What Willie was expected to think was obvious and Willie didn’t let him down. He whistled appreciatively.
‘Land’s sake, Alex! You let your father die thinking that you’d married an Irish emigrant …’ He shook his head, hardly able to believe Alexander’s audacity.
‘He deserved to die believing that.’
There was no mistaking the ring of truth in his last few words. He was beginning to feel nauseous. If he wanted to, there was still time for him to backtrack. He could tell Willie he had merely been pulling his leg. That the joke was on him, not anyone else. That of course he and Maura were legally married. That only an idiot would believe otherwise.
He didn’t do so. If he was feeling sick, then it was because the Union Club was notoriously airless. There was no reason at all for him to feel sick about what he was now doing. His marriage to Maura had cost him dear and it hadn’t cost Maura anything. If she hadn’t married him she would be living in one of the goddamned tenements she ranted on about so often, earning her living in one of the many sweatshops. As it was, she was living in the lap of luxury, her whole lifestyle transformed. He had been King Cophetua to her beggar-maid. She owed everything to him, and it wasn’t just that she should have gained so much, when he had paid so dear. All he wanted was for his social life to continue in the way that it had done prior to his marriage. If the price to be paid was for New York’s élite to believe that she was his mistress, not his wife, what difference did it make? He had no intention of leaving Maura or abandoning her. They knew they were legally married and that was all that really mattered.
‘It’s had unfortunate side-effects,’ he said, plunging deeper with a studiedly careless shrug. ‘Even Ariadne has crossed me off her list …’
Willie looked uncomfortable, ‘Can’t blame her, old buddy. She couldn’t invite you and not your wife, could she? And there was no way she could invite an Irish peasant into her home.’
Alexander was sorely tempted to point out that Maura was not remotely a peasant, but to do so would be to allow himself to be dangerously side-tracked.
‘No, but she could draw the line at ostracizing me because of a mistress,’ he said reasonably. ‘If every man in New York society was treated in the same way, the only man left to invite to any thrash would be old Henry Schermerhorn and your father.’
Willie laughed. ‘If you really want to be at Ariadne’s thrash I’ll drop her a word about the true state of your personal affairs. She’s more than a little on the wild side herself. If anyone will appreciate you pulling such a stunt, Ariadne will.’
Alexander strode on towards Madison Square. That had been all he had needed to do. The invitation had been hand-delivered two days later.
He thought about the repercussions that were bound to follow. Maura would be devastated. He walked towards the intersection with East 26th Street. That would be if she found out. When his social life picked up momentum and no invites were extended to herself, surely he could explain it away somehow? It wasn’t healthy for a wife to live in a husband’s pocket anyhow. And if it wasn’t possible to keep the truth from her? The answer came speedily and glibly. She would just have to accept that she had gained immeasurably by their marriage and he had lost and that it wasn’t fair. That a balance had to be struck, no matter how unpleasant the cost to her pride.
He was nearing the mansion that had once been Genevre’s home. He began to slow down, staring up at it bleak-eyed. If Genevre had lived he wouldn’t be in his present dilemma. He would never have met Maura; never have married her. He wouldn’t be now suffering pangs of guilt for trying to re-establish the Karolyis name in high society.
The snow had stopped and for the first time he realized how damp and numbingly cold he was. The sensible thing to do was to wave down a hansom and return home to bathe and change. He hesitated. If he returned home he would have to face Maura. He remembered her bewilderment when he had rounded on her in the billiard-room in guilty anger. He didn’t want to go home. If he went home his guilt would be compounded by shame.
He resumed walking north. The Knickerbocker Club was only another two blocks away. He would remain there for the rest of the day and have an evening suit brought in. Then he would leave from the Knickerbocker for the Brevoort mansion and the birthday ball.
Within seconds of Maura pulling the bell-rope help had been at hand. A housemaid had run in haste to find Miriam. A footman had sent immediately for the doctor and midwife. Stephen Fassbinder had been summoned and was making frantic efforts to trace Alexander’s whereabouts.
‘Will it matter that the baby is two weeks early?’ Maura asked Miriam anxiously as Miriam helped her up the grand staircase.
‘Not in the least, madam,’ Miriam said briskly, praying to God that she was right. ‘Babies don’t come unless they are ready and this one is obviously ready.’
Another pain came and Maura held tightly on to the banister-rail. Two weeks. Had she been out in her calculations? She dismissed the thought almost instantly. They had first made love at Tarna in the middle of June and it was now the last week in February. The baby couldn’t have been conceived any earlier. It could only have been conceived later.
The pain began to recede and with Miriam’s arm around and supporting her, she climbed the last of the stairs and made her way along the crimson-carpeted corridor to the master bedroom she shared with Alexander.
Despite her anxiety over the baby’s impending early arrival and her distress at Alexander’s hurtful and incomprehensible anger, she felt a glimmer of amusement as she remembered how startled he had been when she had first suggested that they share a bedroom. At Tarna they had always shared a bedroom, having only separate bathrooms and separate dressing-rooms. In New York it was customary for husbands and wives to have separate suites entirely and Alexander had obviously felt he was breaking barriers when he had agreed with her that a shared bedroom would be far pleasanter.
Once in the room Maura held on to the back of a chair while Miriam and a housemaid began to speedily strip the bed of its silken sheets and remake it with scrupulously laundered linen ones.
‘How long do you think it will be before the baby is born?’ she asked as Miriam began to lay out the cotton nightdress that had been set aside for the birth.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea, madam,’ Miriam said truthfully. ‘Some babies come in a few hours, others take a day or more.’
As Miriam began to unbutton her dress for her, Maura felt a flicker of relief. If the baby wasn’t going to be born for hours and hours then she had no need to fear it being born before Alexander was informed and before he returned to the house.
‘You have asked Mr Fassbinder to send me word the instant he locates Mr Karolyis, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, madam. A maid will bring news immediately there is any.’
Maura allowed Miriam to ease the nightdress over her head and to help her into the high, vast bed. Where on earth had Alexander gone?
Another pain came and when it began to recede she said a little breathlessly, ‘Tell Mr Fassbinder to send messages to Mr Charles Schermerhorn’s home and Mr Henry Schermerhorn’s home.’
‘I believe he has done so already, madam.’
Maura tried to think where else Alexander might be. He had been spending a lot of time lately in both the Hone Club and the Union Club.
‘And then there are the clubs,’ she said, wanting him to be nearby more than she had ever wanted anything. ‘The Hone Club, the Union Club …’
There was a brisk knock on the door and the maid opened it to the doctor.
‘I’ll make sure Mr Fassbinder tries everywhere, madam,’ Miriam said reassuringly.
Behind her the doctor cleared his throat. She squeezed Maura’s hand comfortingly and obeyed the unspoken command to leave the room.
Alexander was tempted to get drunk, but remembering the importance of his appearance at the birthday ball, refrained from doing so with difficulty.
John Jacob Astor III was in the
club and he found it frighteningly easy to feed Astor the same misinformation he had previously fed Willie Rhinelander.
By the time he left for the Brevoort mansion he had spoken to so many people that there was no possibility of turning back. Reception to his broad hints as to the invalidity of his marriage had been unanimous. No-one had wanted to cut him in the first place. It had been a necessity imposed on by wives who couldn’t possibly be expected to extend social invitations to an Irish-Catholic immigrant. If the marriage aboard ship had been a sham then there was no problem. A man’s mistresses were his own affair and wives were expected to behave as though they didn’t exist.
For reasons he didn’t disclose John Jacob also departed for the Brevoort Ball from the Knickerbocker. Alexander adjusted the gardenia in his lapel as the Astor brougham traversed the slippery, snowy streets and John Jacob said, speaking as one landlord to another: ‘If you hang onto New York City land long enough, Alex, the value will go up. It has to, even if you don’t do a damn thing to it.’
Alexander wondered whether to bring up the subject of the Citizens’Association and decided against it. He was sick to death of hearing about it and besides, he knew why John Jacob had joined forces with it. It was to look after his own interests. Perhaps he should have joined himself, for the same reasons. It would at least have kept Maura quiet for a while.
As the coachman reined the horses in he wished again that she had never burst in on him in the billiard-room. If she hadn’t done so, if she hadn’t been so full of euphoria over the idea of his squandering a fortune on the ungrateful Irish, then he might very well have decided not to attend the birthday ball. He wouldn’t have gone to the Knickerbocker. He wouldn’t have set in circulation the story about their marriage being nothing but a charade. Willie would have known of it, but he could have squared it with Willie.
By the time he stepped out of the brougham on to the red carpet that had been rolled across the scrupulously snow-cleared sidewalk, he had convinced himself that the responsibility for everything he had done or said lay firmly at Maura’s door.
With his conscience salved he entered the brilliantly lit mansion, determined to enjoy himself; determined that no-one would snub him, no matter what the cost.
‘One more push,’ the doctor was saying encouragingly to Maura. ‘Just one more push and it will all be over.’
Maura groaned, sweat beading her face. No-one had knocked at the bedroom door with the comforting information that Alexander was only rooms away. Where was he? Was he in the house? Did he know the baby was about to arrive?
She clenched her hands into fists and took in a deep, shuddering breath. One last push. One last push and their baby would be born.
‘You’re a very naughty boy,’ Ariadne Brevoort was saying, tapping Alexander playfully on the shoulder with her eagle-feathered fan. ‘The invitation cards said quite clearly that guests were to wear fancy dress.’
Despite her heavy-lidded eyes she looked enormously fetching. Her auburn hair was powdered and piled high in an elaborate confection of curls and ringlets, crowned by a diamond tiara. Her off-the-shoulder, wide-hooped, royal purple ball dress was lavishly embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis. There were diamonds at her throat and her ears and more diamonds at her wrists.
‘Astor didn’t come in fancy dress,’ Alexander pointed out reasonably, not in the least fazed.
Ariadne wrinkled her beautiful aristocratic nose. ‘Astor is a bore,’ she said succinctly.
Alexander didn’t disagree with her. He was trying to remember how much older she was than himself. Five years? Six? The orchestra began to play a waltz and he said suddenly, ‘Would you like to dance?’
Beneath the slumbrous lids her eyes gleamed. ‘Don’t be silly, Alexander. I’m the hostess. My card is full.’
‘If you’re the hostess you can dance with who you want, when you want,’ and knowing he would meet with no resistance he led her out on to the ballroom floor.
‘It’s a boy, madam,’ the midwife said with deep satisfaction as she eased the squalling baby from the birth canal and on to the bed.
Maura sank exhaustedly against her pillows, bathed in sweat. A boy. She hadn’t cared whether the baby was a boy or a girl, but Alexander would be pleased that their first-born was a boy.
‘Is he all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is he big enough?’
The midwife cast a practised eye over the little red and wrinkled bundle of humanity.
‘Six pounds or so I would say, wouldn’t you, doctor?’ she said, wiping mucus from the baby’s face.
The doctor nodded in agreement. It had been a straightforward birth and he was well pleased. The baby was healthy and lusty and if six pounds was a little small, it was not so small as to give cause for anxiety.
‘Can I hold him?’ Maura asked eagerly. ‘Oh please, can I hold him?’
‘The umbilical cord hasn’t been cut yet, madam,’ the midwife said, enjoying her position of importance. ‘Then he’ll need to be bathed. Then you can hold him.’
‘Willie told me that the accounts of you having married in the middle of the Atlantic were greatly exaggerated,’ Ariadne said as Alexander waltzed her around her sumptuously decorated and crowded ballroom with practised ease.
‘Did he?’ Alexander asked with careless indifference.
Ariadne slid her arm a little higher on his shoulder. There was a devil-may-care negligence about Alexander Karolyis that had always attracted her. Before she had married he had been far too young for her to have considered him as a likely beau. Now he was twenty-two and old enough, and rich enough, to be highly eligible.
‘He thinks you’ve probably begun to find your little Paddylander a trifle boring.’
Alexander’s jaw tightened. Dear God in heaven but one of these days he would deck Willie Rhinelander.
‘I’m not boring,’ Ariadne said insinuatingly.
The invitation was unmistakable and incredibly he felt a rising in his crotch. The birthday widow was making a pass at him, for Christ’s sake! Just wait till he told Charlie!
‘What are you going to call him, madam?’ the midwife asked as she laid the freshly bathed and shawl-wrapped baby in Maura’s arms.
‘I’m not sure.’ She looked down lovingly at her son. ‘My husband will decide.’
His hair was as black and as glossy as Alexander’s. The eyes looking steadfastly up into her own were blue, but she had heard that all babies were born with blue eyes. Perhaps they would change later. Perhaps they would turn dark grey, like Alexander’s.
‘Hallo,’ she said tenderly to him. ‘I’m your mama.’
The baby made a tiny, appreciative sound.
‘He’s hungry,’ the midwife said knowledgeably. ‘He wants putting to the breast.’
Maura obediently lifted him higher, towards her nipple, knowing that the midwife was wrong. The little sound the baby had made hadn’t been one indicating hunger. He had been telling her that he knew she was his mama, and that he was glad.
It was after breakfast before Alexander returned home. As well as providing three different orchestras for her guests to dance to, Ariadne had arranged for Miss Adelina Patti to sing to them and a troupe of ballerinas from the opera to dance for them. A banquet had followed at which delicately seasoned ortolans had held pride of place. The champagne had been of the finest and after supper there had been more dancing, an award for the most elegant costume, a poetic recital by Madame Rejane and dancing again. By the time the ball had come to a close the sun had risen and breakfast had then been served.
It was a fraught Stephen Fassbinder who hurried into the entrance hall to greet him when he arrived home and who broke the news to him that his son had been born.
Alexander threw his newly acquired evening cloak and top hat in the direction of the nearest footman.
‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you get word to me?’ he demanded, striding towards the grand staircase.
‘I tried to, sir. I tried everywhere.’ Stephe
n had to half-run to keep up with him. ‘Do you want me to arrange for flowers, sir?’
‘Jesus God! Haven’t you done so already? Of course I want you to arrange for flowers!’
He sprinted up the staircase, taking the stairs two and three at a time. A son! And while he had been being born he had been waltzing Ariadne Brevoort around a ballroom floor. He dismissed the unpalatable thought from his mind. He wasn’t to have known. The baby hadn’t been due for another two weeks. Lots of babies were born without their father being near at hand.
He burst into the bedroom, scaring the nurse who was in attendance half to death.
‘Alexander!’ Maura’s face shone with relief and joy.
He crossed the room to her quickly, kissing her on the mouth. In a crib at the far side of the room the baby mewled.
He lifted his head from hers, looking across to the source of the noise with a look of wonder.
‘It’s a boy,’ Maura said radiantly. ‘And he’s perfect.’
Slowly Alexander walked across the room to the lace-draped crib. He looked down at the baby and the baby looked up at him. Ridiculously, Alexander found himself wanting to cry. It was the most magical, most wonderful moment in his life.
‘The doctor asked me what name we were going to give him and I told him that I didn’t know yet. That I was waiting for you to decide.’
The subject was one that had often been raised but whenever it had, Alexander had always said that he found the concept of naming someone who was as yet unknown to him, too difficult. He wanted to see the baby first.
Now he said: ‘Felix. He looks like a Felix.’
She had expected him to say Alexander or Victor.
‘Shall we call him Felix Alexander?’ she asked, wanting the baby to share his name.
He didn’t turn towards her. He was still looking down at his son, enraptured.
‘Felix Alexander Victor,’ he said, so full of goodwill to all men that it didn’t seem odd to him he should be giving his father’s name to a child who had been born as a result of their vendetta.
An Embarrassment of Riches Page 34