was an outsider, as was she.

  She arrived at his hotel room at the Glenham on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Second Street, where he’d been living for the past year after selling his townhouse in order to pay his lawyers.

  “How were you able to get away?” he asked, letting her inside.

  “I told Willie I was visiting a friend.”

  “Oh, we’re so discreet, aren’t we,” he said. “Just like a husband and his mistress. But without the copulating.”

  She laughed, shrugging off her coat, taking a seat at a little three-legged table in the corner, near the only window. A full ashtray and a half-empty bottle of whiskey were resting on top, along with two glasses.

  “Is it too early for a drink?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “That’s my girl,” he laughed, pouring her a whiskey. “To us,” he said, tilting his glass to hers.

  They started up right away gossiping about Alice and Cornelius, about Billy and Louisa. When he mentioned that Billy was spending $3 million to build two mansions—one for him and one for the daughters, Alva sat up straight.

  “For Margaret and Florence?” Alva gave him a puzzled look. “What about us? He didn’t even offer to help us with our new place.” She looked at Jeremiah’s flattened expression and caught herself, leaning over to squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry. You’re the last person I should be complaining to.”

  “Darling, I’ll commiserate with you about those stingy Vanderbilts all day long.” He laughed as if this was much funnier than it actually was. And he kept on laughing, which turned into a violent coughing fit before he finally broke down into a series of heaving sobs.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Jeremiah apologized as he dried his eyes. “I’m surprised I held out this long. I’ve been crying like a baby all morning.”

  “What’s going on?”

  He propped his cigarette in the corner of his mouth while he refilled his glass. “Remember that $400,000 that went into my trust?”

  She nodded, bracing herself.

  “Well, I tried to make a withdrawal and it turns out, thanks to Billy, I can’t touch a penny of it. I’m only allowed to specify in my own will who that money goes to. So how do you like that?” He laughed even as his face grimaced. “I’m worth more dead than alive.” He looked at her, his eyes rimmed with fresh tears. “I’m broke. Well”—he shrugged—“not entirely broke, but how long will that pittance I ended up with last me?”

  “Listen to me”—Alva had inched closer in her chair, taking Jeremiah’s hands in hers—“I have some money set aside. It’s not much, but if you ever need it, you come to me, you understand? I mean it.”

  He patted her hand. “Now why would you do that for me?”

  “Maybe it’s my way of rebelling against the mighty Vanderbilts.”

  * * *

  —

  The next day, Willie K. came home in a foul mood. Brushing past the butler, he plunked down his top hat and gloves and hurled his walking stick at the rack in the corner.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Alva had been in the drawing room, reading to Consuelo. After handing her off to the nurse, she went to Willie’s side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” he said, reaching for a decanter of bourbon. “I can’t seem to catch a break.”

  “What happened?”

  “James invited me to sit in on a poker game at the Union Club.” He poured a generous drink and took a long pull. “Those bastards wouldn’t even let me in the door. Van Alen’s fine—they let him join the club, but they won’t even let me visit as a guest. I’m sick of being treated like a second-class citizen in this town.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You’d think after all this time, after the inheritance, they would see that I’m as good as any of them. I’m sure as hell wealthier than most of them.” He took another drink. “And then I heard they even accepted Alexander Stewart’s membership—they were going to let him join if he hadn’t gone and died on them. They’d accept him—a dry goods merchant—but not one single Vanderbilt . . .”

  Willie was still ranting, but as soon as he’d mentioned Alexander Stewart, Alva’s mind flashed back to Cornelia’s mansion. That house had opened doors for them, including, apparently, the door to the Union Club.

  “Willie,” she said, leading him over to the settee, “I have an idea, a way that would get the Vander
bilts respected in this town and would surely get you into the gentlemen’s clubs.”

  He was brooding, hardly hearing her at all. “They’re still punishing all of us for the Commodore’s behavior. They think we’re uncouth, a bunch of savage beasts.”

  “Let me handle this, will you?”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Alva wasn’t sure if by you he meant there wasn’t anything anyone could do, or if he meant you—a woman. Either way, it ignited a challenge in her.

  After that, Alva took matters into her own hands and hired an architect, Richard Morris Hunt. At their first meeting Hunt adjusted his spectacles and examined the drawing she’d provided, covered with arrows pointing to sections with callouts like chimney, buttress, pillars, more archways.

  “Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Hunt had chuckled, his full mustache covering his top lip completely. Removing his spectacles, he had sat back in his chair and said, “Is this a home you wish to construct or a castle?”

  It wasn’t long after that first meeting that Alva discovered she was pregnant again, and by then she had convinced Willie that they were going to need a bigger house than the one they’d started building. Despite her fatigue and bouts of morning sickness, she and Hunt approached the project with a renewed sense of urgency, eating boiled chicken and mutton from a cast-iron pot at his desk while they sketched out the final details.

  At the end of October 1878, Alva and Willie’s second child was born. A son this time and more traditionally named, William Kissam Vanderbilt II, but from day one they called him Little Willie.

  Shortly after he was born, while both children were with their nurse, Alva decided to show Willie K. the plans for the new house. Standing in the dining room, she unrolled the blueprints, laying them out on the table, the curled ends weighted down with a pair of brass candlesticks. Alva proudly presented her French château. She’d been involved with everything, the wainscoting, the arched lancets and round rose stained-glass windows, the ribbed vaulting, the colonnades and spires and every detail down to the last finial. All this time she’d been anticipating building something truly opulent, and on a scale that no one in America had ever seen before.