The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  “I see.” Just a few weeks before, Ward had dismissed Alva’s masquerade ball as a gauche gimmick. She felt a pang of jealousy and an absurd sense of betrayal. She loathed the idea of having to compete with Alva Vanderbilt for Ward’s attention. She had already tried that game with William’s various mistresses and failed. Caroline’s heart was sinking, and she scolded herself. Stop it. Just stop it! She was Mrs. Astor, for goodness’ sake. She was beyond having to vie for anyone’s attention. “I still can’t understand why Alva Vanderbilt would punish Carrie like this.”

  “Well, if you ask me, it’s fairly obvious. Mrs. Vanderbilt has been turned away at your doorstep how many times now?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “All the difference in the world. And I must say”—he drew a deep sigh—“this is a very ingenious play on the part of Mrs. Vanderbilt.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “She’s going to make you come to her. If you wish for your daughter to attend the ball, you have no choice but to call on Mrs. Vanderbilt.”

  Caroline heard herself gasp. It was clear that Carrie and Ward both knew that she had caused this problem and that she could also remedy it. But what it would take from Caroline to right the situation was too great a price to pay. Yes, Carrie’s immediate happiness hinged on an invitation to the ball, but her daughter would recover, whereas Caroline’s very position in society depended on her holding her ground.

  Surely Ward understood what was at stake, but it was obvious that he was being seduced by Alva’s extravagance. Caroline felt as though she’d lost her anchor, and now it was up to her, and her alone, to preserve society.

  She had to find a way to convey to Carrie that making that one seemingly small gesture—paying a social call to Alva—was a signal to all that Mrs. Astor was recognizing that the Vanderbilts were now part of society. And if she’d had concerns about Alva before, she knew that calling on her would be her ultimate downfall. If Carrie and others thought that Alva was going to take over society, Caroline’s calling on her would be playing right into Alva’s hands.

  * * *

  —

  Caroline didn’t sleep that night. The wind was howling outside her bedroom window, a tree branch scraping against the panes of glass. She tried reading, but it wasn’t the same as when Thomas read to her, and even after her eyes grew heavy and closed, her mind returned to the tug-of-war between her daughter and society.

  As society’s leader she took her responsibilities seriously. The Knickerbockers were looking to her to guard their customs and values. She knew her mother would never have forgiven her for bending to the pressure. How could she let the Vanderbilts in? Especially after all the terrible things Alva had said about her and now, knowing that Alva wanted to take her place.

  It was one o’clock in the morning when she got up and inched her way downstairs. That hour of moonlight and the way its shadows played off the walls had become all too familiar to her. She entered the library, and sure enough, Thomas was up. It was as if he’d been waiting for her. As he swung his feet off the ottoman, she noticed he had a copy of Wuthering Heights in his lap.

  “Warm milk?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  After he headed to the kitchen, she rearranged figurines in her curio cabinet, placing her bronze Hercules to the right of Alexander the Great and then switched it out with a fourteen-karat-gold lion figurine. But she didn’t like that any better and put it all back the way it was.

  When Thomas returned with a pot of steamed milk, she closed the curio door and sat down, gesturing for him to join her. “Children,” she said with a sigh. “They can try one’s patience, can’t they?”

  “I should say so. My daughters are grown now, but there was a time when they put me through the paces,” he said, placing a delicate teacup on a saucer, pouring the steamed milk that looked thick as cream. “They were both quite young when their mother died.”

  “And you never remarried?” she asked, which surprised them both, as it wasn’t in her nature to pry.

  “The three of us got on just fine on our own,” he said, handing her the cup of warm milk. “I learned to braid their hair, and we had plenty of tea parties.” He smiled sadly.

  “I’ll bet you were a wonderful father. I can’t imagine William ever doing any of that. Can you?”

  “Well, why would he have? He had you.” Thomas leaned forward in his chair, and still smiling, he said, “I’ve seen how you are with Miss Carrie—and with all your children. If I may be so bold,” he said, covering his heart with his hand, “I have never seen a more devoted mother. Or a mother who loves her children more.”

  Caroline set her cup aside, touched, maybe even embarrassed by the compliment. “Oh, Thomas,” she said, changing the subject, “what will I ever do with myself if you suddenly get over your insomnia and start sleeping eight hours a night?”

  “I highly doubt that will ever happen, Mrs. Astor,” he said with a warm smile.

  “But if it does—”

  “I shall never abandon you,” he said in a voice so tender, it squeezed her heart.

  For a moment his eyes had hold of hers and would not let go. His face changed completely when he said that, and Caroline felt the boundaries of their association stretched to its limits. All the precise edges of the rules that governed their world were going soft. And it wasn’t as if it were a romantic moment, and yet it was a most intimate one.

  She excused herself after that, went upstairs, and for the first time in weeks, she slept soundly through the rest of the night.

  * * *

  —

  The next day Caroline rang for her driver and set out in her new carriage, a victoria with two stallions bred in Kentucky. The carriage, etched in gold with a purple interior and its sleek black horses, was so distinctive that everyone knew it by sight. So when she pulled up to Fifty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue, there was no mistaking who had arrived at Petit Chateau.

  As Caroline looked out her carriage window, she saw that the home was even larger and grander than she’d originally thought. The white facade looked as if it belonged in Paris. Years ago, old New York would have written this off as an absurdity, but times and tastes had evolved, and Caroline realized that her brownstone had become absolutely passé.

  She handed the coachman her engraved card that simply read Mrs. Astor in a tasteful Old English script. Caroline watched as he passed through the magnificent gate and reached for the doorbell pull. She wondered what she might say to Alva when at last, the butler, dressed in as fine a livery as she’d ever seen, answered the door. Caroline saw the way he produced his silver tray and how her coachman placed her card on top. The butler bowed and closed the door once more.

  Caroline waited, a slight breeze carrying the scent of horses with it. The stallions stomped and snorted, wrangling their harnesses. When the Vanderbilts’ butler returned and opened the door, she only saw that her driver had offered a small nod before coming back to the carriage.

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Vanderbilt is unavailable just now,” he said.

  Caroline was stunned. It had never occurred to her that Alva might not receive her. Her face burned, and thankfully her coachman had the good sense not to linger, immediately taking his seat on the box and steering her carriage away. The implications of what had just happened were too great to fathom. She had just acknowledged the Vanderbilts, thereby letting them into society. And she’d done it for nothing. Carrie was no closer to attending the ball, and Caroline had severely undermined her position.

  By the time she returned home, Caroline was quite distressed. Though outwardly everything seemed the same, she felt her world spinning. She detested change and unpredictability. It set her on edge, and to calm herself, she needed something to bring to order. She started with her library, instructing her footmen to organize the books according to height.

&nb
sp; She stood in the center of the room amid stacks of books piled on the floor, the sideboard and end tables. When the library was finished, she moved on to her art gallery, which also doubled as her ballroom. She paused at the fireplace to peruse the room, standing by her favorite candelabras, two magnificent gilded pieces of art that William had given her as a wedding present. She decided all the paintings should be rehung according to artist; all the Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corots in one section, the Ferdinand Roybets next to those, the Emile van Marckes on the south wall next to the Jules Lefebvres, and on and on it went, well into the night, until all one hundred paintings were exactly where she deemed they ought to be. Her staff was exhausted, and she should have been, retiring finally at two in the morning with a cup of tea and a newly released serial of Maupassant’s Une vie, which Thomas read to her in French.

  The next day, Thomas knocked gently on her door. “Mrs. Astor, forgive me, but this just arrived.” He handed her an ivory linen envelope. “I thought perhaps you might like to present this to Miss Carrie yourself.”

  There it was, addressed to Mrs. Astor in lovely calligraphy.

  Mr. and Mrs. William Kissam Vanderbilt request the honor of Mrs. William B. Astor and Miss Carrie Astor’s presence at their masquerade ball to be held on the twenty-sixth of March, at ten o’clock at Petit Chateau.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Alva

  It was a gamble. Alva had baited Mrs. Astor with a trail of bread crumbs that led from the Grande Dame’s townhouse right to Petit Chateau. It had worked but now Alva was anxious and jumpy, her nerves brittle. She was quick to snap at the children and members of her staff. Her ensuing guilt over having done so only compounded her stress.

  She looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel for the fourth time in the past five minutes. Right about now Caroline Astor would be receiving her invitation. And then what? Would she come to the ball? Would she rip the invitation in two? It was anyone’s guess. If only a reporter had seen the Astor carriage out front the day before—that could have been some security, but there’d been no mention of Mrs. Astor’s visit in the morning papers. She was tempted to feed the story to the reporters herself but wasn’t sure it was wise to force their hand. There was a risk that the whole thing could backfire. She felt paralyzed and decided the best thing to do now was just wait and see. If Mrs. Astor did come to the ball, her plan would have succeeded, but if she didn’t show, Alva would have only provoked her and completely nixed her chances of ever being welcomed into the smart set, which was her main fear about alerting the press herself.

  The irony here was that Alva had been waiting years for Mrs. Astor to pay her a visit and now she’d gone and missed it. But the only reason Alva hadn’t received the Grande Dame was because Alva had been with Jeremiah. She’d spotted him lurking about the front gate that day. At first she almost hadn’t recognized him, a tall, gaunt, bearded man in an ill-fitting suit. A prowler, she’d thought, until she did a double take.

  “What’s happened to you?” she’d asked, rushing him inside before anyone else saw him. Up close he had looked even worse. His hair was stringy, and he had dark crescents beneath his eyes, bruises along his cheek and jaw. “Did you get into a fight? Are you all right?”

  He had laughed it off, ignoring her question by gazing up at the vaulted ceilings and whistling through his teeth. “I had to come get a look at your palace for myself before the ball.”

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  He’d looked around, eyes shifting as if making sure no one else was around. “You said one time, ‘If you ever need anything.’” He’d chuckled. “Well, I need something.”

  “What? Anything.”

  “My inheritance? Remember that $200,000? Well”—he made a flippant gesture with his hands—“it’s gone.”

  “All of it?” She’d looked at him like a disappointed parent, and in truth, she was disappointed. He knew that was all the money he had to live on, and she didn’t have to ask how he’d spent it.

  “I’m broke,” he’d laughed. “Turns out my credit’s no good in this town anymore.” He sat down, practically collapsing into a chair. As he dropped his head to his hands, his glib attitude shifted into a panic. “I owe a whole lot of people a whole lot of money.” He’d let out a sob—a single agonized sob—and mumbled, “They beat me up and threatened to kill me if I don’t pay them back. Might not be a bad idea. Didn’t I always say I was worth more dead than alive?”

  “How much do you owe them?”

  “I’ve already borrowed what I could—cleaned poor George out, too. I’ve ruined that poor man’s life. I never meant to hurt him—I love him. I truly do.”

  She’d grabbed hold of his wrist, forcing him to focus. “How much do you owe?”

  He shook his head in response.

  “Tell me, Jeremiah. How much are we talking?”

  “’Bout $90,000”—shoulder shrug—“give or take.”

  Knowing Jeremiah, that give or take could have been another $90,000. She went to her hatbox and gave him $10,000 that she’d stowed away through the years. “This should buy you some time while I get you the rest.”

  “And how on earth are you going to do that? You know Willie won’t give you a penny if it’s on my behalf. Besides, you have your big ball to prepare for.”

  “Never mind about that. I’ll sell a painting, or a piece of jewelry.” They had only just moved in two weeks before, and with the exception of an armoire coming from Paris and a tapestry coming from Nice, everything was in place. She was thinking those were the very pieces she might send back in order to get Jeremiah some of the money. “Somehow, I’ll get you the rest,” she’d said. “And in the meantime, promise me you’ll stay out of the bars and no more poker.”

  So that day when Mrs. Astor came calling, Alva had been with Jeremiah and had told her butler that she wished not to be disturbed under any circumstances. After Jeremiah left, she learned of Mrs. Astor’s visit and fretted, thinking she’d missed her opportunity. But then when she thought about it, not being available to meet with her had actually been a blessing in disguise. Not receiving the Grande Dame had made Alva more elusive, plus it gave Mrs. Astor a taste of her own medicine.

  * * *

  —

  The following afternoon, Alva was preparing to welcome a host of reporters from the New York Times, Town Topics and various other newspapers. She was giving them a sneak peek of Petit Chateau in order to get added publicity for her masquerade ball. Those reporters had always been good to her, as she’d been to them. Alva never missed a birthday or a chance to shower them with a lovely timepiece, a pair of cufflinks, a rare bottle of brandy.

  At two o’clock that afternoon her butler ushered in half a dozen newspapermen, and Alva greeted them one at a time, as if she were receiving guests for a formal affair. When asked, she explained that Willie K. would be joining them shortly. He had been called away to his father’s office but she was expecting him back soon. While she took them on a tour, calling out details of the gilded trim, the frescoed ceilings, the Corinthian pilasters, they shouted out questions about the guest of honor, what costume the hostess would be wearing, asking for any hints about the party favors and the menu.

  The interview continued with no sign of Willie. She was perturbed. He knew how important this was to her. As the questions slowed, the reporters found themselves back where the tour began. One by one they left before Willie put in an appearance.

  And when he did return home, she was furious until she came down the grand staircase and saw the look on his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Uncle Jeremiah.”

  Alva froze in place while her mind raced, wondering if Willie found out she was bailing him out of his gambling debt. Or maybe he’d been roughed up again. Maybe he was in the hospital . . .

  “I’m sorry,” Willie said, coming closer to her.

/>   She looked into his eyes, and her heart went still, a prickly sensation overtaking her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, shaking his head. “They found Uncle Jeremiah this morning. In his hotel room. He’s dead.”

  Alva heard herself gasp, a sharp intake of air that shot her full of pain. She reached out, holding on to the banister as she sank to the bottom step. “How? What happened?” All she could think was that his creditors had caught up to him.

  Willie took a moment. He looked around the great hall before his eyes finally landed on Alva. “He shot himself.”

  Alva held her face in her hands, breathing hard as she rocked in place. She didn’t remember Willie sitting down beside her, but now his arms were wrapped around her, trying to hold her still. Why, Jeremiah? Why did you do this?

  Later that day, she got her answer. His suicide note, found on his nightstand, reiterated what he’d said to her time and again: he was worth more dead than alive. And in Jeremiah’s mind, now at least his one true love, George Terry—to whom he’d left the $400,000 trust in his will—would have the money to pay off Jeremiah’s debts and live comfortably on what was left. Alva was heartbroken. As far as she was concerned, the Vanderbilts—especially Billy—had blood on their hands.

  She wandered about the rest of the day, an aching pressure building in her chest that she kept pressing back down until, at last, she couldn’t fight it anymore. She had barely made it to her room before the tears let loose. Flinging herself across the bed, she buried her face in a pillow to muffle her sobs and then her screams, her grief tangled in anger. How could Jeremiah have left her? How selfish of him. How cowardly. If only she’d known he was suffering so. Could she have possibly saved him?

  Not since her mother died had she felt this kind of anguish and loss. Who was she going to smoke cigarettes and drink whiskeys with in the middle of the afternoon? Who was going to commiserate with her about her in-laws? How could it be that they’d never again walk arm in arm through the park or down the broken sidewalks of some newly discovered neighborhood? And what about his sardonic wit—how would she manage without that?