The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  “Believe it or not, the reporter said I should write a book—my memoirs.”

  “Your memoirs?” She suppressed the urge to laugh.

  “Oh yes. And then, don’t you know, he started asking me about you.”

  “Oh?” She certainly didn’t like the sound of that.

  “He was quite interested in speaking with you, but naturally I told him that was out of the question. ‘Mrs. Astor does not give interviews. She’s extremely private, a lady of absolute elegance and style,’ I said.” He paused, beaming at her.

  She didn’t respond and found his servile manner most off-putting. It was as if he expected something in return, just like everyone else who tried to flatter her. This saddened her greatly because she thought their relationship more genuine and not reliant upon the need for pandering.

  “I said explicitly that ‘Mrs. Astor never speaks to the press.’”

  This was true. If it were left up to Caroline, her name would never have appeared in the papers. The first time she saw her name in the New York Times had been her wedding announcement. The second time it was a lengthy article about her annual ball, and in thirteen separate mentions, she had been referred to as Mrs. William Backhouse Astor Jr. Each time she saw William’s middle name, there in black and white, it conjured up visions of outhouses. That same day she’d ordered her social secretary to have new calling cards engraved and had insisted that reporters and others only refer to her from now on as Mrs. William B. Astor Jr.

  “Now tell me,” Ward said, “what was it you needed to see me about?”

  For a moment Caroline had almost forgotten the whole point of their visit. “Well,” she said, “I need your help with a sensitive matter.” Even as she said those words, she felt the absurdity of thinking she could trust him. Though there was a time when she most certainly did trust him. In the past, she’d talked to him at length about Emily’s marriage and the duel. About Charlotte and Coleman Drayton—especially since William had wanted nothing to do with his future son-in-law. Ward had been the one to assure her that in both cases she had done the right thing. He’d always been there to listen and provide guidance when there was no one else to turn to.

  But now, with those reporters and gossip columns, Caroline had to be careful. Not that she thought Ward would ever intentionally betray her, but when it came to gossip, Ward McAllister couldn’t help himself. Still, he was the most likely person to help her with this, so she gestured for him to have a seat.

  “I’m certain you saw the article about James Van Alen in the World yesterday.”

  “Oh, indeed I did. That was a rather unfortunate incident, don’t you know. But then again, James Van Alen . . .” He shook his head as if nothing more needed to be said.

  “Emily is beside herself.”

  Propping his chin on his walking stick, looking like a lovesick boy, he said, “Tell me how I may be of assistance.”

  “I’d like you to contact one of your reporter friends, perhaps the fellow you spoke with earlier today, and let him know that Mr. James Van Alen is in fine financial standing. In fact, he’s making a rather substantial endowment—$100,000—to the Frankfort Children’s Orphanage.”

  “My goodness. I had no idea.” McAllister sat up, a hand pressed to his chest. “Is he really?”

  Of course he wasn’t. Caroline was writing the check, but she just looked at Ward and said, “My son-in-law has been greatly misunderstood. He’s a fine man, a gentleman, and I’m coming to you, asking for your help. You need to get word of Mr. Van Alen’s generous contribution to the orphanage into the newspapers.”

  Ward nodded without hesitation and tweaked his necktie. “Consider it done, my Mystic Rose. Consider it done.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alva

  Consuelo and Little Willie had just gone off with their governess, and Willie K. had left for his father’s stables to see one of Billy’s new phaetons. Alva took advantage of the quiet to write her friend Consuelo, whom she now referred to as Duchy—despite her official title being Viscountess Mandeville. Eventually she’d be the Duchess of Manchester, and in the meantime, it was the only way to keep from confusing everyone about the two Consuelos in her life.

  After she’d sealed the envelope, she heard the doorbell, and a few moments later her butler appeared with Jeremiah playfully poking his head inside the room. “Is the coast clear?” he asked.

  Alva laughed, sprang out of her chair and hugged him, because that’s what they did—hugged like long-lost friends—even if they’d just seen each other the day before. He sat down across from her with a cup of coffee, served in Minton china, and reached for the copy of Town Topics on the pile of newspapers.

  “My, my,” he said, spreading the newsprint out before him, “someone’s been getting quite a lot of press lately.”

  “Isn’t that something?” She smiled, knowing it was no accident. She’d taken great pains to get her name in there; befriending reporters—dropping off bottles of champagne and boxes of cigars to those whom she could always count on to cover her every move.

  “Good lord”—he sounded flabbergasted—“they even wrote about your latest shopping spree at Stewart’s. Is that even considered news?”

  “It is when you spend as much as I did.”

  “Well, la-di-da.” He set that paper aside and reached for the next one. “What’s the latest on the new house?”

  She sighed. “More delays.”

  “Not again.”

  Alva planted her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. “I met with the architect yesterday. He’s guessing we’re still three years away from completion. Three more years. How are we going to manage in this space for another three years? I feel like I can’t breathe in here.”

  “I know just what you need,” said Jeremiah, tossing the paper aside and brushing imaginary dust off his hands. “Come with me. I have a surprise for you.”

  “I’m not up for any surprises.” She caught herself grinding her teeth—usually a nighttime activity performed while fast asleep.

  “This will cheer you up. I promise.”

  Reluctantly she followed him outside. At the end of the walkway, leaning against the side of the gate, was a high-wheeler bicycle.

  “Where did this come from?” Alva asked, placing her hand on the giant wheel.

  “I won it.”

  “You won it?”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “I bet a man this morning that a young lady in the park wouldn’t give him her name.”

  Alva laughed, despite her mood. “Is there anything you won’t gamble on?”

  “Come on,” he said, standing the bike upright, “let’s go for a spin.”

  “Do you even know how to ride this thing?”

  “I’m a natural.” He reached for the handlebars and placed one foot on the mounting peg as he pushed the bicycle forward to give him a running start. Swinging his other leg in place, he leaped up on the seat. “Come on,” he shouted, “get on board.”

  She looked at the apparatus, bewildered. “How?”

  “The mounting peg. Just climb up and hold on tight.”

  She had to admit she was intrigued by the challenge. Hiking up her dress, she stepped onto the peg and placed her hands on Jeremiah’s shoulders. The bike wobbled back and forth and Alva yelped, hanging on for dear life. It took a moment before they found their balance and then off they went. Jeremiah pedaled out onto Fifth Avenue. Alva had lost her hat back near Forty-Second Street. Jeremiah offered to stop but she wanted to keep going.

  “Faster! Go faster!” she shouted. She imagined they must have been quite a sight—and she loved the wind blowing back her hair, making her eyes tear. People on the street were pointing and gasping, as if they’d never seen a woman’s ankles or petticoat before.

  Jeremiah laughed, calling back to her from over his shoulder, “I can�
�t wait to see what the press has to say about this.”

  * * *

  —

  A few months later, the Academy of Music announced that they were adding an additional row of boxes and putting them up for sale. Once again Alva attempted to buy her way in, but even after she offered the outrageous sum of $30,000, the Academy board passed. And she knew who was driving the vote: Ward McAllister, August Belmont and, of course, Mrs. Astor. But the Vanderbilts weren’t alone. The Rockefellers, the Morgans and the Goulds were among the twenty-three families to have earned the dubious honor of being denied.

  Alva lay awake, her teeth clenched, her mind grinding over the rejection. The whole thing made no sense to her, especially when everyone knew the Academy was in dire need of money. And the nouveau riche had money—plenty of it. If Mrs. Astor and the board would only let them in, they’d have the funds to rebuild the entire theater and then some. She repeated that thought to herself over and over again and then suddenly—there it was! She bolted up in bed. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

  The next day Alva went to see her father-in-law. His office was decorated with stuffed antelope, mouflon and deer heads on the walls. He had a fondness for marble sculptures, mostly of nearly naked men, their muscles taut, bows and arrows drawn. Billy was seated behind an enormous mahogany desk flanked by two celestial leather globes on gilded stands. The wall behind him sported a map of the country showing all his railroads.

  “I have an idea and I want to present it to you.” He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop her, so she kept going. “I think we should get everyone who was denied a box at the Academy to pool their money and together we can build a new opera house of our own.”

  Billy leaned forward, folded his big meaty hands on the desk and simply said, “Alva.” You silly, precious little thing, you.

  “I’m quite serious about this.”

  “And it’s a very ambitious idea, but it’s out of the question. We’re not in the business of building theaters and opera houses.”

  But she wouldn’t let it go. “Think about it,” she said. “It would be an investment for all of us—all of you,” she corrected herself. “Everyone knows that the Academy is crumbling before the Knickerbockers’ very eyes. You could build a theater that would put theirs to shame. And you could put it in a far more fashionable part of town.”

  Billy sat back, staring at her without saying a word. She sensed he was a bit annoyed. He had his finger marking his place on a ledger and seemed anxious to get back to work. Alva found his gaze unnerving and looked away, her eyes following the routes of the New York Central, the Burlington and Quincy Railroads. When she glanced back at him, Billy was stroking the tendrils of his whiskers. “It seems like an awfully big undertaking.”

  “Maybe for someone else. But surely not you. You’ve never been one to shy away from big projects. And just think what you’d be doing for this city. You’d personally be adding to the cultural fabric of New York. How many men in this town can make that claim?” She saw the hint of a sparkle in his eye—he had liked the sound of that.

  Billy rubbed his brow. “Let me think about it.”

  You do that. She had planted a seed and now all she had to do was wait for it to germinate.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long.

  One week later, on the twenty-eighth of April, Billy called a meeting to discuss the matter with those prominent businessmen whose families had also been rejected by the Academy. They all gathered in a private dining room at Delmonico’s. Willie would have preferred that Alva didn’t attend the meeting, but she had insisted, vowing to keep her mouth shut.

  Billy welcomed everyone and proceeded to lay out the scenario, of which they were all too aware. Alva sat with the other wives, at the opposite end of the table, hands folded in her lap. Her father-in-law continued to set the stage and when he said, “We all know that the old Academy is crumbling before the Knickerbockers’ very eyes,” it set off a round of chuckles, and Alva was flattered that he’d borrowed her line.

  He pushed on. “If the nobs won’t allow us to be included, then the time has come for us swells to take control of this situation and establish our own opera house. What’s to prevent us? We certainly have the means.”

  “That we do,” Cornelius agreed, reaching for his brandy snifter.

  “I question if the timing is right for a new building,” said John Pierpont Morgan. He was an enormous man right down to his nose, which Alva couldn’t stop staring at. It was badly pitted and discolored. “We might be acting in haste,” he said.

  The men agreed and, despite her promise to Willie, Alva couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “But don’t forget,” she said to Billy with all the Southern charm she could muster, “remember what you said about the Academy of Music being next door to Tammany Hall?” Billy looked at her, stumped, not remembering because, in fact, they had never had that conversation. “Remember?” she said, feeding him his lines. “Remember how they have anarchists and union men picketing out front? And how ladies no longer feel safe going down there. Not to mention the performers.”

  Billy nodded and took over. “Those anarchists alone make the timing perfect for building a new theater in a safer, more fashionable location.”

  “But where?” asked Jay Gould.

  “Perhaps that vacant lot up north that you were telling me about—the one at Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street,” Alva suggested, as if she hadn’t already inspected the location herself.

  The meeting adjourned without any definitive decisions having been made, but the men did agree to meet again the following week. When they gathered that second time, Alva again took her seat with Cettie Rockefeller, Fanny Morgan and the handful of other wives.

  “I’ve been giving this a good deal of thought,” said Jay Gould, his fingertips stroking a patch of white in his otherwise dark brown beard. “I think opening a new opera house on Thirty-Ninth and Broadway makes considerable sense.”

  “And don’t forget,” said Otto Kahn, “we’d be protecting the ladies from the picketers and all that nonsense outside Tammany Hall . . .”

  Alva sat silently, listening to them regurgitate her very argument from the week before. They had taken ownership of her idea, and that was exactly what she’d needed them to do. She’d known all along that they simply couldn’t have heard it from a woman and had to make it their own before they’d buy into the plan. By the time that meeting had adjourned, all twenty-two men seated around the table had agreed to invest $50,000 apiece and appointed Billy as the acting chairman.

  * * *

  —

  Alva wasn’t done yet. The next day she went to see her father-in-law again and told him she had some concerns about building the new opera house.

  “It’s just that you’re much too busy to oversee the construction, not to mention the decorating. I would suggest Willie, but you see, he’s left all those details for the new house up to me . . .”

  She followed him out to his livery stables, the hay and twigs snapping beneath her shoes as she stepped around the piles of manure. Billy had twenty-four carriages in an array of colors, some with blue underbodies, others red or yellow; a different carriage for every occasion. The phaetons were for his morning jaunts to watch the sunrise from the pier. The broughams were for his afternoon ventures to play cards or inspect a bit of railroad track. The victorias and landaulets were for outings with Louisa. They were all mounted on the stable walls, and Alva had no idea how his coachmen got them down.

  “Judging from the work I’ve been doing on the Fifth Avenue house,” she continued, “I can tell you that it’s going to be an extremely time-consuming project. And tedious. I’ve spent hours selecting lumber, stone, marble for the fireplaces, even things like the doorknobs and the thickness of the windowpane glass . . .” She purposely mentioned the most mundane items she could think of. />
  Billy gave one of the charmaine wheels a spin with his hand. Alva wasn’t even sure he was listening to her. She followed as he moved on to the horse stalls, of which he had sixteen. A red bay’s head appeared through one of the windows.

  She was focusing now on the aesthetics. “The interior, as you know, has to be done just right. Why, I’m sure you can picture the great hall, the staircases, the upholstery on the seats, even the curtain, right down to the embroidery.” She smiled, knowing he hadn’t stopped to think about any of that. “All the men are so busy, I don’t know that any of them have the experience or the time to see this construction through.”

  Billy looked at her like he was already getting a headache from it all. She waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she continued. “As you know, I’ve been working with Richard Hunt on the Fifth Avenue house. I could speak to him and—”

  “No need,” Billy said, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “We’ve already awarded the new opera house to Josiah Cady.”

  “Oh.” She tried not to let her disappointment show. She skirted around to the other side, hoping to get Billy’s full attention. They were already moving ahead, making decisions without her, and that couldn’t be. It was time to be direct. “I have a vision for this new opera house. I can see exactly how it should be designed. I know how to communicate with the architect, the workers, the contractors and the masons.”

  “I’m sure you do, Alva. I’m sure you do.” He patted the horse’s neck.

  “Other women might like to have their hands covered in jewels but, I tell you, I’d rather have mine in mortar.”

  Billy laughed. “All right. I get it, I get it.”

  “I just know I could—”