by Renée Rosen
Among the various invitations to balls, lawn parties, dinners and charity functions was a letter from Consuelo Yznaga, now Lady Montagu, the Duchess of Manchester. At first Caroline thought the post had been delivered in error and that it was intended for Alva next door, as she knew the two were friends. But it was addressed to Mrs. Astor, so Caroline unsealed the envelope and began to read:
Dear Mrs. Astor,
I wanted to inform you that I recently encountered your daughter Charlotte here in London. At the risk of being too familiar, I must tell you that circumstances have not gone in her favor. Apparently, her reasons for coming to Europe have not gone well. Her gentleman friend, as it turns out, is no gentleman. I shall not even write his name but suffice it to say, he has left Charlotte in a rather bad way. I regret to report that I found her in quite a state with no money and only the clothes on her back. Frankly, to look at her, one would never guess her to be a member of the Astor family. I gave her whatever I had in my change purse at the time—and convinced her to take it. She refused to tell me where she was staying, and when I offered to provide her with a ticket to return home, she broke down, weeping, saying that she could not possibly return to America after what she’d done. As of the writing of this letter, she is here, in London. Please forgive me for this intrusion but as a mother myself, I could not help but write to you. I pray for Charlotte’s well-being.
Most sincerely yours,
Consuelo Montagu
Caroline sat with the letter, unable to shake the thought of Charlotte all alone and penniless in London, too afraid to return home where she belonged. Caroline had to go get her, but she couldn’t do it alone. When William returned later that day from the matches at the Polo Club, she showed him the letter.
“I’m going to London and I need you to come with me,” she said before he’d spoken a word. “That’s the only way Charlotte will come back and you know it. She was always your favorite, and she needs to know you’ll forgive her. She needs to hear that from you.”
* * *
—
The next day Caroline and William set sail for England. It was the first time in more than a decade that Caroline had stepped foot on William’s yacht, the Ambassadress. William had built the 235-foot schooner in 1877, and the press had aptly called it a “floating palace.” Her husband had spared no expense, importing teakwood for the upper and lower decks, French walnut for the grand staircase, gold and marble fireplace mantels for the smoking room and library.
The weather was bad that day but Caroline, who had always publicly claimed that seasickness kept her from joining William on the Ambassadress, wasn’t fazed by the choppy waters. Instead, she stood on the promenade deck, her chamois gloves gripping the brass railing, looking out at the whitecaps. The sky was overcast, heavy with a thick band of clouds as far as she could see. She was thinking of Charlotte as the wind gusts toyed with her hat, salt water misting her face.
She heard footsteps coming up behind her on the deck. She looked over her shoulder and saw that it was Thomas. He gazed at the horizon, squinting as if he were looking directly at the sun even as the sky darkened.
“Mrs. Astor, perhaps you should come in from the deck.”
“I’ll be in shortly,” she said.
Something about the sea, even a rough one, gave her a new perspective, a humbling one. Her world wasn’t all that significant when compared to the ocean’s vastness, its constant motion and sheer power. A few minutes later, a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance as a bolt of lightning branched out across the sky, unleashing a torrent of rain, quarter-size drops bouncing on the deck. Thomas raced over with an umbrella and hurried her inside.
The storm intensified over the next few hours, raging on, and later that night, Caroline listened to the violent waves lashing out, pounding against the hull. The sea rocked the yacht, causing the lamps in her cabin to flicker, making it nearly impossible to read. She’d thought about asking Thomas to read with her, but doubted he’d have any better luck, so she marked her place and set the book aside. She hadn’t been able to concentrate anyway and not because of the weather. She rested her hands on the upholstered arms of her chair and glanced about the bedroom, admiring the ivory-and-gold Louis XV furnishings, trying not to think of William’s various lady friends who had stayed there before her.
Someone knocked on her door and she assumed it was Thomas or maybe one of the stewards, checking in on her.
Instead it was William, looking a bit sallow. “May I come in?”
“Is everything all right?”
He didn’t answer and instead stood there, leaning against the doorjamb for balance as the yacht bobbed back and forth. He’d been in his library most of the day and well into the evening. She’d expected him to be full of whiskey by now but couldn’t detect even the slightest smell of liquor coming off him. He seemed perfectly sober.
“I thought I should check in on you. In case you’re frightened or—”
“Oh, I’m not frightened.”
“You never are, are you?”
She looked at him and paused. Was that a smile she detected?
“You are fearless,” he said. “Not afraid of anything. You really are as strong as they say, aren’t you?”
Caroline was taken aback. She didn’t know what to do with his compliment. For years she’d been starved for his attention, and here he was giving it to her, and she couldn’t take it in. She was about to change the subject, when he did it for her.
“Lina, I’m afraid I’ve failed our girls.”
“Failed them?” Her voice ticked up a notch. “What has gotten into you tonight?” She realized he had inched his way inside her cabin without her having noticed it and was standing now just a few feet from her. She thought about asking him to have a seat but that seemed presumptuous, as if she thought he was planning on staying when perhaps he’d only wanted to say his piece and leave. She couldn’t decide what to do, so she did nothing and he continued standing before her, talking.
“As a man gets older,” he was saying now, “he’s bound to have regrets. Let’s face it, I haven’t been much of a father. Or a husband for that matter.”
She couldn’t have agreed with him more. “You’ve been a good provider,” she offered, trying to be kind.
“A provider, huh?” He laughed, but his eyes were sad. “You have every right to be angry with me.”
This time she was the one with the sad laugh. The lamps flickered so, they nearly went out but then recovered to full strength.
He brought a hand to his mouth and smoothed down his horseshoe mustache. “Lord knows you deserved better than I’ve given you.”
“Oh pish-posh,” she said. “No point in going over that now.”
They lapsed into silence just as a massive wave hit them starboard. The tea in her cup sloshed overboard into the saucer.
“You did the right thing,” he said.
“About what?”
“You were right about letting Emily and Carrie marry the men they loved. We’ve seen what happens when the families arrange the marriages, haven’t we? We shouldn’t have forced Charlie to marry Coleman.”
“We didn’t force her,” said Caroline. “I forced her.”
He bobbed his head, not necessarily agreeing or disagreeing. After a long pause he said, “Maybe the heart doesn’t make a perfect match for society, but in the long run, the heart knows best.” She wasn’t certain, but thought his eyes were misting up. “If I had it to do over again with Charlie . . . with Emily . . .” He shook his head, unable to get the words out.
She stood up, reached over and touched his hand, suddenly feeling the need to comfort him. She’d never seen him so vulnerable, and it stirred something inside her. Another wave rocked the yacht, and Caroline stumbled forward, falling against his chest. The awkwardness was nearly unbearable. It was as if she were pressed up a
gainst a stranger. They both mumbled apologies, and as she stepped back, he came forward. She saw her own surprise mirrored in his eyes, and the next thing she knew, he had his arms around her and was kissing her. She was startled at first. Long ago she’d dreamed of kissing him again, and now she was. It took a moment to find the pleasure in it and accept the reassurance she’d so desperately needed. He wanted her again. When he removed her dressing gown, she turned shy as a schoolgirl. She didn’t dare speak or question why—why now—for fear he’d stop.
Afterward he was tired and asked if he might just lie down beside her and rest his eyes for a bit. And that was what he did. With his head on her sturdy shoulder, the heat rippling off his body, he fell asleep while she lay awake, confused and stirred up, listening to the storm whipping against the starboard.
In the morning, the waters had calmed and William complained of a chest cold, saying he wasn’t quite feeling himself. He left Caroline’s cabin, acting as if the previous night hadn’t happened, so she, too, acted as if it hadn’t happened. She wasn’t going to leave herself exposed and let him see her disappointment. She looked at the situation from every possible angle. She even considered that maybe he did still care but that she’d given him the impression she didn’t, and so now he was pretending indifference.
At luncheon she took a chance, asking how he was feeling and if he wanted a mustard plaster for his chest. “I’d be happy to apply it if you’d like.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He was cordial.
She was deflated.
Even if the mustard plaster hadn’t been necessary, wouldn’t he have used it as an excuse for them to be together again? But he had dismissed it, finished his lunch and gone back to his cabin, or library, he didn’t say where. He was just gone.
She scolded herself. Even though he was her husband, she should have denied him, should have saved her dignity. Now he’d made her feel things she thought were beyond her. Her heart was the heart of a young girl’s once again, and she couldn’t let that be. She was angry with him, but even more so, she was angry with herself for having allowed it to happen.
* * *
—
By the time the Ambassadress docked in London, Caroline and William had resumed their usual roles. Not another word was said about what had happened on the ship. Now the business at hand was finding Charlotte.
While waiting to hear from the detective, Caroline and William spent two days wandering about town, calling upon friends and discreetly making inquiries. As they made their way to wharves on Lower Thames, Caroline kept a kerchief pressed to her nose and mouth, trying to ward off the briny stench of Billingsgate Fish Market. They later stopped at the Fenchurch Street train station, where Caroline searched the platform for passengers exiting the steam locomotives, but there was no sign of Charlotte. That night Caroline would be haunted by the flower woman they’d seen at Ludgate Circus, fearful that Charlotte would end up like that, perched on the brick road, surrounded by baskets of daisies, daffodils and petunias for sale.
The next day Caroline felt herself dragging, her hope growing weaker as she hunted the crowded streets for her lost daughter. When they arrived at Piccadilly Circus, she spotted a woman that made her heart lurch forward. Oh thank goodness! There she is! Charlotte! She was standing by the statue of Eros, her face slightly obscured by her blond curls, but Caroline knew it was her. She was certain of it. She was about to call out when a breeze cleared the hair from the woman’s face. Caroline’s heart sank. A stranger. A stranger who really didn’t look anything like Charlotte at all. When they returned to their hotel that day, Caroline retreated to her room, brokenhearted. Just when she was resigned to never finding Charlotte, William heard from his Pinkerton man.
The following day, the detective, a short man with a thin mustache and neatly trimmed goatee, escorted Caroline and William to the St. Pancras Hotel. William was especially quiet that day, hardly saying a word. He claimed he hadn’t slept well and that his stomach was bothering him. He blamed it on something he’d eaten, saying he’d never liked the food in England.
The hotel’s gothic clock tower was visible from blocks away. This was the last place Caroline would have thought to look for Charlotte. It was a very expensive hotel, and the duchess said in her letter that Charlotte was penniless.
When they arrived, the detective went first, and Caroline and William followed, pushing through a revolving door that spilled into a plush lobby accented in gold leaf wallpaper and an enormous staircase. Rather than going to the luxury rooms on the first floor, with their Axminster carpets and oversize beds, the Pinkerton man took them through a maze of back stairwells and narrow hallways leading to the top floor. William was breathing hard, perspiring. He held on to the jamb for support when the detective turned the knob and slowly opened the door.
Caroline’s heart lurched. There she was. Her Charlotte, in a tiny room, sitting on a cot-like bed with her back to them. When Caroline stepped inside, she stubbed her toe against the wooden chamber pot in the corner. Charlotte heard the noise and turned around. Caroline stifled a gasp as Charlotte’s eyes instantly glassed up. Her daughter looked terrible; her face was drawn and pale. She had purple half-moons beneath her eyes. When Charlotte stood up, Caroline took her in her arms, startled by the feel of her bones. She had lost so much weight that her dress hung off her like a rag. Caroline took hold of Charlotte’s hands and noticed her wedding ring was gone. She would later learn that Charlotte had pawned it along with her other jewelry in order to keep the hotel room.
William, still propped against the doorjamb, excused his Pinkerton man. “We’d like some privacy if you don’t mind.” The detective left the room, but William still hadn’t spoken to Charlotte. Finally, he stepped inside and closed the door with great effort.
Charlotte returned to the side of the bed, buried her face in her hands and wept.
“Now, now,” said Caroline, expecting William to reassure Charlotte, too, but he wasn’t ready yet. In his stubbornness, he crossed his arms, keeping his chin tucked close to his chest.
“The important thing is that you’re all right,” said Caroline.
“But I’m not all right, Mother. Don’t you see?” She looked up, her lashes webbed with tears. “I’ve ruined everything. Everything. I have nothing left. I should have never come here. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I arrived. Hallett told me our relationship had become too complicated, too messy. He said I had tarnished his reputation and that the duel was my fault. He said that because of me, he wouldn’t be able to step foot back in New York City without having to draw a pistol. Oh, he hates me now and—”
“Enough!” said William, his voice booming. “Good God, Charlie, stop feeling sorry for yourself. I can’t listen to this whining. Now buck up, girl. It’s time to get you out of this hellhole. Get your things. We’re taking you back home to your husband and children.”
“No. I can’t—I—”
“It’s not up to you, young lady,” said William. He was furious. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead, his pallor off. “You’re going home.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I can’t go back to Coleman. I don’t love him. I’ve never loved him. How can I go back to him?”
“Because your children need you,” said Caroline.
“But I’ve been disgraced. I can never show my face again in New York.”
“Charlie, I tell you, I have heard—” But William stopped short, cutting himself off midsentence. Caroline thought he was going to back down, change his mind, for he almost never lashed out at Charlotte like that. But then his eyes flashed wide, wide enough for Caroline to see that he was in an absolute panic. Something was wrong, and before she could reach him, before she could even ask, he clutched his chest and gasped for air. There was a resounding thud and the room shook when William’s body dropped to the floor.
* * *
; —
Caroline stood on the promenade deck of the Ambassadress, looking out at the ocean. The calm and gentle waters were a complete contrast to the weather they’d experienced the day she and William set sail. New York seemed so very far away, and though Charlotte was at her side, Caroline had never felt more alone. She couldn’t shake the fact that her husband was belowdecks, lying in a casket.
So much time lost, squandered away on things that in the long run hadn’t mattered. Why hadn’t they made more of an effort to include each other in their lives? Why hadn’t they bent just a little more to each other’s ways? She would have gone to the Everglades if only he had gone to the opera. They could have found a balance. She was sure of that now. Call it a sixth sense or hunch, but Caroline realized that on some level William must have known he was about to die. What else could have explained his being so sentimental and reflective in the days before? Why else had he come to her bed one last time? But damn him. Damn him for leaving her after there had been a glimmer of hope at righting all that had been wrong between them. So much had been given and taken away in a flash.
“Mother?”
Caroline cleared her throat and looked away, listening to the breeze catching in the sails, the sound of water lapping against the hull.
“Are you crying?” Charlotte asked, her voice suggesting it wasn’t possible.
“Oh, it’s just the sea air.” Even when her mother died and when Emily passed away, Caroline had refused to let her daughters, or anyone else, see her cry.
* * *
—
Six days later, when the Ambassadress arrived back in New York, Jack met Caroline and Charlotte at Pier Twelve down by the North River docks. It was a sunny day; the waterfront was crowded with sailors, dockworkers, fishermen and passengers. Seagulls squawked and swooped down on the piers, and everywhere Caroline looked, she saw more yachts and steamers. Life goes on and that made her want to scream—Don’t you realize my husband is dead!
