A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  “You needn’t attack me.”

  “If you would stand up to those slandering fools—”

  “You know I prefer to demonstrate my position through example.”

  “Who would have thought we were so much alike?” Alva said before turning to go. “That’s my approach, too.”

  When everyone was seated, Corneil began his usual orating. The mantle of power had aged him little; he was still lean and angular, the way his grandfather had been. No matter the subject, he spoke with the righteous authority of a man who believed he had earned his place when in fact he had been given it.

  While he spoke, Alva imagined the scene that must be in progress at Sherry’s. Ward would notice her absence and wonder about it—or perhaps he’d believe he knew why she stayed away. He would be hurt and probably angry as well. He would never allow either emotion to show, however. The consummate gentleman, consummate host, he might this minute be standing before his own gathered darlings (whichever among them had shown) delivering his own oration. Even hurt and angry he’d be more entertaining than Corneil, who was saying something about mountain air …

  “… the healthful benefits of which are evident. And now, in order to prevent some kind of terrible bursting incident I was warned about, I give you George.”

  Alva hadn’t spoken to William since leaving their house. How content he looked, seated between his mother and Consuelo. And why not? He had every benefit the fattened New York Central could possibly confer, with no real responsibility. If he spent more than ten hours in his office each month, Alva would be astonished. Nor did he use the remainder of his time tending to new business ventures—unless breeding and racing Thoroughbreds could be considered “business.” He did make money doing it, but it was a rich man’s hobby, existing entirely for the benefit of other rich men.

  George began, “As you all know, Mother and I have been spending time in Asheville—”

  “A village of ashes?” said Reggie, ten years old and, as Gertrude had alluded to earlier, irrepressible. “Who wants to be there?”

  Corneil said, “Son, if you want to be allowed to stay at this table—”

  “Sorry, Papa.”

  “As you know,” George began again, “Mother and I have once again been in the North Carolina mountains—in a town named after one of the state’s governors, Mr. Samuel Ashe, A-S-H-E. We’ve met a great many lovely people there. It’s a fine place! Not at all the remote outpost you might have imagined it to be.”

  “No savage natives?” said William.

  “Some savage trout, that’s the worst of it.”

  “You mean the best of it.”

  Everyone laughed, and George said, “Well, yes, the trout are fantastic. What’s better still is that I have been acquiring those trout en masse by acquiring a large stretch of the river they inhabit, the Swannanoa, as it travels through the land I’ve bought. And I have acquired an architect—who is also fantastic—to build a house on that land.”

  Corneil said, “You’ve mentioned that you might build there. A fishing lodge, then?”

  “Eh, something a bit more ambitious than that. I’ve been consulting Fred Olmsted on what we might do to take advantage of the geography there, while Richard Hunt’s been working up plans for me and—”

  “Your bride-to-be?” Alice finished hopefully.

  “My…?” George shook his head. “Goodness, no. Is that what you thought I was going to…? Corneil, I told you we ought not to make a production of this dinner.”

  “I said only that we were celebrating your return and that you had some news.”

  “Tell us more,” said Alva. “About the house.”

  “Rather than tell you very much, I invite you to see it.”

  “You’ve brought drawings?”

  He shook his head again. “Hunt has commissioned a detailed model. It was delivered to his office today—with a great amount of attention from the press, which I expect will manifest in print tomorrow.”

  Alice said, “Why so much attention?”

  “Well, due to the house’s size and design, the model is … rather large.”

  Corneil, who had begun to look concerned, said, “Why is that necessary?”

  George had an air of authority Alva hadn’t seen in him before now. He seemed taller. Firm. Quietly forceful. “The house—a French Renaissance design, as Hunt did so well for Alva and William—will be some three hundred and seventy-five feet across and have two hundred fifty rooms, give or take a few.”

  Alva said, “Goodness.”

  “On how much land?” said Corneil.

  “In the range of one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres. I’ll have a dairy, a church, a school, a farm. We’re considering a forestry effort, as well. The Germans have advanced it as a science, and I like what I’ve heard.”

  As they all took in these details, no one spoke. Then Corneil, now looking severe, said, “That’s not a house, George. That’s an actual castle.”

  William said, “And you want to put it in the North Carolina wilderness? What possible sense can that make? You’re nowhere close to being married. Mother needn’t be there year-round, and we’re all here in the Northeast.”

  Then Alice: “I don’t understand. Why do you wish to…? That is, why not someplace nearer to here? Along the Hudson or in New Jersey, say? Or Vermont, like Lila’s planning.”

  “This is not responsible,” Corneil said. “You might build it, all right. The expense of keeping it, though—have you considered staff, maintenance, supplies?”

  As Corneil went on, Alva watched George’s face. He looked strangely pleased, as if this severe response was the reaction he’d intended. Let his brothers and sisters follow in each other’s footsteps around the Northeast, making themselves indistinguishable one from the next. He was nothing like any of them—never had been, had no desire to be. Corneil might be the patriarch, but it was he, George, who was going to show everyone what it was to be a Vanderbilt.

  * * *

  Farther down Fifth Avenue, the man who had been instrumental in polishing that name was seeing his own tarnished irreparably. As the papers would gleefully note, not one of Ward McAllister’s top society friends had shown up to his party—though there were second-tier friends aplenty. Those grateful mamas and daughters who under his tutelage had risen a few rungs were delighted to celebrate with him. Those gentlemen of comparatively modest means who had found in Ward a willing guide to improving their dress, their vocabulary, their habits—they’d turned out as well. He hadn’t been left alone with a room full of uneaten food and unoccupied waiters—a comforting salve to Alva’s guilty conscience. When she set down her note of apology to him, she wrote only that a family obligation had interfered, and she would call on him sometime soon.

  The next time Alva saw Caroline Astor, who, like Alva, had been featured in the memoir in flimsy disguise, Caroline told her, “Mr. McAllister has shown himself to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. We can have nothing more to do with him.”

  They were at a reception for some German baron’s wife who was visiting New York as a first stop on her tour of America. All the usual ladies were in attendance, none of them especially interested in the German baroness, who sat, prim and upright, in an armchair with the hostess at her left, both of them smiling thinly and saying little as the others stood or sat, gathered in their usual cliques.

  Alva said, “You mean to say we should cut him permanently?”

  “He knows the rules better than anyone. You would be well to remember them yourself. Ward McAllister sold us out for his personal gain—and did a poor job of it, at that. To put one’s friends up publicly, for profit, as objects of gossip and derision, is unforgivable.”

  From Caroline’s perspective—a perspective likely shared by all the ladies in the topmost circle—he had callously allowed their priorities, their very existence, to be mocked and diminished, judged as useless and insipid. The only way for these ladies to reject such a judgment was to pretend that
it did not apply and had never applied to them. To pretend that Ward McAllister had never mattered and was absolutely not their man.

  Though Alva felt certain that Ward had intended to flatter his friends, and in the doing, flatter himself, she could not disagree with Caroline. There were rules. There were consequences for breaking them so egregiously, even if he had not intended the effect. Ward’s die was cast.

  Alva made some mental calculations. Then she said, “I do wish he’d have thought better. Have you met his protégé Mr. Harry Lehr?”

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Mamie Fish brought him around, yes. He’s lively and bright.”

  “The jester shall now wear the crown, I suppose.”

  “Indeed. You know, I admire you, Alva. I don’t like you very much, but then I don’t really like anyone.”

  Alva raised her teacup. “It’s mutual.”

  * * *

  Ward had sent no response to Alva’s apology, nor did he call. Alva, occupied with holiday planning and her children and so many social events, never seemed to have the time to seek him out. She knew that in a certain light this would appear hypocritical of her. In another light, it would look like self-preservation.

  Alloy

  I never see a baby’s eyes,

  So innocently bright,

  I never hear the cooing voice,

  Full of a sweet delight,

  But thoughts will come of future years

  Of sorrows, blent with joy;

  For every life, however bright,

  Has something of alloy.

  I never hear a baby’s cry

  Of either fear or pain,

  And hear the joyous, sipling laugh

  That follows quick again,

  But thoughts will come of bitter tears

  On some far distant day,

  And of the laugh that then will strive

  To hide the grief away.

  —JENNIE L. LYALL

  I

  ALVA RECOGNIZED THAT something was amiss at home the moment she debarked from her coupe. When her doorman greeted her, he was stiff in his manner. Her housekeeper, Mrs. Evelyn, saw her as she was coming in the door and scurried off down the corridor before Alva could speak. Alva went upstairs to her bedroom, where she rang for Mary, intending to ask for information—and one of the housemaids showed up.

  “Ma’am?” said the girl, giving a quick curtsy.

  “What’s this? I rang for Mary.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Only Mary isn’t able to come.”

  “What do you mean, isn’t able? Is she ill? Injured? Has she gone out?”

  The housemaid said, “All’s I know is Mrs. Evelyn said I’m to assist you.”

  Alva pressed the button to summon Mrs. Evelyn, and told the girl to go.

  “End this mystery,” Alva said when Mrs. Evelyn appeared. “Where is Mary?”

  “I suppose she’s still upstairs in her room, as she hasn’t yet returned her key or given leave.” She sounded disapproving, though whether of Alva or Mary, Alva couldn’t say.

  “Given leave?”

  “You did say she was to be let go today.”

  “Let go? Have you lost your mind? I said no such thing.”

  Mrs. Evelyn, flustered, said, “What I mean to say is that Mr. Vanderbilt said you requested I let her go. So I did.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would I do that?”

  Now Mrs. Evelyn looked miserable. “It’s not my place to ask.”

  “No, of course. Where is Mr. Vanderbilt?”

  “He went out, probably an hour ago.”

  “Of all the…” Alva muttered, leaving her room for the servants’ stairway.

  As she reached the landing outside Mary’s bedroom, Mary was coming out the door dressed as if for church, hat and gloves on. She carried a suitcase in each hand. Alva said, “Stop. Put those back. I didn’t discharge you. My husband was mistaken.”

  Mary stopped. “Mistaken? You don’t want me gone?”

  “Goodness, no!”

  “Because, well, I just thought why on earth…?” Mary paused. Then she said, “So, all right, I’m relieved to hear this. But … I think leaving may be best just the same.”

  Alva steered her back into the bedroom. “I don’t know what compelled him to do as he did, but whatever it was, I’ll correct it. Unpack your things. I can’t even imagine trying to replace you.”

  “I’m kind of glad he did it,” Mary said. “I mean, I don’t want to leave; you’re almost like my own sister. But…”

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “I could ignore it, mostly, so I never made a fuss. When you’re a black-skinned girl, you get so it’s hardly more than noise, like when I hear the elevated.” She was still holding the suitcases. “Sometimes it’s the other servants saying things—like how it’s not right for someone like me to keep a position that ought to be done by ‘someone who’s better suited.’ And now Mr. William has been making remarks, too.”

  “Never mind him,” Alva said. “You unpack, and I’ll put things to rights.”

  “He put his hand on my cheek and told me, ‘You’re much too pretty to be where white men have to watch you. Girls like you used to be the masters’ pets.’”

  “William did this?”

  Mary simply looked at her.

  “Was there … That is, did he—”

  “No,” Mary said, shaking her head. “Not yet. It’s best I go, before it can get worse.”

  “Perhaps it is.”

  Alva wanted to cry. Mary had been a feature of her life for as far back as she could remember. And William—what could he have been thinking?

  She said, “What will you do?”

  “Miss Armide can use me, with Mama nearly blind,” she said. “You’ll come see us. And I’ll do any needlework you want.”

  “What if … I don’t know, suppose you were to open a little shop where you could sell your goods? Your work is exceptional. Every woman I know would pay handsomely for it.”

  “Not from me, they wouldn’t. You know, it’s funny, we all thought that since the North wanted slaves free, we would all be equal here. I guess they do want us free, just free to keep to ourselves.”

  “Suppose we get you a white girl to mind the shop. Or an Italian who’s still got her accent. They’ll all go for that. She’ll say all the goods are imported from the best needle-mistress in Italy.”

  “I expect I can find shops that’ll buy from me wholesale.”

  “I’ll make the introductions, then. You have to allow me to help. It’s only right.”

  They walked downstairs together. At the service door, Alva told Mary to wait a moment, then came back and pressed fifty dollars into her hand. “So you can get settled in. And I’ll see to it that Armide gives you a salary.”

  “You come see us Sunday afternoon.”

  “It won’t be the same,” Alva said.

  “Here’s my advice: get yourself an ugly girl to replace me.”

  “An ugly…?”

  “So he isn’t as tempted. You don’t want it going on in your own house if you can help it.”

  Alva opened her mouth to argue that William wouldn’t ever, then closed it. She didn’t actually know what he would or wouldn’t ever do. She would not have predicted that he would obstruct her desire to attend Ward’s party the way he did. She would not have believed him so graceless as to take up with another woman, and especially not with Mary.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Alva said. “He hardly even likes to … well, you know what I mean. Your room is right above mine.”

  “Mmm. He is away a lot.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “I don’t know what he does, Miss Alva. Maxwell, he doesn’t talk. But you said you don’t know what’s gotten into him, and what I think is that a change in fortune doesn’t change who a person is. It reveals your true self, the one you were maybe hiding away. Now Mr. William doesn’t have to hide anything anymore.”

  “You thin
k he’s always been selfish and conniving and immoral?” Alva said. “That makes no sense. He’s been very generous to me, you know he has.”

  “Because it makes him feel like he’s best. Think about it. He’s always been someone who would rather put himself first. We know that.”

  (“Woo him, Alva. Flatter him. Do you understand? Be the prize.”)

  Alva could not deny Mary’s insight entirely. She said, “And so, by your theory, now that he’s so rich, he can do what he likes without consequence.”

  “Consequences that matter to him,” Mary said.

  * * *

  Hasenpfeffer tonight, with a delicate herbed stuffing and an array of spring vegetables. Discomposed as she was, Alva could hardly taste the food—which aggravated her further. She was seeing her husband with new clarity, and she did not like what she saw.

  The two of them were alone, so they used the smaller dining table in the morning room. She loved this oak table, which was inlaid with maple stars as constellations, and she loved this room. The light was particularly good in here throughout the day. The art pieces on the walls were some of her favorites. None of it pleased her now, though.

  “The strangest thing happened earlier,” she said to William from across the table.

  “Oh?”

  “I’d been out, and when I returned, I was told that Mary had been dismissed at my direction. This was very odd, since I’d given no such direction, and it was odder still that you’d conveyed the message on my behalf. Perhaps you dreamt that I asked you to have her dismissed?”

  William set down his fork. “I wish you wouldn’t try to be clever.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t—well, where do I start? Lie to the servants, for one, and make me look bad in the process. Then there’s the trouble provoked by your lie. Thanks to you, I’m now without as good a lady’s maid as has ever had the position. Suppose I went and dismissed Maxwell for no cause and without your knowledge or consent?”

  “Maxwell is ideal for his position. Your girl shouldn’t have been in hers to start with. No one of our class uses Negroes in the house, not even as scullery maids.”