by Renée Rosen
“Alva, relax. I said okay. You can do it. You take charge.” He smiled. “Go on, jump in with both feet.”
Alva thanked him, but she would not celebrate her victory until after she’d left the stables and was sure Billy was out of earshot. Then she let out a cheer that sent a flock of birds, perched on the fence, soaring into the sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Caroline
NEW YORK, 1881
Caroline stood still while her maid tended to the buttons on yet another black gown. Her mother had passed away six weeks before, in her sleep, on her own terms, when she was good and ready. She was eighty-nine years old.
At first Caroline felt none of the things she thought she should or would. No excruciating sorrow or paralyzing grief. She had managed to push all emotion aside and had thrown herself into planning the wake, the funeral, settling her mother’s estate, readying her own house for the two-year mourning period. She’d been icy cold about it, all business. Though she was the youngest, Caroline took charge of everything, believing that her two sisters had been through far too many family burials.
All of her mother’s servants had attended the funeral. They had lined up, reverent, heads bent, some crying over the loss of the woman they’d cared for nearly all their lives. Smithy had to have been close to ninety himself. And Abigail and Sissy weren’t much younger. The others were newer hires that Caroline didn’t know, even by name. But as for Smithy, Abigail and Sissy—what would happen to them? Did they have family that would take them in? Surely they were too old to stay in service. No one would hire them. These were the things Caroline had decided to worry about as they laid her mother to rest.
She hadn’t shed a single tear until one week after the funeral when Caroline had found herself with nothing to do, nothing to organize or fix. It was three o’clock in the morning. Though her eyes burned, her mind wouldn’t quiet. No matter how much she willed it, sleep would not come. She surrendered, got up and inched her way downstairs. As she approached the sitting room, she saw a wedge of light beneath the door. When she stepped inside, Hade sprang from his seat and dropped a deck of cards, the jack of hearts landing faceup on the carpet.
“Madam, forgive me.” He was in his bathrobe and slippers, as was she. And without her wig. All she could think was that he was staring at her thinning hair. But perhaps he was too embarrassed for himself to worry about her appearance.
She was about to turn away, when he said, “I was just playing a little solitaire and having some warm milk. It helps settle the mind.” He had already gathered up the fallen cards. “May I prepare a cup for you?”
She thought for a moment. “Actually, yes,” she said, wondering what had been keeping him awake at this hour. Naturally he must have had worries of his own—maybe something with his daughters, a friend in need? She had no idea what thoughts drifted through his mind when he wasn’t focused on her. Realizing she knew more about her mother’s servants than her own got her thinking about Smithy, Abigail and Sissy. Smithy could sew buttons faster and better than any tailor she knew. Once he fixed a button it was there for life. Abigail made the best muffins, fluffy and moist. Sissy was a stickler for cleanliness.
“Hade,” she said on a whim, thinking aloud, “I’d like to bring on some of my mother’s servants.”
He thought for a moment. “But we’re completely staffed at the moment, madam.”
“I realize that. But surely we can make room for three more.”
“If you wish.”
She knew it was impractical, but it was what her mother would have wanted. “I do wish to do that. And as soon as possible.”
“Very well.”
After he left to prepare the milk, Caroline reached for the deck of cards and shuffled them, trying to remember the last time she’d played solitaire, or any card game, for that matter.
When Hade returned with a tray of biscuits and a pot of steamed milk, he was back in his uniform, hair combed. For all she knew he might have even shaved.
“Will there be anything else?” he asked as he poured her a cup and set it down before her.
“Do you play cooncan?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Cooncan? Do you know how to play?”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. As a matter of fact . . .”
She held out the deck to him. “Neither one of us can sleep. We might as well play a hand or two.”
“Very well, madam.” He stiffly sat down and after sorting out the unneeded eight, nine and ten cards, he shuffled the deck and dealt the first hand.
They sat in silence but Caroline didn’t mind whatever awkwardness prevailed. She was grateful to be absorbed in organizing her hand, melding her cards into sets and sequences. She drew a seven of hearts, which she’d melded with her seven of spades and seven of clubs, allowing her to place down the first set.
“Your turn,” she said, discarding a three of diamonds.
“Thank you, madam.” He nodded and practically bowed. “I’m afraid I haven’t any use for that,” he said in his ever-deep voice, picking the top card off the deck, enabling him to place down a sequence and a set before discarding the six of clubs.
The first hand ended in a tie, and after Hade won the second hand, he started to rise from his chair. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you later than expected. I shall let you retire—”
“Two out of three,” she said with an arched eyebrow.
He sat back down. “I believe it’s my deal.”
He cracked a minor smile.
At some point during the third hand—she wasn’t sure when the switch happened—Hade relaxed, dropped all the formalities and stopped thinking of her as his employer and more as his competitor. He would lay down a card with great zeal. “Ha-ha!” or “Aaah!” She in kind played her hand with equal passion: “Take that!” Or if a turn went the wrong way: “You devil, you!” By then she was so absorbed in the game that she’d all but forgotten she was sitting there in her dressing gown and slippers.
When she discarded the five of diamonds, he snapped up the card with a resounding “Yes! Precisely what I needed.” He laid out one melded set after another, finishing it off with a winning sequence that made him full-on smile. “One more hand,” he said, sliding the cards to her for shuffling.
“This is for all the money,” she said.
“All the money!” Hade roared with laughter. “I’m afraid you have much more to lose than do I.” He twitched his mustache and laughed some more. It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh. It struck her again how very little she knew about this man and how one-sided their relationship was.
They continued playing cards until all the biscuits were gone and the pot of steamed milk was empty. When the grandfather clock struck six, they both looked at each other, somewhat astonished.
“My goodness,” she said. The sun was on the verge of rising.
“Forgive me,” he said, a slight blush coming up on his cheeks. “I’m afraid I lost complete track of time.” He was on his feet, clearing the empty biscuit dishes and napkins, the cups and saucers. Whatever parts of Hade had slipped out during their card game were now buttoned up and put back into place as he bowed and lifted the serving tray, carrying it off to the kitchen.
It wasn’t until after he left the room, presumably to get the house ready for the day, that Caroline felt something cold and terrifying zeroing in on her, something she knew she wasn’t going to be able to escape. There, in the quiet of the hour with dawn breaking through the parting of the curtains, her mother’s death pummeled her. Caroline broke down in gasping sobs that came on like a thundercloud—violent and short-lived.
After she’d finished weeping, Caroline felt she had shed more than just tears. Something had cracked open inside. There was an unexpected lightness that came over her as if a great burden had been lifted. Caroline had alwa
ys known she could never take the place of her mother’s lost daughters and sons, and yet that was what she’d tried to do her entire life. There hadn’t been a single decision, or a move made, without considering what her mother would think. How many sacrifices had Caroline made, how many compromises for her mother’s sake? She had loved her mother and would miss her, but now that she was gone, Caroline was free.
Immediately that thought flooded her with guilt. Caroline had never felt more conflicted, moving through her days with her emotions seesawing. It took another few weeks of this back-and-forth before she found that the lightness had returned. Returned for good, she thought.
Suddenly she was presented with a world of possibilities. Now, six weeks later, she stood in her dressing room, before her closets filled with gowns and tea dresses in dark blues, grays, browns and black velvet. She had no bright colors—not a single one—and it dawned on her that as a child, she’d only ever seen her mother in black for mourning. Caroline’s tastes in dark colors had been her attempt at a show of unity.
In the past Caroline had subscribed to the notion that a true lady didn’t call attention to herself with flashy fashions. That had been her mother’s belief and thereby Caroline’s as well. But nowadays, even the most dignified society ladies favored more beading and ornamentation, and as her daughters often told her, “Styles change, Mother.”
She decided they were right. She would change, but within limits. She wasn’t about to have opals and pearls sewn into her gowns like Mamie Fish and Alva Vanderbilt, but Caroline decided, after she was out of mourning, on her next trip to Paris, she would consult with Charles Worth for her wardrobe. Her one weakness, however, was diamonds. He could include as many diamonds in her gowns as he saw fit, which would complement her ample collection of diamond stomachers, tiaras, necklaces, bracelets and rings—she did adore her diamond rings.
Even before her mother died, when she couldn’t decide which ring to wear, she’d wear several—sometimes three or four at a time. And why not? No one—other than her mother—would have dared to say she couldn’t, and soon enough others were following her lead. Mrs. August Belmont wore rings on every finger over her gloves; so did Mrs. Bradley Martin. Now she would wear rings and bright colors and spangled gowns. When she was out of mourning, she would emerge as a new woman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Caroline
Caroline felt a burst of energy and excitement she rarely showed outwardly as she raced up the long staircase. Two months after her mother’s passing, Emily had gone into labor. It was rebirth, renewal, a declaration that life goes on. Caroline couldn’t get to Emily’s room fast enough.
Helen was already in with her sister, sitting at her bedside. Emily’s dark hair had been braided in two neat plaits, hanging down past her shoulders, just as she’d worn them when she was a little girl. Emily’s maid came in, moving stealthily about the bedroom so as not to disturb them. She had drawn the drapes and turned down the lamps before stoking the fire, sparking a surge of orange embers.
“Shouldn’t be too much longer now, Mrs. Astor,” the midwife reported, standing off to the side, folding towels and linens. She was a stout redheaded woman who had delivered all of Caroline’s grandchildren. She suddenly remembered how much the midwife liked to chatter while waiting for the deliveries. Perhaps she thought it was a welcome distraction.
“. . . Now I’ve already bathed her and helped her empty her bowels. Voided her bladder, too . . . ,” the midwife said, mixing up the bichloride solution. Caroline observed the bottle of Lysol on the bureau, next to a tub of lard and the straight razor she’d used. “I’ve already got the bed ready . . . ,” she said, pulling back the covers to show where she’d placed a rubber mat, fastened to the mattress with safety pins. “The bedsheets were heated in the oven. It’s the best way to sterilize them,” she said. The midwife took two sheets and tied them to the bedposts closest to the headboard. “Gives her something to tug on when the contractions get too strong.”
Emily reached for Caroline’s hand, gripping tight as more perspiration sprang up on her face, her chest heaving as she groaned.
“Shush now. Calm yourself. You must be—” She was going to say strong but stopped herself. That was something her mother would have said.
Since her mother’s passing, Caroline had come to reevaluate so many things, including Emily’s marriage. Anyone could see that she and James were in love, raising a fine family. If Caroline had been wrong about James Van Alen, maybe she’d been wrong about other things, too. Was it the end of the world if Emily had a Vanderbilt at her dinner table, if Charlotte marched in the streets and if Carrie wanted to paint bowls of fruit and anything else that would sit still long enough? What harm would it do to loosen up her hold on them, make room for—
Emily let out a scream, the veins in her neck pulsing.
“Use these,” instructed the midwife, placing the sheets she’d strung through the bedposts into Emily’s hands. “That’s what they’re there for.”
It took another three and a half hours before Emily delivered a healthy baby girl. Helen went downstairs to tell the others the good news while the midwife tended to the baby. Caroline wasn’t sure if Emily was sleeping or just resting, too tired to speak or open her eyes. Her skin was so pale, almost translucent blue.
“Nothing more you can do for her now,” said the midwife, removing the blood-soaked bedsheets, balling them up in her hands. “She needs to get her strength back is all. And you—if you don’t mind my saying—you could use some rest yourself, Mrs. Astor.”
She hated to leave Emily, but the midwife was right. Caroline was exhausted and excused herself. As she stepped out in the hallway, she took a moment to savor the quiet and realized with an overflow of gratitude that she was now the grandmother of six. And Charlotte was due again in the spring. Caroline closed her eyes for a moment; they were dry and burning. She had a stiff neck and a dull headache, too. It had been daylight when she arrived and now the lamps were turned up, flickering shadows across the floorboards. From the hallway window she could see that it was dark outside. She had no idea what the hour was until the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs chimed ten times. As she made her way closer to the staircase, she heard the others talking down in the sitting room, their voices jovial, light, filled with celebration.
“Mrs. Astor?” The maid stood just outside Emily’s room.
Caroline turned around and froze. Something in the maid’s eyes, in her pallor, sent a jolt through Caroline. She suddenly realized something was missing. The crying—it was quiet. The baby wasn’t crying. The baby. There’s something wrong with the baby. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t remember how she got from the end of the hallway to the bedroom, but as Caroline reached the door, she heard the infant let out a wailing shriek. Oh, thank God. The baby was fine. Everything was fine.
But when Caroline opened Emily’s door and stepped inside, a fresh panic arose. The baby was still crying and yet the room seemed quiet. Too quiet. There was a thickness in the air, a heaviness she couldn’t explain, but it was like moving through quicksand. The midwife was holding the baby. The maid twisted her fingers and lowered her head but not before Caroline saw that her face was damp with tears. That was when the darkness rolled in and the two women faded to the background. Before the midwife said the words, even before Caroline had rushed to her daughter’s side, she knew. Her baby, her Emily, was gone.
* * *
—
No matter how her husband or daughters tried to coax her, Caroline refused to leave Emily’s body. For three days she sat in the parlor with the drapes drawn shut. She had no idea whether it was day or night because every clock throughout the house had been stopped at nine fifty-nine, the exact moment of Emily’s death—just as her mother had done after each one of her children’s deaths. Before Emily was laid to rest, Caroline had taken a snippet of Emily’s hair and tucked it inside a l
ocket that she would wear for the next two years of mourning.
Caroline had insisted on a private funeral. A guest list, more exclusive than the one for her annual ball, was drawn up and notices were hand delivered. “I won’t have my daughter’s funeral turned into a spectacle. This is not going to be a social event where strangers can come and gawk.”
During the service William had sat beside Caroline, a somber expression on his face, eyes straight ahead. She was sure that to some he appeared cold and unfeeling. Caroline might have thought that, too, had he not reached over and skimmed the top of her hand, letting his fingers rest atop hers for just a second or two before that same hand, suddenly clenched, was pressed to his mouth. It was as if he’d tried to gather all his grief inside his fist, too afraid to let it out. He was an Astor man. Astor men didn’t cry, didn’t show emotion, so he dealt with his grief the only way he knew how, and after the burial, he boarded his yacht hoping the sea and enough whiskey would drown his sorrows.
Back at her own home, the dark door badges, indicating to all that the family was in mourning, had already been hanging for Caroline’s mother. Now it was impossible to believe they were hanging for her daughter as well. In the days that followed, Caroline saw what Emily’s death did to her sisters. Emily had died in childbirth, and Charlotte was six months pregnant and terrified. Helen, having lost her sister and best friend, told Caroline she didn’t want to have more children.
“I’ve already discussed it with Rosy,” she said.
“Oh, darling, but just because . . .” Caroline’s words trailed off. She knew what Helen was thinking. There had always been an invisible tether between the two sisters; what happened to one seemed to affect the other. When Emily got a cold, Helen always came down with it, too. When one had a bad dream, the other woke down the hall with a start.
“If this happened to Emily, it will happen to me, too. Rosy and I have been blessed with Tadd and little Helen. We can’t risk having any more children.”
