Mr. McAllister had not wished to set Alva’s expectations too high; this was understandable. However, there were no two less offensive individuals of quality in all of New York than William and herself, and Mrs. Astor, if she was as wise and discriminating as her reputation would have one believe, would happily welcome them into the fold.
By eleven o’clock, when William and Alva arrived, three hundred guests were crowded into Delmonico’s dining-room-cum-ballroom, its perimeter lined with chairs, its floor milk-polished to a perfect sheen. A chamber orchestra performed from a narrow gallery above. Attendees mingled, too, in an adjacent salon, where Chef Ranhofer would lay a delectable supper in buffet style.
Alva spotted Mr. McAllister in conversation nearby. As with the other gentlemen, he wore a starched white shirt and collar and white silk tie inside a cutaway black tailcoat, along with a black top hat. Unlike the others’, his waistcoat was pale yellow—an unexpected choice for such a conservative event. She suspected he would like to be able to powder his shining brow and cheeks and chin and nose the way the ladies did, and the Frenchmen of the old days. The French court would have been a far better fit for him—though he was making do nicely in Caroline Astor’s ersatz monarchy.
He hurried over to greet the couple. “Good evening to you both!” Standing back to behold Alva, he said, “What a perfectly understated gown! Garnet is a bit darker than I advised, but I must say, it suits you very well. The tone-on-tone trimming is quite subtle—did I not tell you Miss Donovan would do right? And that neckline—very tasteful!” Her train, too, was modest, with no balayeuse. Rather, she looped it over her wrist in the traditional manner. Mr. McAllister said, “Miss Smith, you’ve done me proud—and you, sir,” he said to William, who anyone would say was le plus beau, “you give a fine presentation, my young friend. Fine indeed.”
William bowed. “Thank you—and for the invitation as well.”
“Of course! I thought, who is more deserving than the gentleman who managed to catch New York’s most eligible young lady? And here you are, impressing me further.”
Alva wanted to kiss him.
“You’re quite dapper yourself,” she said.
“I went to Matthew Rock for this suit and paid fifty dollars, a travesty of a price. In London I would pay half that—though I would of course have to go to London to accomplish this, and there’s simply been no time, of late, for travel! In addition to directing the programs for the Martha Washington Reception and Old Guard Ball and the ball of the Société Français L’Amitié, I was thick in the planning for tonight. It’s the capstone event for the winter season, don’t you know. I couldn’t very well leave it to someone whose interest isn’t vested. But how I do go on! Come, let me present you to Mrs. Astor. I expect a good result: wine has been flowing all evening—an Italian Piedmont varietal from before unification—’52, I believe it is, a particularly favorable year for the Nebbiolo grape, according to the chef.”
Mr. McAllister led the couple to where Caroline Astor was seated on the dais conversing with Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Dresser. As evidenced by Mrs. Astor’s high color and slightly unfocused smile, she was indeed enjoying the wine.
“Allow me to present Miss Alva Smith and Mr. William K. Vanderbilt, who are to be wed in the spring.”
William bowed and Alva extended her hand—and Caroline Astor, without looking at either of them, turned to Mrs. Cooper and said, “And tell me, my dear, how did you find the coffee in Calcutta? Was it astonishing or terrible? I have heard accounts on both sides of the matter.”
Alva felt her color rising to match her gown. She hadn’t expected an embrace, but this? This was not called for! How incredibly insulting—how hurtful, and what reason could the woman have for such behavior? She, Alva, was a perfectly nice, perfectly turned out young lady of good reputation who had received a legitimate invitation to this ball. Her fiancé was her counterpart in every aspect.
As she was about to say as much, Mr. McAllister deftly took her by the elbow and turned her away, giving William a look that said to follow.
In Alva’s ear he said, “She’s being boorish, but you mustn’t react. I told you, this is an incursion. Rise, Miss Smith, float, stay above it all, show everyone else here how dignified you are. Demonstrate your refined manners.”
Alva raised her chin, collected herself, smiled at her fiancé, and said in a clear loud sympathetic tone, easily heard by everyone around them, “How unfortunate that Mrs. Astor’s hearing and sight are failing so.”
Mr. McAllister did not wait for responses from others before moving Alva toward the buffet, saying to her as they walked, “Heavens. That was quite unexpected, my dear! I must say, anyone who claims to be bored by society is simply not paying sufficient attention. The fates of empires have turned on dramas such as this!”
Alva felt sick. Her pride had again gotten the better of her. She had set out so hopefully this evening, imagining they might win over Mrs. Astor. She should have taken Mr. McAllister’s caution to heart.
Yet, when she glanced at William she saw undisguised admiration. Others around them wore similar expressions.
William told her, “Wait until the Commodore and Father hear about this! Please, allow me to get you some champagne.”
VI
ON A MID-APRIL afternoon, Alva set out to meet Mrs. Vanderbilt at the Forty-fourth Street house, which she had not been allowed to see the inside of until today. Rather, she had been directed to keep her attention on the wedding preparations and leave the house to her future mother-in-law.
Alva had seen nothing, too, of William since the end of winter season. He and a group of his friends had sailed with Gordon Bennett to St. Augustine. He’d been writing her short dispatches on two-penny postal cards and sending them from port towns along the way. Glorious day at sea! Thinking of you. And, I mean to get myself one of these and name her Alva! And Mother writes of a surprise for you. She is so good with daughters. And the last she’d gotten: Home next week. Do you miss me? Not long to wait now.
She’d sent her replies care of the St. Augustine post office. Likely he’d gotten several at once. Enjoy the waves! And Signs of spring this week: warm breezes, budding trees!
Insipid missives, but what else could she write?
—What’s your favorite color?
—I once held my breath for so long that Maman smacked me to make me breathe.
—Do you know what to do on our wedding night? Do you know how to do it?
Because no, she did not miss him. If she was impatient for his return, that impatience was to have the wedding (and wedding night) done, the marriage secured, all of the associated changes made. After five years of managing one crisis after the next—their exile from Paris, her mother’s illness and death, her father’s illness, their loss of fortune, the constant strain of trying for a worthwhile husband—Alva wanted simply to feel settled and safe.
“Hello!” Mrs. Vanderbilt called, waving from the doorway of the four-story townhouse. The building, done in brownstone, was narrow and plain, unexceptional in every aspect, but relatively new and pleasing enough outside. (Beggars should not attempt to also be choosers.) The street was pleasing, too, abutting Fifth Avenue on one end, Sixth on the other. A sidewalk was laid with brick, and the street was graded well, with few ruts. Young maple trees sported their early leaves, lime green in the sun.
“Hello there!” Alva hurried up the steps. “I was just taking it in. What a charming place!”
“Isn’t it? I do hope the two of you will be content here. I want all of my children to be content. It’s a lot to ask for, isn’t it? With so much upheaval, so many changes happening so quickly nowadays.” She kissed Alva. “Never mind me. Come in!”
In the parlor, six servants awaited them shoulder to shoulder in a line, all at attention. As Mrs. Vanderbilt introduced each individual, that person glanced at Alva, nodded, and either bowed or curtsied. First, the butler and the housekeeper, who had been promoted from other Vanderbilt homes. Then t
he cook, a footman, and a housemaid. At the end was Lulu’s daughter Mary, who smiled nervously. In this lineup, she seemed darker than Alva had thought. Perhaps it was the contrast; the housemaid, an Irish girl named Bridget, was as pale and pink as fresh snow at dawn.
“It is very good to meet you,” Alva said. “Except Mary, that is—I’ve known Mary her entire life. Her mother keeps house for us—for my father, that is. But you should be pleased to know her.”
These six people would comprise Alva’s everyday existence. Their welfare would be her responsibility, and hers would be theirs. Harmony was necessary. Authority, wielded properly, created harmony. And so, feeling awkward and young and very much the impostor, she continued, “I’m hopeful that you will treat one another with respect and kindness, so that this home is a pleasant place for everyone in it. Each of you is essential to me. To us—that is, Mr. Vanderbilt and myself—and to the smooth operation of the household.”
Her face felt hot; she had gone on too long. So she adopted a severe tone and added, “Most importantly, I will not tolerate … hippopotamuses; anyone found in possession of a hippopotamus will be summarily executed, without a trial.”
They smiled, thank God, and Alva asked Mrs. Vanderbilt to show her the house.
After leading her through the well-appointed first-floor rooms, Mrs. Vanderbilt moved toward the stairs. “I’m eager for you to see your bedroom. Lila and I put particular thought into getting it just so.”
The room, at the far left of the landing, had windows facing the street. From here, one could see the entire five-acre Croton Reservoir. Nearer, at the Forty-fourth Street corner of Fifth, was the site of what had been the Colored Orphan Asylum, attacked and burned by rioters protesting the ’63 draft. Alva had been astonished at the brutalities inflicted upon those children. Children! Attacked because they had the same skin color as the people white men had enslaved and a president then declared should not be enslaved, and Southern slave owners didn’t like being told what they shouldn’t do and started a war that then required poor white Northern men to be drafted to fight. Angry white men who took out their anger on defenseless Negro children. Men who called themselves Christians. She did not blame them for not wishing to fight a war they had no stake in, but their actions were inexcusable. She was glad to have a view that would remind her of what angry men were capable of doing, a reminder not to take her good fortune and the safety it brought for granted.
The bedroom windows were done up in fuchsia-and-white-striped chintz, as were the lower walls, as was the dressing table, as was the bed and its canopy. Alva hated it.
“It’s lovely!” she said.
Mrs. Vanderbilt gave a relieved smile. “I’m so glad you think so. You should be comfortable here.”
“Without question. How thoughtful of you to go to so much trouble on my behalf. I don’t deserve a bit of it, but I am more grateful than I can say.”
This was the truth, at least.
* * *
Dressed in her mother’s expertly amended wedding gown, Alva went to her father’s room to say good-bye.
He sat up and looked her over. “Phoebe…”
“No, it’s Alva, Daddy. Your daughter.”
He blinked, confused, and squinted at her. “I…” He rubbed his face, blinked again, sat back against his pillows. He continued to stare, and in another moment or two, recognition came. “Ah, yes. Alva.” He paused. “Is it your wedding day?”
“It is, yes. Good.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m leaving in a minute for the church.”
“Can you forgive me for missing it?”
“Daddy, shhh. I know you would come if you could.”
“It’s a shame your mother isn’t here for this,” he said. “You look like her, in that dress.”
Miss Donovan had reduced the skirt, removing two tiers of furbelow and shaping it to accommodate a bustle, then added a white train made from delicate, almost sheer silk. She’d created cap sleeves and trimmed the neckline with the same white silk as the train. There was not a bow or ribbon or bit of lace, but it was, as promised, sublime. In it, Alva could almost feel herself the fairy-tale bride she once imagined she would be.
She whispered, “I do, I know,” and kissed him.
Armide was waiting in the hallway downstairs with Lulu, who handed Alva a flower bouquet. “No goldenrod,” she said.
Alva smiled. “Lulu, I’m going to miss having you to boss me.”
“Now you’ll boss yourself. I remember that day you climbed up on that fountain at the Tuileries Garden and put your arms out wide. I guess you were about ten years old. You said, ‘I’m going to be empress!’ and then you turned in a circle and fell backward right into the pool. Another child woulda cried, but you, huh-uh, you just stood right up in your sopping dress and your hair all hangin’ over your face and said, ‘Une serviette, Lulu, s’il vous plait.’”
Alva laughed. “I don’t remember this at all. You’re making it up.”
“Not a bit of it. Go on now, the Vanderbilts’ coachman is out there and he doesn’t have all day.”
“Of course,” Alva said, nodding. She drew a deep breath and then let it out, saying, “So long. Mary and I will send you postcards from Saratoga Springs!”
When the sisters arrived at the church, Consuelo was waiting in the nave with her father, who was standing in for Mr. Smith. She took Alva’s hand while Armide went to join Jenny, Julia, and the other bridesmaids inside.
“You look radiant!” Consuelo said. “Could it be that you’re actually in love?”
Alva let the question be rhetorical. Her radiance was a false advertisement. She felt none of the fluttery warmth Elizabeth Bennet came to have for her Mr. Darcy, no sense that this union was the alignment of kindred spirits in angelic harmony. If anything, she was having second thoughts about the wisdom of marriage—to anyone. Inside the chapel was an amiable but uninteresting gentleman who in a few minutes would, by the terms of God’s divine law and the laws of the country, own her. Whatever he believed was correct in regard to her keeping, he could enact. Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester believed his wife to be mad and put her away in his attic while he then pursued other women. If, some hours from now, when night had fallen and they were alone, William decided to rut (whatever it was), what could she do about it? Nothing. If he grew displeased with her in any way, he could lock her up or send her away. He could beat her.
He will not beat me, she thought. William Kissam Vanderbilt was a good man.
She ought to love him. In her place, at this liminal moment, Theresa Fair would be swooning in her regard for him. Well, probably her own swoon was delayed, that’s all. Being more grown-up and experienced than Miss Fair, she was less susceptible to all those things that set a young girl aflutter. The swoon would come later, when she’d had time to take the full measure of William and he of her. Then they would be gloriously content with each other.
The organist began to play. “Here we go,” Consuelo said as the doors opened before them. She proceeded up the aisle.
The pews held hundreds of splendid beings, all of them turned out in their best springtime attire. White ribbon bows and floral sprays were displayed at every row. The bridesmaids were beautiful, the groomsmen impeccably turned out, William the very picture of enthusiasm. After the service, they would receive scores of guests at her in-laws’ home. A team of six would take William and herself in a beribboned coach from the church to the house, and then to Grand Central, where they would board a private Vanderbilt train carriage to Saratoga Springs. A happy start to a happy life.
Mr. Yznaga put his arm through hers. “Shall we?”
Suppose her rapid pulse and nervous breathing indicated not only eagerness but love, too, and she hadn’t yet learned to recognize it. And William—what was he feeling right now? Suppose she went through the doors and up the aisle to find that while she had been occupied with the business of winning over his family and surviving the delay and securing his confidence and planning the wedding,
William had fallen desperately in love with her? The real test of this was not the vows they were about to swear before God and all, but rather what would come at day’s end in the Saratoga Springs hotel.
* * *
When Alva and William were alone together—that is, left completely to their own devices, neither of them seemed to know what to do.
They had arrived at the Grand Union Hotel and gone inside. William signed the register, and they were shown to a suite of rooms. They removed their hats. Alva pulled off her gloves and clutched them. William’s hounds lay down near his feet. Mary and Maxwell, William’s valet, stood silently nearby.
“I suppose this is a good time,” he said, looking at her.
She waited. He seemed to be waiting, too.
“For…?”
William turned toward Maxwell. “The case,” he said.
“Oh. Yes.” Maxwell hurried out of the drawing room and into the bedroom William would use, then was back a moment later with a substantial wooden case the size of a shirt box.
William took the box. He held it out to Alva, saying, “A small gesture to mark the occasion. I hope you like it.”
She took the box. Cradling it in one arm, she opened the lid. Inside on a bed of midnight-blue velvet lay a coiled rope of glossy pearls. “My word,” she breathed.
William said, “You’ll especially enjoy their provenance: their first owner was Catherine the Great. More recently, they belonged to Empress Eugénie; I gather she had to give them up with her change of circumstance.”
“The empress—why, I believe I saw her wearing them! How in the world did you—?”
“The Commodore. I’d initially thought gemstones, but he recalled you speaking of your girlhood in France and put me on the hunt for something related to that. My grandfather is a man who sees details and opportunities. I merely acted on his advice. Though to give myself some credit: it did take some doing to find and procure what I very much hope is an ideal gift for you.”
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 8