by Renée Rosen
Alva kept a smile on her face, but she was sinking. Oliver, whom she’d tried to avoid, sought her out, crossing the room with such swagger she would have thought he was six feet tall.
“I hope you’ve found it in your heart to forgive me for delivering your husband to you in such a compromised state last night.”
“You’re forgiven,” she said, though she didn’t mean it. “I have just one question for you: Who was the girl?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“A gentleman?” she laughed, forgetting herself for a moment. “I thought you were a scoundrel.” Now why did you go and say that? And why is he smiling like that?
She excused herself and went back to worrying about Willie K., keeping an eye on him throughout the night: Who was he talking to? Was he standing too close to Lydia? Was he laughing a little too gaily at something Tessie just said? Where was he now? Who was with him? It was agony.
After the cake had been served and the last guests left Petit Chateau, Willie K. came up to Alva and stood behind her. All night long she’d been waiting for him to come to her, pay her some attention, and now that he had, she didn’t want it. She knew he was going to place his hands on her shoulders even before he did it, and it took all her will not to shrug them off.
“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” he said.
“Have I?” She was grateful that her back was to him. She could feel heat coming up on her cheeks. He was acting as if nothing were wrong, as if he hadn’t been out half the night with Oliver and some girl. And even if he’d been a perfect gentleman and Oliver was the scoundrel, shouldn’t Willie have apologized? Explained himself? She’d wanted to confront him, but women—wives—didn’t do that.
Though Willie didn’t say anything, didn’t apologize, he must have known she was upset because, with his fingers gently kneading her shoulders, he said, “I’ve been thinking about Newport. About what you were saying about building a new cottage up there.”
“Oh?” For years now, she’d been begging Willie for a new cottage in Newport. She had tried reasoning with him, explaining that she was bored, that she needed something more stimulating. Something for herself. She’d pleaded, being sweet as punch, and it had gotten her nowhere. She’d tried bullying him into it, too, and still he’d refused.
“I think it’s time,” he said.
If that wasn’t the sound of a guilty man, she didn’t know what was. She turned and looked at him.
“How would you feel about designing a brand-new place?” he said. “From the ground up.”
Before she could stop herself, she was hugging him, thanking him. He was no fool, but neither was she. Alva had just gotten what she’d wanted, her reward for being the good, obedient wife.
CHAPTER FORTY
Caroline
It had been a week since Caroline finished Society as I Have Found It. By then others had read it, too, and the mocking of Ward McAllister had begun, as uproarious as the construction next door. The press was merciless, running headlines such as This Nob Is a Snob and The Frappé Flop. One article in Town Topics suggested that Mr. McAllister is canoodling with Mrs. Astor. Caroline was horrified. For many reasons, but especially that one, she had been avoiding Ward, forgoing a week of balls, dinner parties and opera performances. She didn’t want to be seen anywhere near him, and what’s more, she didn’t know what to say to him.
She thought he would have been devastated by such criticism and public shaming, but if so, it wasn’t at all apparent to Caroline the day he finally appeared at her home.
He looked prim and crisp, a yellow boutonniere in his lapel, a new walking stick in hand. He was full of apologies, not for what he’d written about her, but for his not having called on her sooner.
“But don’t you know, I’ve been in such demand with my book.” The steady pounding next door hadn’t let up since he’d arrived. “That racket is maddening,” he said, turning toward the window. “Now tell me”—he faced back around—“how have you been? I’ve been splendid, don’t you know. All the fanfare has been exhilarating.” He smiled, as if he hadn’t picked up a newspaper or visited a gentlemen’s club during the past two weeks.
He was chattering away and pacing before finally settling into the chair opposite Caroline’s. She braced herself for the inevitable question, and sure enough, he leaned in on his walking stick and said, “Now tell me, what did you think of my book?”
Caroline was silent.
“You have read my book, haven’t you?” He was incredulous at even having to ask.
Caroline had never lied to Ward and she wasn’t about to start now. “I have.”
“And?”
She could see how very eager he was for praise. Caroline looked into his eyes and said, “I think you’ve gone too far.”
“Oh, I know,” he chuckled, seemingly unaware that she was warning him. Or maybe he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. “Bookstores can hardly keep it on the shelves.”
Caroline looked at him, amazed. He seemed lost in a cloud of his own making. Well, she was about to shatter his illusions, tell him exactly what she thought of his pompous memoir and how offended she’d been by the things he’d written, when William and Coleman Drayton burst into the drawing room.
She was startled. Why on earth are the two of them together? William detested Coleman’s company. A jolt of adrenaline shot through her. Caroline was on her feet, her heart racing. “What’s happened? What’s wrong? Is it Charlotte? The children?”
William turned to McAllister. “If you’ll excuse us, Ward.”
“Oh dear, no.” Caroline felt her legs go weak as she dropped back down in her chair.
“I have to be running along anyway,” Ward said, cocking his bowler just so. “I have a meeting with my publisher.”
After he left and Thomas had closed the double doors, Coleman took a seat beside Caroline, his leg anxiously jouncing up and down. Together they watched William walk over to the fireplace and rest his elbow on the mantel.
Their silence was unnerving. “Will someone please say something? Tell me what’s going on.”
William cleared his throat and finally said, “I’m afraid that Coleman has some distressing news about Charlie and the state of their marriage.”
“Oh?” That was it? She felt relieved. Every marriage had its problems. She and William were proof of that. This idea of marrying for love was such a modern concept. Caroline couldn’t comprehend it. Marriage was a practical union, a means by which to continue the family bloodlines, perpetuate the family wealth. Helen understood that. She and Rosy had made a fine marriage and family together. But Carrie had followed her heart and Jack had, too. Her son had recently become engaged to Miss Ava Lowle Willing. Caroline didn’t approve of the match, but she did see that Miss Willing had a positive effect on Jack. For once he seemed interested in something other than food and had reduced his husky frame down to a slender, fit physique like the rest of the Astor men. Caroline realized with a stab of guilt that it had been love and affection her son was starved for, not food.
So Charlotte and Coleman had their differences. Pish-posh. So theirs wasn’t a marriage of love and passion. So few were. She knew Charlotte had been unhappy from time to time. Many a wife was dissatisfied with her husband. That’s why the children were so important. Frankly, Caroline was surprised that William and Coleman were making such a fuss over the matter.
“What kind of marriage trouble?” she asked finally, somewhat distracted.
Coleman spoke up for the first time. “Your daughter has been carrying on with our neighbor, Hallett Borrowe.”
Carrying on! That got Caroline’s attention. The shock of it crackled in her ears. She was accustomed to husbands breaking their vows, but a wife and mother? Never!
“It’s been going on for some time,” said Coleman.
Caroline couldn’t b
elieve her daughter was capable of such a thing. She looked at William but he wouldn’t meet her eye. “How do you know it’s true?”
Coleman’s cheeks began to color. “I’d rather not say in mixed company. But trust me when I tell you that I have proof. After I discovered the two of them—and in my own home, I might add—I threatened divorce.”
“Oh heavens no,” said Caroline. This time when she looked at William, he was rubbing his temples, his eyes closed. Divorce would be too great a scandal for the Astor family. “You mustn’t even think of such a thing,” said Caroline. “These matters can be worked through.”
“I thought so, too,” said Coleman. “After I found out about the affair, Charlotte wrote me a letter.” He produced a piece of Charlotte’s stationery from his breast pocket, a trifold, well creased as if read over and over again. “She confessed to her affair with Borrowe—it’s all right here, in her own hand.” He held out the letter. “She promised to never see him again.”
“Very well then,” said Caroline. “See? The matter is resolved.”
“I’m afraid not. Charlotte is still carrying on with that miscreant. And you should know—he’s a married man, too.”
“Oh dear God.” Just when Caroline thought it couldn’t get any worse.
“I can’t tolerate that kind of behavior or expose my children to such things. I’ve tried talking sense into Charlotte, but she claims she can’t help herself.” He shook his head, tugging on his shirt cuffs. “I have no choice but to move ahead with divorce proceedings.”
“No, no, no,” said Caroline. “We can’t allow that to happen. Especially because of the children. I will talk to Charlotte.”
* * *
—
But when she did speak with Charlotte later that day, Caroline’s daughter only repeated what Coleman had already said: “I can’t help myself.”
“Well, you’d best learn to help yourself, young lady. Your husband is threatening to divorce you over this.”
Charlotte didn’t say anything. She seemed more interested in the flowers in her parlor, lazily rearranging the lilies in a cut-glass vase.
“Do you have any idea what a divorce would do to your reputation?”
“Is that all you care about? My reputation?” She stabbed a stem into the vase. “What about my happiness? I’m miserable with Coleman. I don’t love him. I never did. You knew I loved Duncan and you forced me to marry Coleman. I was devastated over Duncan. For years. And then I met Hallett. He’s the only happiness I’ve known since I got married.”
“Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can have it,” said Caroline. “What about your children?”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Mother,” she said, still busying herself with those flowers, “but I’m glad Coleman found out about Hallett. I wanted him to find out about us. I want Coleman to divorce me.”
“And what then? Hallett is a married man.”
“He’ll leave his wife—I know he will. He doesn’t love her. He’ll divorce her and we’ll get married.”
“Charlotte, you don’t know what you’re saying. Divorce is not an option.”
She finally abandoned the flowers and looked Caroline in the eyes for the first time. “I can’t stay in a marriage when I’m this unhappy. I just can’t.”
You don’t have a choice, Caroline wanted to say. Charlotte’s biggest problem, the source of her pain, was that she actually believed she had a right to have what her heart desired. “If you divorce, you would never be welcome in the world in which you were raised. You would tarnish your children’s reputations right along with your own. You would be an outcast, and that, my dear, is a very lonely existence. Much lonelier than staying married to Coleman. And your father will not tolerate it. He’ll disown you. I’m certain of it.”
Charlotte looked up, her eyes wide, her mouth open. “You can’t be doing this to me again. You just can’t.” As much as she claimed not to care about her family’s wealth, as much as she said she didn’t want to be another rich girl, it was always the money that pulled her back in line.
“I mean it, Charlotte. You won’t receive a penny.”
Charlotte looked up. Finally understanding the gravity of what she’d done. “So I’m trapped. Is that what you’re saying? I’m trapped in this marriage? Forever?” Charlotte covered her face with her hands, her shoulders quaking as the tears slipped through her fingertips, mumbling incoherently.
“You have to stay in the marriage—that’s all there is to it. That is, if your husband will let you.”
Caroline knew that the decision was entirely up to Coleman, who had every right to seek a divorce.
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, Caroline showed up at her son-in-law’s office, handsomely appointed and paneled in Circassian walnut. He had a marble bust of himself stationed on his desk, which he leaned up against, arms folded, listening to her offer.
“$5,000,” she said. “Annually.”
Coleman sighed and looked up toward the coffered ceiling. “In exchange for what, exactly?”
“For staying married to my daughter. And for your discretion.”
Coleman lowered his chin and uncrossed his arms, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. He seemed to be weighing her offer. He knew what divorce would do to his own reputation, and of course Caroline knew he was considering the children. “What about your daughter’s discretion?” he asked.
“Charlotte has given me her word that she won’t see him again. She’s filled with remorse.”
He turned down his bottom lip and with a nod, said, “$7,000. $7,000 annually and I’ll stop divorce proceedings.”
“Very well.”
He raised both eyebrows. “I thought you might have wanted to think about it. I should have asked for $10,000.”
Caroline smiled grimly. “I would have paid you $20,000.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Society
NEWPORT AND NEW YORK, 1891–1892
We all told Alva not to do it. We told her time and again that it was a bad idea. That, in fact, it was a terrible idea. But would she listen? Hardly. She wanted to build a new cottage in Newport, and of all the lots she could have purchased, she bought the one on Bellevue Avenue right next door to Beechwood, Mrs. Astor’s cottage.
Clearly she is taunting the Grande Dame, which puts Alva in a bit of a quandary. As much as she wants to be accepted by Mrs. Astor, she wants to usurp her more.
Alva bought that cottage—a modest nothing sort of place—about a year ago and hired Richard Morris Hunt, the same architect who built her home on Fifth Avenue. She’s being very secretive about it all, which isn’t Alva’s style. Usually she’s so boastful about everything, but not this. As soon as they tore the old cottage down, she had Hunt put up a fence all the way around the property. This fence has to be at least ten feet high. We can’t see a thing going on behind it, and it’s not as if we haven’t tried. Every now and again while on our daily strolls, some of us have tried stealing looks through the slats, but we can’t see a thing.
We’re all back in New York now. It’s the third Monday of January, the eve of Mrs. Astor’s annual ball. We rise to a cold, blustery day, drafts sweeping across our floorboards. The boilers in our cellars are clunking, the coal furnaces working overtime. It’s snowing, too. Big, heavy wet flakes that drench all the morning newspapers. They arrive on our breakfast trays crinkly and wavy, despite our staff having ironed them dry.
We lazily go through Town Topics and the World, and as we set those papers aside, we move on to the New York Times. With just a glance, we are all wide awake. An entire pot of coffee could not have given us a morning jolt like this. We look again at the headline: Ward McAllister Declares New York Society Comprised of Only 400 People.
The article leads off by quoting McAllister: “There are only
about 400 people in fashionable New York society. If you go outside that number, you strike people who are either not at ease in a ballroom or else make others not at ease.” So there it is—a declaration. A finite number. A line drawn in Newport’s privileged white sand. We wonder, has this clique of 400 always existed, and are we just now learning of it? A secret—like so many other things in their world, that’s kept from us? Has this list of names been held in a safe somewhere, perhaps in the bowels of Mrs. Astor’s townhouse? And why, on the eve of Mrs. Astor’s ball, did Ward McAllister decide to publish the names of those members in high society?
Pulses up and down Fifth Avenue quicken. Heat crawls up our necks as we look farther down the page at the list. It’s alphabetized, and we start in the A’s, our eyes racing over the columns. Certain names jump out at us: Mr. and Mrs. James L. Barclay, Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey M. Depew, Mr. Shipley Jones . . . Some of us, like Puss, Mamie and Lady Paget, are relieved and exhilarated to see their names on there. They’re in, despite not having a drop of Knickerbocker blood. But Jay Gould is not on the list. Fanny and John Pierpont Morgan are not, and neither are the Rockefellers. Our hearts continue to pound. We see that Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt are in. So is George W. Vanderbilt. We all expect to see Mr. and Mrs. William Kissam Vanderbilt next, but instead it’s Mrs. A. Van Rensselaer. Van Rensselaer? We pause. We back up as if we’ve misread. Alice and Cornelius are on the list but Alva Vanderbilt isn’t?
