by Renée Rosen
Tentatively, with her eyes on Alva, as if trying to read her, Duchy played the opening chords of “Ole Dan Tucker.”
“Oh, no, no”—Alva cut her off—“that sounds terrible. It’s out of tune. Here”—she reached for the banjo—“let me fix that for you.” She yanked it out of Duchy’s hands and, holding it like an ax, proceeded to smash it against the marble sideboard. Everyone gasped but Alva kept going. The bridge and heel went flying; the resonator split in two. Duchy flinched, trying to get out of her chair, but she was trapped by the weight of it. She had to sit there and take it.
When the neck broke in two and all Alva had left was the headstock, she turned to her best friend and said, “Next time you decide to make love to my husband, please have the decency to do it somewhere other than in my home.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Alva
Alva hurried out of the dining room and down the hallway to the back staircase that led to the belly of Marble House. Even with the giant copper pots simmering on the stove and the kitchen filled with scullery maids and cooks, it was cooler down there than upstairs, the stone walls blocking out the heat. The wine cellar was cooler still. It was a deep, dark room, save for the lamps casting shadows along the wooden racks filled with bottles of claret and burgundy, champagne, and sweet dessert wines from Portugal.
She went inside to escape and sat on a bench, leaning forward, elbows planted on her knees, fingertips pressed into her forehead. Did she really just smash that banjo to pieces? Yes, she did. Did she regret doing it? No, she did not. As she sat in the wine cellar, she realized that Willie’s affair with Duchy had to have been going on for some time. That visit with Duchy, when she’d been so cold to Willie, when she’d told Alva about Nellie—Duchy had done it to punish Willie. He hadn’t only been cheating on his wife, he’d been cheating on his mistress, too. Alva was reliving that conversation with Duchy when she heard footsteps outside the wine cellar.
The door creaked open. She looked up and saw Oliver.
“Are you okay?” He stepped inside the cellar and bent down so that she was forced to look him in the eye.
She attempted a weak smile. “I think I’ve just reached a new low.”
“Don’t talk to me about new lows. You’ve got me by three inches.” He straightened up and laughed.
She didn’t. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Poke fun at yourself.”
“Oh.” He shrugged, rubbed his chin. “I figure I’ll crack a short joke before someone else has a chance to do it.”
His candor touched her, made her feel more inclined to be honest herself. “I made a fool of myself tonight, didn’t I?”
“Nah, but I have to tell you, you play one helluva banjo.”
She laughed sadly. “My husband is a louse. And Duchy is even worse. She stabbed me in the back.”
Oliver reached for a bottle, clearing the dust off the label with his fingertips. “I think this calls for a drink.”
“In here?”
“What better place for wine than in a wine cellar?” He grabbed the corkscrew hanging by a chain at the side of the door.
“I don’t think there’s any glasses in here,” she said as he turned the screw and pulled the cork clean.
“I don’t mind your germs if you don’t mind mine.” He took a drink and passed the bottle to her.
“You are bad, Mr. Belmont, aren’t you?” she said, gingerly taking a sip of the wine.
The two sat, passing the bottle back and forth, discussing Willie and Duchy, his short-lived marriage to Sara; things they never would have shared had they not already finished off that first bottle. Occasionally they heard servants moving about. They didn’t care; they kept on talking.
Oliver opened a second bottle, and halfway into it, he reached over and caught a droplet of wine on her bottom lip with his thumb and held it there, gently running it back and forth. Such a small gesture but it set off something inside her. At first she was afraid to let her eyes meet his and instead focused on his mouth, the slight parting of his lips, their fullness. When she couldn’t fight it anymore, she leaned into his touch and did the thing she realized she’d been wanting to do for a very long time: she kissed him. She kissed Willie’s best friend.
* * *
—
The next day, Alva did what no wife had done before. She told her husband she was going to divorce him.
“Divorce me?” Willie hadn’t even gotten his coat and hat off when she confronted him. He’d left Marble House the night before, presumably with Duchy. She had no idea where he’d been and she didn’t care. “Can you at least do me the courtesy of letting me sit down and have a drink before you start attacking me?”
“I don’t owe you any courtesies.” She stormed after him, out of the great hall and into the sitting room. “I mean it,” she said. “I want a divorce.”
“Don’t say that.” He fixed himself a drink and took a long pull. “Look, I know you’re upset and I understand—”
“No, you don’t understand, I am going to divorce you.”
“Alva, calm down. I know what we did was wrong. She’s sick about it. So am I. It just happened.”
“You’re a liar. It didn’t just happen. It’s been going on for God knows how long.”
He raised his hands, wincing. “It won’t ever happen again. I promise. It was a mistake. We can get past this. I know we can.”
“Well, I can’t. I can’t get past this. I don’t want to get past this. I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t want you in my bed—I don’t want you in my life.”
Willie faltered, as if she’d hit him, and after he recovered, he turned mean. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re a woman. A wife doesn’t divorce her husband. And don’t forget, Alva, you can’t divorce me without bringing yourself down, too. You’re too proud, you’ll never do it. You’ll be kicked out of society so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“You might find this difficult to comprehend, Willie, but I’d rather risk losing my place in society than be forced to stay in this marriage with you.”
SOCIETY AS WE’VE KNOWN IT
1894–1908
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Alva
NEW YORK, 1894
For the past year, Alva and Willie had been living separate lives. He’d moved out, and other than to see the children, he hadn’t been back to Petit Chateau or Marble House.
Duchy’s best and numerous attempts to apologize hadn’t changed a thing. There weren’t enough tears or begging, nor enough telegrams or letters for redemption. As far as Alva was concerned, the friendship was irreparable. She knew the anger and bitterness would eventually burn itself out of her, leaving behind a heap of sadness that she wanted to put off for as long as possible. Sadness would turn her soft and more likely to forgive, and neither one of them was deserving of that. Especially not Duchy. In fact, she thought Duchy’s betrayal was worse than Willie’s. Friends didn’t do that to friends.
She thought about Willie’s friendship with Oliver. At first she blamed the kiss on the wine and thought she was getting even with Willie for his affair with her best friend. But deep down Alva knew that kissing Oliver wasn’t an act of drunken revenge. It had been real. And magical. Even now, his kisses stirred her to the core. What she felt for Oliver was part emotional salve and part raw desire for a man who had sneaked up on her and stolen her heart. She wanted a future with him, and that alone gave her the courage to go through with her plans.
But divorce was harder than she’d expected. Her own lawyer had tried talking her out of it, claiming it would harm her reputation more than her husband’s. If you divorce him, there won’t be a hostess in all of New York or Newport who will welcome you into her home . . .
Alva knew certain women would not have approved of her divorcing her husband. She’d been exp
ecting that and had prepared herself for it as best she could. What she was not at all prepared for, however, was a visit she received one day from Tessie and Mamie. At first she’d been so pleased to see them, but when they refused to even step inside her house, she felt suddenly clammy and cold.
“I’ll make this brief,” Tessie had said. “Given the news of your divorce, we, all of us”—she gestured as if to an imaginary chorus of women—“have agreed that your company is no longer welcome at our upcoming teas or parties.”
“Oh, and you needn’t bother replying to any recent invitations,” said Mamie. “Your name has already been removed from our guest lists.”
Alva had felt her face turning red, but she didn’t crack. She couldn’t afford to. “In that case,” she had said, clearing her throat, “I suggest you take your leave before I have you thrown off my property.”
That had only been the start of it. Alva couldn’t make it through a day without being rebuffed. Even a simple visit to A. T. Stewart & Company had resulted in a public shaming. One day, under the dome of the grand emporium on the sixth floor, Alva was all too aware of the women with their hand fans up, covering their mouths while they whispered back and forth about her. And then it was Peggy Cavendish, of all people, who came forward and said in a loud, stuttering voice, “H-h-how dare y-y-you march in h-h-here as if y-y-you’ve d-d-done nothing w-w-wrong.”
Alva turned, shoulders back, her chin held high as she took painfully slow measured steps out of the emporium. When she reached the mezzanine, she doubled over, her face slick with tears.
She didn’t understand why they were so offended by her. Especially when for every one woman who criticized her, there were two more suffering in their own loveless marriages. How many wives had been humiliated and heartbroken by their husbands’ adultery? Hadn’t they all heard the stories about the first John Jacob Astor having orgies in his house with his wife sleeping upstairs? What about Charlotte Astor Drayton—was she the only woman who longed for a man other than her husband? Or just the only one brave enough to pursue him? Couldn’t they appreciate that Alva had taken it upon herself to be the first—that if she could divorce her husband, they could divorce theirs, too?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Society
Each day we read more about Alva and Willie’s divorce, skipping over news of the current financial crisis for which there seems to be no end in sight. Not that you’d know it to look at us. The depression certainly isn’t causing us to curb our appetite for the finer things. If anything, we seem to be indulging more than ever before.
Many of us were at Carrie Astor Wilson’s Hat Ball, where we arrived in the most original hats imaginable. One gentleman’s top hat was three feet high; another woman’s plumes were so enormous, they got tangled in a chandelier and had to be cut free. And not to be outdone, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Clews threw a Servants Ball, where we dressed in carefully designed rags made of satin and silk. Many of us ladies carried buckets as evening bags while the men converted brooms into walking sticks. Then Tessie Oelrichs threw her Bal Blanc, where she served only white food and displayed only white flowers. We ladies dressed in all white, including white wigs, and the gentlemen were restricted to wearing solid black. If one of the men appeared in a white shirt, or carried white gloves, he was turned away at the door.
Following suit, there was the Rouge Ball, the Royal Blue Ball and a ball dedicated to just about every other shade imaginable. It kept us quite busy with our dressmakers. With all the primary colors taken, Puss decided to do something truly original and hired an elephant for her ball and had given each of us a fourteen-karat-gold bucket filled with peanuts so we could feed the animal as it trudged past us.
Perhaps one of the most unique entertainments of all was the Dog Ball, thrown by the flamboyant Harry Lehr. The Field Spaniels, English Setters, Fox Terriers, Saint Bernards and Great Danes arrived with diamond collars, satin bow ties, and hats perched between their ears. With the dogs gathered around a table off to the side, we owners looked on while the pets slurped from individual water and food bowls. One of the little Pointers overindulged on the mutton and passed out under the table. Aside from some attempted mating caused by a Spaniel in heat, and an accident by an overly excited Collie, the Dog Ball had been a huge success and the talk of the town.
We can hardly imagine who or what will top that, but we know something even bigger, even more outrageous must surely be in the works.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Alva
Once upon a time the press had adored and celebrated Alva. But no more. The very people who had built her up and helped to establish her in society were now first in line to tear her down. She could hardly believe the things they’d written about her—saying she was greedy and ruthless, a conniving liar. They urged other women not to follow her example, claiming it would destroy the institution of marriage and do irreversible damage to the American family.
Alva took Mamie and Tessie’s advice and stopped attending all social functions, losing the nerve to show her face in public. And by then, the usual onslaught of invitations had come to a screeching halt anyway.
Oliver said he didn’t mind and she was inclined to believe him. As far as he was concerned, they could run away to Europe until the whole thing blew over, or else stay in night after night. He just wanted to be with her. He didn’t care if she was a socialite or not. He might not have cared, but she did. Alva spiraled downward, staying in bed most of the day, not bothering to join the children for luncheon like she normally did. There were times she wondered if it was all worth it, if she would have been better off staying in the marriage. And yet, she’d gone this far; she couldn’t undo the damage to her reputation.
One day Alva’s sisters, even Julia, arrived at Petit Chateau. They’d come to rally around her, hoping to cheer her up and take her mind off things.
“When was the last time you left the house?” asked Jennie.
“Get your hat and gloves,” said Armide. “You’re coming with us.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” said Julia, taking her hand.
They went on foot, walking through lower Manhattan, traversing streets she’d never been down before, Pearl Street and then Doyers. It was filthy: piles of manure everywhere, rubbish flying about, dirty-faced children playing in the street. A crude, crooked sidewalk of broken stone was overgrown with furry moss, and the scent of burning leaves hung all around them.
They ended up at a rickety building, covered in sooty-looking limestone with a rust stain running down the side caused by a leaking pipe. They entered and were led downstairs to a room packed with men and women sitting on long hard benches. The air smelled of cedar and cigars, though Alva didn’t see anyone smoking at the time. A man was standing up at the front of the room, talking about an eight-hour workday and giving instructions for a protest the following day.
Alva looked around at the people, especially the women, their faces hardened, eyes bloodshot with dark circles underneath. She imagined they were chambermaids, or maybe seamstresses working in crowded, dirty factories. They wanted an eight-hour day, and she wondered how many hours a day they were working now. She pictured them standing on their feet or, worse yet, down on their knees scrubbing floors, cleaning up rich people’s messes. She felt guilty—like she was the enemy—but she also felt inspired because these people weren’t sitting back feeling sorry for themselves. They weren’t victims. They were at least trying to do something about it.
“And you mean to tell me,” Alva said on their walk home, “that there’s meetings like that going on all over the city? Everyone was so energized in there!”
“See,” Julia laughed, “there’s more to life than your stuffy dinner parties and fancy balls.”
Over the course of the next week, Alva’s sisters took her to poetry readings, and lectures on everything from ending monopolies to the suffrag
e movement. She found it all so interesting, fascinating really. It was like scaling a wall and peeking over the hedge where a new world awaited—such possibilities on that other side.
Eventually, though, her sisters, one by one, were called back to their lives in Mobile, in New Jersey and in Brooklyn. Without them, when left on her own, Alva regressed to that dark place where they’d found her.
As the days and weeks passed, she realized that life—especially society—was getting on just fine without her. She read about all the balls and wondered if people even remembered that she’d started the trend of themed balls more than a decade ago with her masquerade ball. Did they recognize that it had been her ingenuity and creativity that had inspired it all?
The gossip columnists couldn’t get enough of these parties. While the front page of every newspaper reported on the devastating economic depression, the society news sections were devoted to grandiose entertaining. Alva tried to imagine all the people—some of the people she’d met with her sisters—crowded into boarding rooms and tenement houses, reading about these lavish balls and nine-course meals when they could barely afford to feed themselves. There was more coverage given to their fashions and antics than to the anarchists and populists criticizing the rich, underscoring the growing disparity between the haves and have-nots.
What Alva found most ironic was that as the divide between rich and poor widened, the chasm between the Knickerbockers and the nouveau riche seemed to be narrowing. The more Mrs. Astor tried to keep the two separate, the more women like Alva had forced both halves together. They were becoming one, a high society united against the critical and hostile masses.
Though she found herself back on the outside looking in, Alva recognized that society had entered a whole new tier of extravagance, one that even the wealthiest among them would never be able to sustain. She wondered if the conspicuous consumption they feasted upon would be the very thing that would eventually choke the life out of them.
