by Renée Rosen
“Your daughter is suffering from severe dehydration,” he said, stepping out into the hallway after examining Carrie. “She’s very weak. Her blood pressure is extremely low, and unless you can get her to eat, I’m afraid we’ll have to induce feeding.”
After the doctor left, Caroline went back inside Carrie’s room. “You have to start eating. This has gone on long enough.”
“Do I have your blessings to marry Orme?”
Caroline refused to budge and sent for Charlotte, who came by later that day.
“Maybe you can get through to her,” said Caroline, following Charlotte upstairs.
“Mother.” Charlotte stopped and turned around, her expression telling Caroline she wanted to talk to her sister in private.
Caroline raised her hands in surrender, despite feeling left out, even a bit hurt. After Charlotte slipped inside Carrie’s room and closed the door behind her, Caroline found herself standing alone in the hallway. She went to her dressing room and began organizing a drawer of hatpins. For nearly half an hour she arranged them according to length but, of course, that fell apart when she took it further, attempting to divide them again by style, the emeralds and sapphires on the gold stems intermixed with the silver stems. Abandoning the task as hopeless, she went back out to the hallway—Carrie’s door was still shut and she could hear the girls whispering back and forth. Caroline returned to her room, sorted through the day’s mail and waited some more.
An hour later Charlotte appeared in the doorway.
“Well?” said Caroline, setting her pen down. “What did she say? Is she going to eat?”
Charlotte shook her head. She looked exhausted. “It’s no good, Mother. I tried but she won’t listen.”
The next day the doctor came back. This time with his nurse.
Together the three of them went into Carrie’s room. “Young lady,” the doctor said, “unless you agree to start eating, I’m going to have to force-feed you. It won’t be pleasant. Do you understand?”
Carrie shook her head, her mouth shut.
“Very well then, let’s get started.”
“Wait”—Caroline spoke up—“let me talk to her. Carrie, listen to what the doctor’s saying. You must start eating. You don’t want him to force you.”
But Carrie just looked at her mother and shook her head.
“Have it your way, then.” The doctor reached into his bag. “You’ve left me no choice.”
Once again Caroline asked the doctor to wait. “She’ll come around—I know she will. Couldn’t we wait just a little longer?” She looked at all the heavy apparatus he was pulling from his bag. “Is this absolutely necessary?”
The doctor looked at Caroline. “It’s absolutely necessary unless you want your daughter to die.”
Die! Caroline knew it was serious, but until that moment she’d been denying that this was a matter of life and death. She couldn’t go through this again. She couldn’t lose another daughter.
“Carrie, did you hear what the doctor said? You’ll die—if you don’t eat, you’ll die.”
“You might want to wait out in the hall until we’re finished,” said the doctor, moving ahead.
But Caroline refused to leave and stood in the corner watching the nurse hold Carrie still while the doctor strapped her arms down. Carrie fought with what little strength she had left, kicking out her legs. The doctor raised a horrible-looking metal clamp.
“Now open up.”
But Carrie kept her mouth sealed shut.
“Come on now, Carrie,” he said.
She had no fight left in her as the doctor pried her jaw open and shoved the metal clamp inside her mouth. With the twisting of the screws on either side, the clamp forced her mouth open wider and wider. The alarm in Carrie’s eyes was unbearable for Caroline, and when she saw the doctor pull the tube from his bag, she wanted to stop him but froze in place, helpless. When he forced the tube down Carrie’s throat, she started choking, her eyes flooding with tears as blood trickled from her mouth where the clamp had cut her. As soon as the feeding began, Carrie’s eyes bulged even wider and her restrained body writhed as she gagged.
“Now calm down,” said the doctor. “Relax or it’ll just come back up on you and we’ll have to do it all over again.”
Carrie was so weak, so pale. So very pale.
For a moment, Caroline was back at Emily’s bedside, her daughter’s face so pale, her body so still. Something clenched deep inside Caroline’s heart. There was nothing she could have done to save Emily, but Carrie—Carrie had brought this on herself. Or was it Caroline who’d caused it?
As much as she didn’t want Carrie to throw her future away, Caroline would be damned if she let another daughter die in front of her eyes.
“Stop it! Stop! Oh, my dear God, stop it!” She pulled the funnel from the doctor’s hand. “Marry Orme,” she said, pushing the doctor out of the way as she pulled Carrie close. Holding her frail body, Caroline rocked her daughter in her arms. “Go on, marry him. Just don’t you dare die on me.”
THE FOUR HUNDRED
1890–1894
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Society
NEW YORK, 1890
As we usher in a new decade, we no longer know where the smart set leaves off and we begin. The line between them and us is starting to blur and oftentimes that line is crossed. Puss was actually invited to Carrie Astor Wilson’s latest dinner party. Mrs. Astor was there and Puss reported back that “she has very tiny teeth.” Ward McAllister promised Lydia the first autographed copy of his memoir. And many of us have been to luncheons, dinners and balls where Mrs. Astor is seated on one side of the hostess and Alva on the other. It’s as if we have two queens now.
Not that Alva or Mrs. Astor seems too pleased with the new arrangement. They continue to spar in their own ways; Alva hurls insults behind Mrs. Astor’s back, and Mrs. Astor humiliates Alva with her haughty rebuffs.
We hear, though, that Mrs. Astor is not quite as restrained when it comes to dealing with her nephew, Waldorf. Rumor has it the two are engaged in a feud of their own. And over a calling card!
The trouble started several months ago when Mrs. Astor had her new calling cards engraved to simply read The Mrs. Astor. Well, Waldorf thought it was disrespectful to his mother and his wife, who are also Mrs. Astors. Honestly, how absurd! We all know who The Mrs. Astor is. She isn’t Augusta. She isn’t Mary. She’s Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor. She’s earned that title. Still, the two of them, Mrs. Astor and her nephew, had a big row over it and we thought that was the end of it. But no!
Waldorf inherited a fortune after the recent passing of his father, making him one of the three wealthiest men in the country. A mantle he now shares with Cornelius and Willie Vanderbilt who, by the way, inherited the majority of Billy Vanderbilt’s $232 million estate when he passed five years ago.
But back to the present—Waldorf has decided to use his newfound wealth to retaliate against The Mrs. Astor. He has torn down his father’s home and has plans to build a hotel—of all things—on that very site, right next door to Mrs. Astor’s townhouse. If there’s one thing we know about The Mrs. Astor, it’s that she’s exceedingly private. The thought of living next to a hotel must have her unhinged.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Caroline
Caroline opened the door to her library and saw dust motes dancing in the sliver of sunlight coming through the parting of the drapes. Despite her staff cleaning the house top to bottom every morning, by noon each day she could see that a fresh film of dust had settled onto the furniture, dulling the rich luster of her mahogany tables, the hardwood floors and millwork. Even with the windows closed, the dirt found its way inside, not to mention the noise: the deafening sound of chisels and mallets against the striking blocks, the grinding of the mortising machines running, the steady hum of the saws and hammers. I
t went on five, sometimes six days a week and started early in the morning, lasting well into the afternoon. She could feel the constant pounding reverberating inside her chest, throbbing in her temples. At times the foundation of her house shook, leaving the crystal chandeliers tinkling and her precious artwork hanging crooked on the walls.
The racket outside her window was relentless, and just when the pounding seemed to fall into a steady pattern that she could almost push to the background, there would be a jolt, mixing it all up. If chaos had a sound, this was it. She ran her fingers over an end table, leaving a clean track in the dust. She was disgusted. They were still only in the early stages of construction. She figured it would be another year or two before Waldorf’s hotel was completed.
The hammering and thunderous pounding came to a sudden stop, replaced by an eerie calm. It was so quiet she heard a bird chirping. The construction workers must have been on their lunch break, and so Caroline took that time to settle into her reclining chair and started reading Ward McAllister’s memoir, Society as I Have Found It.
When he’d first told Caroline that he was going to follow that reporter’s advice and write his memoirs, she cautioned him to tread carefully. Though he assured her he wasn’t going to name names, she was uneasy about the book. And yet, she had to admit she was curious. The day it was published, Caroline had sent her social secretary to the bookstore for a copy, which had sat on her shelf for the past week. Caroline’s calendar was surprisingly light that day and it was the first opportunity she’d had to begin reading.
The memoir was over 400 pages, beginning with his childhood and upbringing, all told in tedious detail. Just five pages in and already she was bored. As she read on, his prose became more self-indulgent, and she grew embarrassed for him. Caroline found herself wincing as she read about his travels abroad and his command of etiquette. Frankly, the book was so poorly written that she was surprised anyone would have agreed to publish it. Thankfully she hadn’t suggested that she and Thomas read it aloud together. Why make us both suffer? But Caroline was not one to abandon a book, feeling an obligation to finish what was started, so she pressed on despite the construction noise, which had resumed.
She was slogging through the pages, feeling a bit detached, until she came to Chapter XVII, A Golden Age of Feasting. She recognized herself immediately, even before he got to the part where he’d referred to her as a “Grande Dame.” Bits and pieces jumped out at her:
At this period, a great personage . . . had daughters to introduce into society . . . She possessed great administrative power . . . circumstances forced her to assume the leadership . . . Having a great fortune, she had the ability to conceive and carry out social projects . . . Quick to criticise any defect of lighting or ornamentation, or arrangement, she . . . made these balls what they were in the past . . .
In the past? Caroline was speechless. Mortified. She felt betrayed. He said he wasn’t naming names but he had still exposed her and violated her privacy. The more she read, the more furious she became.
By the time she’d reached Chapter XXVI, An Era of Extravagance, where he described Alva Vanderbilt’s masquerade ball, Caroline was beside herself:
We here reach a period when New York society turned over a new leaf. Up to this time, for one to be worth a million dollars was to be rated as a man of fortune, but now, bygones must be bygones. New York’s ideas as to values, when fortune was named, leaped boldly up to ten millions, fifty millions, one hundred millions, and the necessities and luxuries followed suit.
Caroline was so agitated she had to pause and collect herself before she could continue reading about a certain masquerade ball and the hostess who had unseated the queen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Alva
The night before Consuelo’s thirteenth birthday party, Alva went to her daughter’s bedroom carrying a big box, lavishly wrapped with a pink satin bow. Consuelo was fast asleep when Alva placed the box on her bed, gently shaking her awake. With sleep in her eyes, her dark hair strewn across her pillow, Consuelo began to stir.
“Happy birthday eve,” Alva said, perched on the edge of the bed. Now that Consuelo was becoming a young woman, Alva had something special to give her, something she wanted her daughter to open in private, and it couldn’t wait for the morning. Celebrating the eve of her children’s birthdays was something her mother had always done for Alva and her sisters. She’d crawl into bed beside them or pull them onto her lap, or as they got older, she’d sit with them at the table, teacups between them, while she’d recount their births, which she no doubt edited for their sake. Alva had arrived early and fast. You were in such a hurry to start torturing me, her mother used to say playfully.
Consuelo sat up, the pillows propping her up from behind.
“Well, go on, open it.”
Consuelo smiled as she carefully removed the bow and peeled back the wrapping paper.
“You’re not a child anymore,” Alva said, reaching over to help Consuelo lift the lid off the box. “You’re a young lady now and this is exactly what you need.”
Consuelo reached inside the box and pulled out a steel pole contraption with leather straps. She turned to Alva. “Mamma? What is it?”
“It’s going to straighten that posture of yours. Now stand up and let’s put it on.” She sounded excited, as if it were a new dress to try on. “C’mon now.” Alva threw off the blankets. “Let’s make sure it fits good and snug.”
Consuelo gingerly stepped out of the bed, her bare feet landing on the hardwood floor. Alva stood next to her, instructing Consuelo to turn around as she tugged on the leather straps and aligned the pole with her spine.
“Oh, Mamma, it’s so cold.”
“Now just stand still. It’s almost on.” She held the pole in place, while fitting the brace about her hips to stabilize it. Lastly, she placed the leather straps over her shoulders and about her forehead. “There. Now how’s that?”
“It hurts, Mamma. It’s pinching me.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to that. It’s the surest way to correct your posture.” She saw some correlation between her daughter’s curved spine and the way Consuelo always conformed and bent to the stronger will of others. Alva hoped the brace would not only straighten Consuelo’s spine, but also give her a backbone, a dose of confidence to stand up for herself. Though Alva didn’t necessarily want Consuelo to be like she was as a child—oh heavens no—she did want her girl to fight for herself, to say no to Alva. Just once.
“Straight posture is a must for a young lady searching for a husband,” Alva said, still inspecting the fit.
“But I’m not searching for a husband.”
“Maybe not yet. But it’s never too early to start thinking about your future. You’re going to marry well. We just have to straighten that spine of yours.” She helped Consuelo out of the back brace, crawled back into bed with her firstborn, and then, like her mother had done, Alva recounted the day Consuelo was born.
When she was done, Consuelo’s eyes were heavy with sleep. Alva reached over, kissed her forehead and turned down the lamp. “Happy birthday. Sleep tight.”
After she’d checked in on the boys, she went downstairs to her sitting room and was just starting to read Ward McAllister’s memoir when Willie K. came through the front door, held up by Oliver Belmont, the two of them reeking of whiskey. Willie’s hair and clothes were rumpled, his words slurring together, making no sense whenever he attempted to speak. Alva was disgusted and could hardly bring herself to look at him.
After the footman helped Willie to his room, Oliver turned to Alva and said, “Don’t be too hard on him. It was all my doing.”
“Sure it was,” she said with a harsh laugh, folding her arms across her chest.
“I realize you’re perturbed. And”—he raised his hands—“rightfully so, but I swear the girl was with me.”
The girl? T
here was a girl involved? That hadn’t even crossed her mind. Something caught in Alva’s chest, squeezing hard.
“I swear she was with me. Willie hardly said two words to her the entire night.”
“Thou dost protest too much.”
“No, no,” he laughed drunkenly. “I swear Willie was a perfect gentleman, whereas I, on the other hand, was an absolute scoundrel.”
She looked at him, so cocksure, so convinced he could charm his way out of this. “You? A scoundrel, Mr. Belmont? I’d like to see that.”
“Oh, would you now?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.
That little gesture of his threw her off-kilter. She excused herself, hopefully before he noticed the blush surfacing on her cheeks.
Alva didn’t sleep well that night. She was disturbed by the girl who was supposedly with Oliver. There had been another girl in Willie’s past, a woman, really. It was about five years ago, right after Billy died and Willie inherited all that money. Alva heard that Willie had been seen at Sherry’s with this other woman. A brunette, about Alva’s age. Willie of course denied it, but then he turned around and bought that $650,000 yacht and named it the Alva just to make himself feel better for being an unfaithful husband.
She thought they’d moved beyond that, but now she was worried again. She tossed about, thinking how Willie seemed more distant lately, and tried to remember the last time they’d had relations. Then, out of nowhere, she caught herself thinking about Oliver Belmont. That suggestive eyebrow of his taunted her, rising over and over again.
* * *
—
The next day, during the party, Alva observed the festivities with a sense of detachment. Conversations barely registered with her as she stood back and watched Consuelo, the guest of honor, talking with Mamie Fish and Lady Paget, with Ophelia Meade and Penelope Easton. Her daughter was blossoming into a woman before her eyes. She was as beautiful as her father was handsome, but more than that, she had her own style, demure but endearing. Alva saw how gracious Consuelo was, how at ease she appeared. Her daughter had the makings of a natural hostess. All the things that Alva had worked so hard to master seemed innate to Consuelo. Alva should have been pleased. After all, she’d fought to get into society for the sake of her children—especially her daughter. But she could see now that one day, Consuelo would outshine her, and that left Alva with an undeniable and shameful pang of jealousy.
