by Renée Rosen
“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”
Charlotte stopped, just inches from Duncan. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m not going to marry Coleman.”
“Oh, come now. Stop with this foolishness.”
Duncan pulled Charlotte protectively to his side. “Mrs. Astor, if I may say something—”
Caroline turned to Duncan. “Actually, no you may not. In fact, Mr. Briar, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with my daughter. In private.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” said Charlotte, clinging ever closer to him. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Duncan.”
“Fine, have it your way.” She sighed, fighting to keep her voice even. She heard the clickety-clack of horse-drawn carriages approaching; their guests were starting to arrive.
“I thought you’d be more reasonable, more mature about all this, but I can see now that you leave me no choice. You say you don’t want to marry Mr. Drayton, then we’ll have to make other arrangements.”
“What do you mean?” She gripped Duncan’s hand.
Caroline dreaded what she was about to say, but the words were right there—her mother was right there, too. “Since you sympathize with the poor so much, maybe you’ll enjoy being one of them.”
Charlotte’s hand slipped from Duncan’s as the color drained from her face.
“If you don’t marry Coleman Drayton, you’ll be on your own. I mean it, Charlotte. You won’t get a dime of your inheritance and not a penny from here on out. And—”
“Mother, how can—”
Caroline raised her hand. She wasn’t finished yet. “And if Mr. Briar agrees to leave here—leave New York, that is—I will make arrangements to help him secure employment with another family elsewhere.”
“And if I don’t wish to leave?” he asked, gallantly, foolishly.
“Then I’ll see to it that no proper family in this country will hire you.”
“But, Mrs. Astor, I have to work.”
“Perhaps you can shovel manure for $2 a day.”
“Mother! It’s not Duncan’s fault.”
“I suspect you’re right about that, but nonetheless, Charlotte, you have a very big decision to make. You can choose to live in poverty with your Mr. Duncan or you can marry Mr. Drayton.”
“But, Mother—that’s blackmail.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“How can you do this? That’s not fair.”
Caroline stared into her daughter’s eyes. “I have news for you, Charlotte. Life isn’t always fair.”
THE SOCIETY PAGES
1880–1884
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Society
NEW YORK, 1880
They call it Society News, but we call it what it is—gossip! And gossip is nothing new to us. Why, we’ve been whispering, cackling and spreading the most outlandish rumors about friends and foes alike for as far back as we can remember. Only now, reporters at the daily newspapers and weeklies act as though they’ve invented this concept, and they do seem to find us endlessly fascinating. Frankly, they can’t stop writing about our comings and goings.
They report on everything from the balls and dinner parties we attend to the menus we serve, the flowers we display and of course the gowns we wear down to the brocaded silk trim. They investigate us rather thoroughly, and it seems that a disgruntled footman or maid is only too happy to mention that so-and-so’s husband frequents a brothel in Murray Hill, and so-and-so’s wife gets into the brandy before noon. But of course, the most engrossing stories come from none other than Ward McAllister, who simply cannot keep his mouth shut.
That man loves talking to the press, and he isn’t always kind. After one of Lady Paget’s recent extravaganzas, he said to Town Topics, “The boeuf bourguignon—if you could manage to cut through it—was dreadful, and she did not properly frappé the wine.” The week before he had lambasted Penelope Easton in the World, saying, “The hostess who serves salmon during the winter, regardless what sauce accompanies it, does grave injury to herself and her guests.” The New York Times also recently quoted him saying, “A dinner invitation, once accepted, is a sacred obligation. If you die before the dinner takes place, your executor must attend.”
It seems that if we’re not reading about Ward McAllister’s pompous pontifications, we’re reading about the construction of Alva Vanderbilt’s future mansion. Just this morning we open our newspapers and see the headline: The Vanderbilts Transform Fifth Avenue. The New York Times has called it an impressive undertaking. The New York Herald said it was expected to be vast and expansive. The New York Enquirer called it a work of splendor and grandeur in the making.
Not since the construction of the Stewarts’ marble mansion has a private home been so generously celebrated in the press. And back then, that had set off a building frenzy among us as we all raced to build mansions of our own. The Knickerbockers thought it was a vulgar display of wealth. We knew they laughed at us, joking about how we were all going bankrupt trying to outbuild and outspend each other. But it certainly hasn’t taken long for those very same Knickerbockers to follow suit.
Ever since the Vanderbilts broke ground on their mansion, we’ve noticed the Brownfields have added gables out front and the Belmonts and Chews have both put up columns at their homes, hoping they’ll appear more stately. Rumor has it that even Mrs. Astor is thinking about making some enhancements to her townhome as well.
They’ll never admit it, but we know the Knickerbockers are trying to keep up with Alva and with us, the nouveau riche. A bit of the tail wagging the dog.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Caroline
By the start of a new decade Caroline had married off three of her four daughters and was a grandmother many times over with yet more grandchildren on the way. One thing about the Astor women—they were a fruitful lot.
Emily had a four-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son and had just announced that she was pregnant again. Helen had a one-year-old boy and was also expecting again, and Charlotte had a three-month-old daughter. Though all the girls had nurses and maids to help with everything from baths to diaper changes, Caroline had encouraged her daughters to be as involved with their children’s care as she had been with her own. Caroline’s growing family kept her busier than usual, her mornings spent going from her mother’s house to her daughters’, visiting them all before she tended to her correspondence and other social engagements.
On some mornings, such as this one, all the married daughters and their children congregated at Emily’s townhouse on Fifth Avenue. While on her way, Caroline’s carriage passed the construction site of Alva Vanderbilt’s future home, occupying an entire block. The press had referred to it as the Vanderbilts’ Fifth Avenue, and it appeared as though Alva was about to take over the city. Each time Caroline’s carriage made its way uptown she saw more scaffolding going up and more Indiana limestone being hauled in. The street was constantly congested, blocked off by horses hauling lumber and other materials as well as dozens of stonecutters and carpenters milling about. At first, Caroline had dismissed the construction as a nuisance and inconvenience to those traveling north. Though really, she thought, Who comes up this far north anyway? If it weren’t for her daughters, she’d have no reason to venture past the Forties.
Several times Caroline had spotted Alva standing in the midst of it all, instructing the men. Alva—that name kept turning up in the newspapers, in conversations, and something about her—beyond just being new money—rubbed Caroline the wrong way. Alva Vanderbilt was pushy, and she got under her skin in a way that Mamie Fish and the others never had.
“I would have been here sooner,” Caroline said to Emily when she arrived, handing her parasol and hat to the butler. “Traffic was dreadful this morning.”
“Charlotte and Helen aren’t even here yet.”
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p; “I’m not surprised. That Alva Vanderbilt has all of Fifth Avenue backed up with her workers.”
“Oh, come now, Mother.” Emily frowned playfully, hiking little James up on her hip while Mary stood close at her side. “You never fail to find fault with Alva Vanderbilt, do you?”
“One needn’t look too hard to find fault with her.” Caroline figured she was entitled to make a sarcastic remark here and there, given all the nasty things she’d heard Alva had been saying about her, criticizing everything from the state of Caroline’s marriage to the height of her wigs.
“Then I don’t suppose you’ll be joining us for the dinner party I’m hosting next month.”
“Oh, Emily, you’re not inviting the Vanderbilts, are you?”
“I have to. You know how close James and Willie are. Besides, I rather like Alva.”
“But what about your friends? You know Francine Bryce and Edith McVickar—not to mention the others—will never dine at the same table with Alva Vanderbilt.”
“It will be fine, Mother. I’ve been to plenty of parties where the McVickars and the Vanderbilts have been in attendance.”
“Mixing everyone together isn’t proper. I don’t care if other hostesses do it, you shouldn’t,” she said, following Emily into the morning room.
The floor was peppered with baby blankets, picture books and corn husk dolls. The table was strewn with papers. Emily handed little James off to Caroline while she tidied up the papers. “I was helping James keep his ledger,” she explained. “I just found a $27 error. In his favor.”
“Well, then I guess you’ve earned your keep,” she laughed, peppering little James with kisses, though she was still miffed about her daughter socializing with that Vanderbilt woman. It simply wasn’t right, and Emily’s husband shouldn’t have put her in that position to begin with. She was about to tell Emily that when Charlotte arrived.
For all Charlotte’s reluctance to marry—particularly to marry Coleman—she seemed content enough. The only person she really confided in was Carrie, who never said a word to Caroline about her sister’s complaints or if she missed Duncan Briar or if she blamed Caroline.
“Where’s my darling granddaughter?” she asked.
“I left her with the nurse—I couldn’t listen to her crying anymore. I’m exhausted,” said Charlotte, pouring herself a cup of coffee, set up on the sideboard. “That nurse is useless. I’ve been up all night with the baby,” she said, joining them in the sitting area. “She’s hungry. She’s fussy. She’s hungry again. I’m so tired—I don’t know which end is up.”
“One time,” said Emily, laughing, “right after Mary was born, I was so tired, I actually tried to burp my husband.”
“I remember those days with you girls.” Caroline smiled. “Seems like only yesterday when Helen and Charlotte would be in their bassinets and, Emily, you would watch them sleep, wouldn’t take your eyes off them. When you and Helen got a little older, the two of you would hold hands and twirl round and round in a circle. Charlotte, you would try to break in, but they wouldn’t let you.”
“I guess some things never change,” said Charlotte, laughing. “I still can’t break in on the two of them.”
“Oh, sometimes they’d let you play with them,” said Caroline, remembering all three of her girls on their rocking horses having imaginary races. “And then Carrie came along and you all acted like she was a little doll. You all wanted to hold her, cuddle her, take turns reading to her.”
They were still reminiscing when Helen waddled into the room even before the butler could announce her. She was pushing Tadd in a baby buggy, parking it over by the fireplace. Caroline’s first thought was that she was seven months pregnant and shouldn’t have been rushing around like that.
“Oh, Emily, I’m so sorry. It’s just awful.”
“What’s awful?” Emily’s face went blank.
“Haven’t you seen today’s edition of the World?” Helen reached into the buggy for a folded newspaper, which Tadd had teethed on, and handed it to Emily.
Emily’s eyes rapidly shot from left to right while Caroline read over her shoulder: Poker Game Leads to Bad Blood.
Two sentences in and Caroline clasped a hand to her mouth. According to the article, James Van Alen had lost badly in a poker game, had become belligerent and stormed out of the Union Club while still owing Mr. Tennyson Livingston $50,000. They said James was on the verge of bankruptcy because of his gambling debts.
“Is it true?” Caroline asked, her hand having moved down to her throat.
“Of course not.” Emily set her son down and drew a deep breath. “James is good for the money. Mr. Livingston will get his $50,000.”
“So, then it is true.”
“No, it’s not true,” said Emily. “Not exactly.”
“Well”—Charlotte shrugged—“he does play a good deal of poker.”
“He plays once a week at the club—that’s it.” Emily dropped the paper and began pacing. “Oh dear—what am I going to do? They’re making James out to be a compulsive gambler. He’s never welched on a bet and he never will.”
“And did you see the part about you, Mother?” Helen picked up the newspaper and read: “‘We can only assume that Mrs. Astor will be unable to defend her son-in-law’s egregious behavior this time.’”
This time? It was true that in the past Caroline had publicly defended him—claiming she didn’t notice that he spoke with an accent and explaining away the monocle by saying he was nearsighted and couldn’t find spectacles that fit properly. He was Emily’s husband after all, and for her daughter’s sake, she’d tell all who would listen what a wonderful son-in-law she had. Still, as Caroline read on, she thought, Why did they drag my name into this? Thanks to the press, Caroline felt as if she was always being watched. People knew where she lived now, and one afternoon she’d found complete strangers looking through her downstairs windows. After that, she ordered the drapes be drawn shut at all times. Now whenever she went out in public, she kept her face covered by a veil.
Emily called the maid to take the children, and after they were gone she said, “My husband doesn’t deserve this. Why are people so vicious? My own father has never even given him a chance.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “you knew Father hated James when you married him and—”
“Oh hush,” said Caroline. “Your father does not hate James.”
“The press is out to destroy him,” said Emily. “He’s a sensitive man. This will devastate him.”
“You have to do something about this,” said Helen, looking at Caroline as if she had some magical powers, some invisible shield that could protect them all—and she wished that were true, but the press was too formidable, even for her.
Caroline turned away, feigning interest in a family portrait on the wall, recalling the times she and William had mocked Van Alen. Sometimes Caroline had even poked fun at her son-in-law simply because it gave her some common ground with William. Instead of protecting her daughter, Caroline had been cruel; her jabs at Emily’s husband were merciless and at times even exaggerated in hopes of fusing her own fractured marriage. What kind of mother does such a thing? The guilt grabbed hold of her, and though she still had plenty of misgivings about James and all the Van Alens, she knew that for Emily’s sake she had to do something to spare her son-in-law from the press.
“You pay that story in the paper no mind,” she told Emily.
“You do realize, though,” said Charlotte, “this isn’t going to stop with just that one article, Mother. This is just the beginning. I’m afraid the newspapers are going to have a field day with this and there’s nothing even you, Mrs. Astor, can do about it.”
Was Charlotte right? Caroline couldn’t accept that. She was still the most powerful woman in New York and had always had the ability to sway public opinion. But the press presented a new challenge. She wasn
’t sure how the game was played anymore, but she knew someone who did.
* * *
—
The following day she summoned Ward McAllister to her home. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said after Hade had shown him into the library.
“But of course,” said Ward. “Don’t you know, I’m always at your disposal, my Mystic Rose.”
Ward was wearing lavender kid gloves with a complementary violet boutonniere in his lapel. The tall collar on his white shirt stood at attention, and like most society men, Ward was swept up in the latest fashion trends. Even Jack, on the brink of manhood, tried desperately to keep up with the modern styles, but those popular snug-fitting creaseless trousers, like the ones Ward was wearing that day, did Jack no favors. The boy could not control his appetite even though he knew his weight held him back. Poor Jack required a mounting block to get on his horse, and each time he laughed, his belly shook like aspic.
“Before I forget,” Ward said, taking the chair opposite Caroline, “I have something very interesting to tell you. You’ll never believe what just happened.” She could see that he was wound up even before he sprang back to his feet, passing his walking stick from hand to hand as if it were a theatrical prop. “As I was leaving the Knickerbocker Club earlier today, a reporter from Town Topics approached me.”
Caroline didn’t say a word. Town Topics was quickly becoming one of the most widely read weeklies in the city.
“This reporter said I was—and I quote—‘a wealth of information’ where society is concerned.”
“That you are,” she said, feeling nostalgic for the days when the two of them had plotted out the first Patriarch Ball, how they’d labored over every detail of her annual clambake. Together they had made a serious study of all the ways in which polite society was to behave. Now her dear friend and business partner was more concerned with high fashion and seeing his name in the society pages. He’d even recently lent his name to a newspaper advertisement for Dr. James P. Campbell’s Safe Arsenic Complexion Wafers.
