“You had the good judgment to be guided, so in fact it is all to your credit. Now, you must tell me: I saw you speaking with Mrs. Astor, and the two of you appeared positively passionate for each other. What did you speak of for all that time?”
They’d been on a settee in the hall outside the ballroom, with a view from there of the dancing. “Oh, so many things,” Alva said. “This house, the various materials and furnishings I’d chosen, who I’d hired for the windows. The children. We spoke of her daughter’s performance in the quadrille, and the likelihood of a wedding to Mr. Wilson next spring. All the sorts of matters ladies discuss with one another.”
“Very good, very good! Just as it should be. Just as we hoped. Everyone here will have taken notice, and tomorrow they’ll all be remarking on how Mrs. Astor has embraced the Vanderbilts. In fact, when I spot one of the newspaper fellows, I’ll remark on this very thing.”
Though Caroline Astor had been performing (as Alva was) for the benefit of their observers, Alva could not accuse her of insincerity or of a grudging attitude: she was attending; therefore she was attending wholeheartedly, with every confidence in the correctness of her behavior. As they’d conversed, however, she became surprisingly candid. “Leading society is a heavy yoke,” she said. “A burden, at times. One does wish to sometimes share the weight.”
Alva kissed Ward’s cheek. “You are indispensable—and quite rakish in that getup, I might add. Thank you for all you’ve done. I think the only thing that could make me happier than I am right now is to be able to take off these shoes.”
“You can go sans souliers all day tomorrow and no one the wiser,” he said.
“Just now I’ve promised my husband a dance and haven’t yet made good. Go, enjoy more of that excellent wine. Let’s have luncheon together on Thursday and you can tell me all the gossip you’ve heard tonight.”
She left Ward and went for the stairway. As she descended, Oliver Belmont came up the stairs. There was no avoiding him now.
“Alva, I’d hoped to find you,” he said, meeting her at the landing.
“Are you having a good evening?”
“Dreadful,” he said, swaying a little as he spoke. “One of the worst.”
“You’re serious? I hardly know what to say.”
“Oh, do not mistake me. This ball is a tremendous success—the entire production is unrivaled in this country. In most countries, I’d wager. The food, flowers, musicians…” He gestured broadly, waving his arm. “And your Astor coup is all anyone can talk about tonight. There is not a wrong note in the entire composition.”
“Are you ill, then?”
He put his hand on her shoulder, leaned close, and said, “I am. Sick with regret.”
She stepped from his grasp, saying, “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“My wife hates me.” He clasped his hands behind him. “She claims I’m a brute.”
“Are you a brute?”
“Possibly. I was provoked, but that doesn’t excuse the way I raved at her and her mother.”
Alva was no counselor, especially not for this man and this marriage. Eager to escape him, she said as brightly as she could manage, “Don’t despair. The two of you are only getting started. It takes time to adjust to married life. Whatever’s troubling you can be resolved.”
“Can it? Sallie’s a selfish harridan who never really wanted anything to do with me beyond my money. And I am a cold, uncaring, faithless dog because I married her knowing I’d never give her true affection.”
Here came William up the stairs, calling, “I’m coming to claim my dance.” At the landing, he said, “My word, Belmont, look at you—one would think you were bound for the gallows.”
Alva said, “Oliver and his wife are at odds.”
“Eh? So the rumors are true?”
“Everyone in my family was against the marriage,” Oliver told them. “Now my father seems to almost take pleasure in reminding me that I’m rash, impulsive, and unreliable. He heard—as have others, it seems”—he nodded toward William—“that I’d taken a lover while on my honeymoon. When in fact all I took was a meander through Spain without my wife and her entourage—though with a good amount of absinthe.”
“You appear well greased tonight, too,” said William. He clapped Oliver on the back. “Come dance! It won’t cure the disease, but you’ll feel better.”
“I can think of hardly anything less compatible with my mood.”
William, glancing at Alva, said, “As you like. Do send my wife down before long, though. The court must have its queen.” He left them, skipping down the stairs like the eager boy he had always been.
Oliver watched him, saying, “He’s got all the luck, hasn’t he?” He turned to Alva. “It’s my wife who’s found a new intimate. And now I’m told that I’m to be a father. Or I should say that my wife is with child, the two not necessarily being alike.”
She could not remain unmoved. “Oh, Oliver, I am so sorry for you.”
“But I’ve made my bed—that’s what you aren’t saying, though you’d be correct in the assertion. I agree with it myself.”
He put a finger to his lips as if in thought—and then he put the same finger to Alva’s lips, startling her severely.
“Don’t—”
“Forgive me,” he said. “Though I’m not sorry for the action, only the offense. Had I only been a little older, I might have been at the Greenbrier the summer that Vanderbilt proposed marriage to you. I might have had a chance of my own—would I have? Tell me the truth.”
She could not look at him. “I wish only the best for you, you know that.”
“I do.”
“It will get better. You’ll see. You two can settle in, start fresh.” She moved for the stairs. “You and William can ride out sometime soon. He’ll have you to Idle Hour. There’s plenty for you to look forward to. Do try to enjoy the rest of the evening.”
She left him on the landing. What else was there for it? He was a good man but a lost one, too. He had made his bed. And she had made hers—made it here inside this wonderland of music and gaiety where the seemingly impossible had finally come to pass. She could not permit herself even a moment of regret.
VI
A MAN STANDS behind Alva, so close that she can feel his body’s heat on her bare neck and shoulders. His mouth is next to her ear, his breath hot against it. Surrounding the two of them are princesses and kings and knights and courtesans and court dandies and an array of dancers costumed as horses. “Alva,” the man says. His lips brush her ear, sending a thrill through her body, making her catch her breath. He puts his arm around her waist and turns her to face him, pulls up her skirt and pushes his hand between her thighs.
“Alva, I want—”
“Stop,” she says, pushing his hand away. Her mother will beat her if she catches them at this. But oh, how marvelous it would be—
“Breakfast has arrived, and a special treat, too.”
Mary. Daylight. A dream.
Alva pulled the covers over her head. “I’m not well. Come back later.”
“Oh. All right. Do you need a powder for pain? Should I send for the doctor? You ought to have some coffee, at least.”
Would the girl never stop talking? “Never mind,” Alva said, pushing the covers back. The dream was dissipating, as irretrievable for now as the minnows her son chased in the surf. Try again another day—that’s what she always told Willie when the time came for putting up the nets and buckets and trundling back to the house. There would not be another day for her and the man in the dream, though. Besides, what was there to be gained from dreaming of such things? Nothing. Her mind betrayed her in her sleep. Perhaps she should stop sleeping.
Mary had a stack of newspapers, along with coffee, toast, and jam—though by the sun’s position, it was past midday. “I hope you don’t mind me having read the Times,” Mary said, setting the tray over Alva’s lap. “I was curious to see what they’d say.”
She had folded the pape
r to display the headline:
* * *
MRS. W. K. VANDERBILT’S GREAT FANCY DRESS BALL.
A BRILLIANT SCENE OF BRIGHT AND RICH COSTUMES, PROFUSE DECORATIONS OF FLOWERS, AND SOME UNIQUE DANCES.
* * *
“My name in the headline?” Alva said. Hers, not William’s. She’d accomplished more than she had expected.
“They gave you four whole columns.”
“Four! Unbelievable.” She would fix her mind on this, and good riddance to the dream. “Find Lady Mandeville and have her join me. If she’s still sleeping, wake her.”
Mary left, and while Alva waited, her thoughts (fickle mind, not at all disciplined) gravitated to Oliver, the sensation of his warm hand on her bare shoulder, the words he’d said, the way he’d put his finger to his lips and then to hers. So wonderful. So terrible.
I am unimpeachable.
But what if she hadn’t been? What if she had responded to him favorably, whatever that might have entailed?
“Lady Mandeville isn’t in her room,” Mary announced, returning, “and I can’t find her elsewhere.”
“Can’t find her? She has to be here someplace. She’s probably with the children.”
“No, ma’am. The governess has got them all in the schoolroom making drawings.”
“Little Kim, too?”
“Yes. Her ladyship must have gone out.”
“Unaccountable,” Alva said. “Did she make a luncheon date with someone last night?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Is her maid here?”
“She says she was asleep before the ball’s end, so Her Ladyship didn’t share any plans with her.”
“I suppose she dressed herself.”
“I guess she must have.”
“Well, I’ve no intention of dressing anytime soon. Come back when you’ve located our lady—and make sure you send her in.”
While Alva waited, she read with pleasure—
The Vanderbilt ball has agitated New York society more than any social event that has occurred here in many years. Since the announcement that it would take place, which was made about a week before the beginning of Lent, scarcely anything else has been talked about. It has been on every tongue and a fixed idea in every head. It has disturbed the sleep and occupied the waking hours of social butterflies, both male and female, for over six weeks, and has even, perhaps, interfered to some extent with that rigid observance of Lenten devotions which the Church exacts. Amid the rush and excitement of business we have found their minds haunted by uncontrollable thoughts as to whether they should appear as Robert le Diable, Cardinal Richelieu, Otto the barbarian …
There was a knock on Alva’s door and Lady C. appeared, looking only a little less disheveled than Alva felt. Disheveled but beautiful. What a gift she’d been given—that deep golden hair, that sunset complexion, those deceptive wide eyes. She could hardly fail to look lovely even when at her worst.
“Come in!” Alva said. “I thought you’d wandered off into the park or left with one of the coachmen. Have you eaten? I’ll send for more coffee—”
“Nothing for me. Too much wine. Not feeling quite myself this morning.”
“Afternoon,” Alva corrected her. Holding up the newspaper, she said, “We’ve triumphed. The Times—look at this, practically an entire page of details. Ward McAllister may be a silly rooster of a man sometimes, but I do adore him. No one else could have helped to execute my plan so well.”
“Mmm,” said her friend, and went to the glass for a close look at herself.
“Wasn’t Richard wonderful as the artist Cimabue? For all that he loves Paris, I suspect he may be a Florentine at heart.”
“You should have married him.”
“He’s too old for me, and he has a wife.”
“But you do love him.”
“Are you on this tack again? I do love him, but not in a passionate manner.”
“Who are you passionate over?” Lady C. said, looking at Alva in the glass. “Is there someone—”
“Please, you know there is not. You can’t imagine I would risk everything I’ve accomplished to indulge a whim.”
“Suppose you could do it without risk?”
“I have my riskless passion; it’s not a who, it’s a what, and that what is architecture.”
“Ah, yes: Alva Vanderbilt, ever wrapped in the stony embrace of her petit château.”
“Happily so.”
Returning to the paper, Alva said, “Alice thinks herself so clever. Electric Light. Who dresses as an invention?”
“It was creative, give her that. She said she and Corneil see a lot of Mr. Edison. They intend to have their house electrified.”
“William has been speaking of it as well; can’t allow Corneil to best him that way,” Alva told her. “Don’t you think bringing the children was poor form? Alice desired an excuse to show them off and an excuse to leave early.”
She read on. “Look: I’m described as having ‘irreproachable taste,’” she said. “Oh, and there’s this: ‘over the chimney-piece hangs a superb portrait of Mrs. Vanderbilt by Madrazo, full of spirit, character, and grace.’ That’s flattering. And I rather agree.”
“A bit prideful, are we?”
“Haven’t I earned my pride?”
“You have.” Lady C. turned to face Alva and pointed to the paper. “I can only begin to imagine how our new friend Caroline is appreciating all of this attention to detail.”
“I don’t think she’ll begrudge me. She’s had her turn. She said as much herself.”
“Cobras dance before our eyes, hypnotizing us so that we’re not watching for the strike.”
“You are clearly suffering from a surfeit of imagination,” Alva told her.
Reading on, she said, “Listen to this: ‘Nothing could have been more becoming to Lady Mandeville’s blond beauty than her magnificent and somber gown.’”
Lady C. was still at the dressing table, examining each angle of her face. “They’ve got me just right: ‘magnificent and somber.’”
“Have I ever seen you actually somber?”
“Doubtful. It’s bad for the complexion.”
“You must have your moments, though.”
“Oh, I can be absolutely black at times. Ask Mandeville.”
“He gives you reason to be unhappy,” said Alva.
“I’m no saint.”
Alva would not call herself a saint, either. The money her husband had spent to put on last night’s ball, for example, might have been put to charity had she gone to him with some proposal for that instead. Yet how extensive was her obligation to less fortunate others? Certainly her family should not need to give away all their money.
More to the point was the dream she was having before Mary woke her, her desire for the man in the dream, for the way he had touched her, the way she had felt. Now here was a question of morality—
“What is it?” said Lady C., catching Alva’s eye. “Spit it out. You’re no good with secrets.”
Alva felt herself flush. “How can you be so certain?” she said lightly. “I might be so accomplished at them that even you can’t tell.”
Lady C. stood up. “Good. Keep your secrets. I’m actually dying for coffee. And a bath. And I expect the twins will be looking for me. Enjoy your triumph. You deserve it.”
Only after her friend had gone and Alva was wiping the ink off her hands did she realize Lady C. hadn’t said where she had been when Mary went looking for her. I’m no saint, she’d said. Alva had been joking about the coachman, but perhaps Lady C. had taken a lover. Perhaps, Alva thought, she should have looked for straw in her friend’s hair.
* * *
Mrs. W. K. Vanderbilt’s Great Fancy Dress Ball got written up in papers from New York to Cleveland to Chicago to San Francisco and in little towns in between. In addition to the many enthusiastic notes Alva received from attendees afterward, letters posted from all across the country began arriving as well.
&
nbsp; —You are a fine lady of good imagination. Congratulations to you and God bless.
—Thank you for giving us this tale of wonder to lift our low spirits, as spring is late here in Illinois and we are wondering if the crops will go in at all.
—I agree with the editor that such expenditure on frivolities is immoral when so many are going hungry. You should be ashamed!
—I am a girl of fourteen years and have dreamed of moving to New York my whole life. Please send fare and I will indenture myself to you for two years if this is agreeable.
—Your dress sounds like a sweet creation and I’ll bet you looked like a pare of ripe peaches. I want to put my tung all over them.
—I have recently married a man of wealth and we are going to model our ball after yours. I live in New York some of the year. We will invite you to our ball.
A note arrived marked CONFIDENTIAL and unsigned. With it was a posy of gardenias for which the sender must have paid a small fortune, having to procure them either from a hothouse or an importer. Gardenias. She could not miss the connotation.
My dear friend, I seek only one thing: your forgiveness. My intention was never to give offense. I have only the highest regard for you. Indeed, I feel it fair to name it love. Your response was appropriate and correct. I won’t trouble you again with such sentiments, until and unless the Fates permit yours to match my own. In racing, such an unlikely occurrence is called “a long shot” and the bookmakers give it low odds. Those are the bets that pay the greatest return, however. Am I a gambling man? Perhaps. In all events, I trust that you will treat my regard as the highest measure of respect. I hope to keep your respect as well. You will remain dearest in my heart, and I remain yours, sincerely.
Oliver Belmont loved her.
She burst into tears.
When she had recovered herself, she began to frame in her mind a gracious but firm response. Not at all the response she wanted to give. Not the response of her heart. There was no help for it, though. None.
As she went to her desk, Mary came in with a piece of pale blue fabric draped over her arm. “I want to have your opinion of this before I go further,” she said. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying.”
A Well-Behaved Woman Page 19