by Renée Rosen
When Jack took Caroline and Charlotte back to the house on Thirty-Fourth Street, the mourning badges were already hanging. The sight of that dark bunting made William’s passing all the more real. As she walked up the front steps, she felt herself going back in time, back to when she’d lost her mother. And Emily. She had never expected to find herself in this dark place again so soon. She was already feeling pulled under by the weight of two more years of mourning.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Society
NEWPORT
As the Newport season nears its end, we have our invitations in hand. Not to Mrs. Astor’s clambake—she’s still in mourning, so that’s been canceled. No, this year, the event of the season is being hosted by Alva. It’s cloaked in mystery, though. We have no idea what to expect. All we know is that Alva is throwing an enormous ball to celebrate the completion of her new cottage. She’s named it Marble House, and none of us have set eyes on it yet. Hence the mystery. She still has it hidden behind that maddening fence.
Alva has also been just as secretive and close-lipped about Willie’s affair. We hear he has a lover. In Paris. Nellie something or other. We expected better of Willie, but then again, we expect better of our own husbands as well.
These men—they underestimate us. They think we don’t know about their mistresses, or if we do, that we don’t care. Oh, please, we care. And we punish them for it in our own way. We tuck those crisp greenbacks in our pockets and later doctor the weekly ledger of household expenses that they approve without suspecting a thing. Small victories but through the years, those dollar bills add up. Tessie saved enough for a lovely pair of satin square-toed Julien Mayers, and she walks a little taller in those shoes knowing she earned them. In a sense.
So why would Alva, in the midst of a marital scandal, throw a big bash? We say, why not! How many of us have done the same—hosted a dinner party or reception, praising our husband’s devotion to offset gossip about our own marriages? We deflect, divert attention and do whatever it takes to distract.
It goes without saying that if Mrs. Astor weren’t in mourning, she would have done the same. Hosted a magnificent ball or dinner party in Charlotte’s honor to repair her daughter’s good name. But, because of her husband’s passing, the Grande Dame’s hands are tied, and besides, the damage has already been done. No amount of celebration can counterbalance this business about Charlotte Astor Drayton’s divorce.
The gossip columns can hardly keep up with the scandal. We follow it all day by day. Some absolutely relish the Astor name being smeared across sixteen different newspapers. Already there is talk about the whole sordid affair even tarnishing Mrs. Astor’s reputation. This of course has Mamie, Tessie and Alva all jockeying for position.
* * *
—
It storms on the day of Alva’s ball, and after the rain moves out, the fog rolls in. Across the street, Ophelia tries to get a glimpse of the cottage, but Alva has guards stationed all around to keep nosy passersby from getting an early look. As the sun begins to set, mosquitoes—big as horseflies—hover everywhere, looking to feast. Cornelia Martin peers out her bedroom window to see a team of two dozen or more workers starting to take down the exterior fence surrounding Marble House. One by one those wood panels are pulled down, chucked into a mountain of cedar waiting to be hauled away. But for now, because of the fog and darkness, Alva’s cottage remains hidden and mysterious as ever.
At eleven o’clock that night, we arrive at Alva’s only to be kept out front, on the lawn. Hundreds of us are lined up all the way back to Bellevue Avenue. It’s muggy, swelteringly hot. The night sky is charcoal black and starless. Alva doesn’t have a single light or lamp on inside the cottage. Only the orchestra music and Alva’s elegantly liveried staff serving us champagne and sherry indicate that anything festive is underway. When the last of her guests have arrived, we see Alva signal her butler, who signals the head footman, who throws a master switch, and with a flash of brilliance, all of Marble House is illuminated. We are awestruck, applauding, giving off a chorus of oohs and aahs while the orchestra plays.
The doors are thrown open and we eagerly enter the great hall, anticipating what awaits us. If we thought Petit Chateau was something, Marble House is beyond compare. Five years in the making and it shows. The Tuckahoe marble sparkles so, it takes our breath away. We walk through an austere archway leading to an intentionally dark, medieval-like study that Alva calls the Gothic Room. It is something to behold, with stained-glass windows surrounding Alva’s most priceless antiques, statues and chalices.
As we move on, Puss can’t get over the gilded garlands along the ceiling and the fountain with its bronze accents. Peggy is enamored of the tapestries, and Tessie is clearly impressed by the sienna marble throughout. Just when we think it can’t get any more grand, we see the luster of the twenty-two-karat-gold walls and ceiling in the ballroom. It’s Mamie Fish who goes up to Alva and laughs as she says, “Leave it to you not to go overboard and make this place too gaudy.” We’re quite certain that coming from Mamie, Alva takes this as a tremendous compliment.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Caroline
NEW YORK, 1893
It was a frigid January afternoon, eight months after William’s death, and a chilly draft seemed to permeate the entire house. Caroline was at her desk, tending to her daily correspondence, when Charlotte walked into the room. While warming her hands before the marble fireplace, Charlotte announced that she was moving back to Europe.
Caroline set her pen aside and looked at her daughter nonplussed. “Whatever for?”
“There’s nothing here for me in New York.” She wrapped her shawl closer around her shoulders. “I mustn’t attend any suffrage or political rallies. I mustn’t go anywhere, do anything. I’m bored to tears here. I haven’t been invited to a single ball or a dinner party in months.”
“That’s because you’re in mourning.”
“That’s not the only reason, and you know it.”
Caroline did know it. After William’s death, Caroline had sent a very reluctant Charlotte back to Coleman, instructing her daughter to beg his forgiveness. But Charlotte’s jilted husband would have none of it, and no matter how much money Caroline offered, it wasn’t enough to appease him. Coleman had filed for divorce, claiming adultery and desertion, leaving Charlotte without custody of her children and her reputation tarnished.
Charlotte dropped into a chair opposite Caroline’s desk and laughed bitterly. “How terribly ironic. I never even liked going to those things. I never cared and now, I’d give anything for an invitation to one of their silly affairs.”
“I know this has been a difficult time for you,” Caroline said to Charlotte, “but you can’t run away. And especially not while in mourning. That will only stir up more talk.”
Charlotte folded her arms, her shawl slipping off her shoulders. “Very well then. I’ll stay until we’re out of mourning. But then I’m leaving. I’m going back to England.”
What about your children? You’ll never have any hope of seeing them again if you leave. But Caroline held her tongue, taking some comfort in knowing that at least this time, Charlotte wouldn’t return penniless and end up living in a hovel. Despite William’s threats to disown Charlotte, in the end, he couldn’t do it. At the reading of his will, it was announced that William had left the house on Fifth Avenue to Charlotte, along with $850,000, the same amount he’d left to Helen and Carrie. Jack, his only male heir, had received the balance of William’s $50 million.
A log in the fireplace crackled, spitting red-hot embers that soon turned to ash when they hit the marble floor. Caroline looked at Charlotte, exasperated, and finally said, “You’re a grown woman. I can’t stop you. But I urge you to consider what you’ll be leaving behind—your own flesh and blood.”
“But I need to get away from New York. I need to go someplace where I can put all this behind
me and start over.”
Caroline was still discussing the matter with Charlotte when Thomas knocked, announcing that she had some visitors. He stepped aside and in walked Jack and Carrie.
“What brings you here?” Caroline asked, pleased at first to see them until the expressions on their faces made her sit up, her heart beating faster.
Carrie closed her eyes, and her shoulders began to shake. Caroline couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. Then Jack stepped forward, placing his hand on his sister’s arm, as if to say, Let me.
“Mother,” he said, “I’m afraid we have some terrible news.” Jack wiped his eyes with his fingers and pressed a fist to his mouth—just the way William used to do whenever he was choked up. Jack was pale, and watching his eyes glaze over sent a chill up Caroline’s back. “It’s Helen. She’s—”
“Not Helen.” No. It couldn’t be Helen. She’d just seen her.
“I’m afraid she’s gone.”
She had a cold. A simple cold. A bad cough was all . . .
“We just came from Rosy’s. She died this morning.”
Hearing it out loud made Caroline gasp. She felt she was falling and gripped the arms of her chair, holding on. Everyone was talking all at once. Someone was crying—she wiped her cheek, her fingers dry. Everything was happening outside her, and she didn’t know if time was standing still or moving too fast to grab hold of. A pool of blackness was spreading across her desk. When did my inkwell spill? She wanted to sop up the mess and began opening drawers, frantically searching for a rag that she knew would never have been stored there. Cleaning up that mess was all she could focus on. But she could no more put that ink back inside its bottle than she could bring Helen back.
* * *
—
Caroline had been shattered by the news of Helen’s death. She’d nearly collapsed that day, and after they told her, Thomas and Jack helped her to bed, where she’d stayed for days, barely able to eat, unable to think of anything but losing another child. It wasn’t natural. Children weren’t supposed to die first. Carrie and Charlotte checked on her the next day and the day after. Caroline was inconsolable.
After Helen’s death, Caroline experienced a kind of anger she’d never before known. Emily. William. And now Helen. She was convinced that God was punishing her. Her family was cursed. She feared she was destined to repeat her mother’s hell and knew she couldn’t bear another loss. For two years she dressed each day in black, her body cloaked in grief.
The first winter seemed to last forever. The long cold nights blurred, one right into another. Sleep was unheard of, and though she recalled Thomas reading to her, later on she would not be able to remember a single book, the characters or plots. Spring came, then summer, but the warmer weather only spelled longer days to endure before the cycle repeated.
It was the finality of death that she wrestled with the most. It was so permanent. Her loved ones were gone, gone forever. Looking back on those dark days, she had no idea how she’d managed to get through them. She hadn’t been living, she’d only been marking time.
Losing another daughter had certainly caused Caroline to reexamine her priorities. Life was so fleeting, so fragile, and in the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make if someone used the wrong fork, or served the wrong wine? So what if her daughter was divorced? Was it better for Charlotte to have lived a life of misery? In the end—did any of this matter? Maybe William had been right all along—society was frivolous. And yet, she was so conditioned by it, she didn’t know how to be any other way. Still, in her darkest hours, she wondered if Helen knew she would die young. When Emily passed away Helen had said, If this happened to Emily, it will happen to me, too.
Over and over again, Caroline questioned if her dear sweet Helen—who had always tried to do the right thing, to please everyone around her, to keep the peace—had truly lived the life she’d wanted. Or had she been living only for Caroline just as Caroline had lived for her mother?
She couldn’t undo the past, but now she knew that it was time to set them free—all of them. Rest in peace to those gone, live in peace to those still here.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Alva
NEWPORT
It was Duchy’s fortieth birthday, and Alva decided to throw a little dinner party for her. Nothing too elaborate or too large. Just a handful of friends. True friends. The past few years, with His Grace’s passing, had been hard for Duchy, and she’d been spending more and more time in the States. Sometimes she brought the children along; mostly she didn’t. Alva tried not to pass judgment, though she couldn’t have imagined being separated from her children for that long.
Duchy had been dreading this birthday. In addition to the dinner party, which Alva hoped would cheer her up, she’d bought Duchy a new banjo, especially made for her with a mother-of-pearl fingerboard, gilded frets and a burl walnut veneer for the resonator.
“Oh, Alva, you shouldn’t have. It’s beautiful. Just beautiful.” Duchy played a few chords. “What a wonderful tone it has.” She thanked Alva again and set the banjo back inside its velvet-lined case.
That was it? Alva was puzzled and then irked. If only Duchy knew how much trouble she’d gone to, not to mention the considerable sum she’d spent. Alva thought a little more enthusiasm was in order, a bit more appreciation. She thought Duchy would have played song after song, just like she did at lawn parties and on picnics. She loved to play and used to lead everyone in sing-alongs until her fingers needed a break.
Alva tried chalking it up to birthday malaise and did her best to let go of her disappointment. It continued to niggle at her, though, as they spent the rest of the day lazing around the cottage before heading to the beach and back in time to get ready for the party.
Duchy wore a lovely blue gown trimmed in matching feathers and sapphires. She looked radiant, happy and at ease. The prospect of a party in her honor seemed to have lifted her spirits considerably.
By eight that night they were all in the Gothic Room. It was a hot, muggy evening and they had the doors thrown open, while they enjoyed their aperitifs before dinner. Alva couldn’t help but notice that Duchy and Oliver were sitting rather close together. He’d just said something that made her laugh, and there was an intimacy to it, like an inside joke. Alva turned and began making polite conversation with Puss and Ophelia, Penelope and Lydia, but all the while her stomach was roiling. She could hardly believe that she was jealous of Duchy.
She realized that if her friend had been more gracious about the banjo, she probably wouldn’t have been upset. But no doubt about it, Alva was still angry and told herself this burst of emotion was more about the banjo than anything else. But it wasn’t just the banjo. It was Duchy. She wasn’t herself and hadn’t been for some time. Duchy had repeatedly hurt Alva’s feelings, leaving letters unanswered, passing judgment on Marble House’s furnishing, mocking Alva for commissioning the French painter Carolus-Duran to do her portrait. It was as if Duchy was testing the strength of their friendship. That bond they’d always shared seemed to be bowing, on the verge of snapping in two.
Alva excused herself on the pretense of checking something in the kitchen. She needed air, needed a moment to collect herself. She ended up looking in on the children, and when she went back downstairs, she saw Duchy slipping out of a shadowed alcove; one of her blue feathers had escaped from the trim and floated along the floor. Something about that feather landed heavy on Alva’s heart. She had a feeling that Oliver was about to step out behind her. And so what if he does? Oliver’s being with other women shouldn’t have bothered her. And she shouldn’t begrudge Duchy her happiness—especially after losing her husband. Besides, the only person more restless than Oliver was Duchy—it would never last . . .
She was trying to convince herself of that when she saw that it was not Oliver Belmont emerging from the alcove, but rather Willie; his hair rumpled, a blue feather stu
ck to his lapel. Alva felt the wind knocked out of her. The room tilted as stars danced across her vision, her pulse doubling its speed. Willie K. and Duchy. She stood there, frozen, trying to comprehend it all. She was clobbered. Silly little trusting fool. Sure, he’d ended it with Nellie, but now he’d taken up with her best friend.
Think, Alva. Think. She had to be smart about how she handled this.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Vanderbilt.” Her butler interrupted her thoughts. “Everyone is waiting for you in the dining room. Your guests have all been seated.”
Alva took another moment, still struggling to recover. “I’ll be right there.”
As she made her way back toward the dining room, she saw the banjo resting in the corner. She picked it up, plastered a smile on her face and entered the dining room, cast in the warmth of rose-colored marble. Everyone was seated around the table in her bronze Louis XV chairs that weighed seventy-five pounds each. They were anchored on the thick carpet and certain to render her dinner guests moored wherever they landed, unable to scoot any closer to the table, or get away without the assistance of a strong footman.
With an exuberance that alerted everyone to the sense that something was amiss, Alva said, “Why don’t we have the birthday girl play us a little song before the first course is served?” An awkward murmur rippled around the table; such an unusual way for a hostess to start dinner. Alva couldn’t bring herself to look at Willie. She handed the banjo to Duchy, who hesitantly accepted it as if it were a stick of dynamite.
