by Renée Rosen
PRAISE FOR
THE SOCIAL GRACES
“Rosen’s novel opens with a sly wink to that grande dame of the Gilded Age, Edith Wharton, before she deftly spins a captivating tale of her own based upon the legendary rivalry between Caroline Astor and Alva Vanderbilt. And what a rich story it is, full of opulent balls and monstrous mansions, yet firmly rooted in the parallel struggles of two very different heroines as they fight for their dignity and rights as wives, as mothers and as women.”
—Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Lions of Fifth Avenue (GMA Book Club Pick)
“As ever, Rosen shines with impeccable research and eloquent prose. Readers will relish this peek behind the curtain of New York’s most rich and famous families and follow with interest, amusement and even shock the escapades of these strong and savvy women. Enjoy!”
—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Girls of Paris
“The Social Graces transports readers to the glittering and cutthroat world of Gilded Age New York, where two compelling heroines—Caroline Astor and Alva Vanderbilt—vie for social supremacy as they navigate a sea of tragedies and triumphs. Both an intimate portrait of two intriguing women and a sweeping depiction of Gilded Age society. Rosen’s characters leap off the page with vivid description and poignant emotion. Richly detailed and meticulously researched—historical fiction readers will love The Social Graces!”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Train to Key West
“I was all in with Alva and Caroline from page one. Renée Rosen brings the Gilded Age to vibrant life through the eyes of the two ferociously independent women who vied for the reins of society. By turns tender and devastating, this beautifully written novel kept me in thrall to the end.”
—Kerri Maher, author of The Girl in White Gloves
“Meticulously researched and absolutely absorbing, The Social Graces chronicles the eye-popping extravagances and catty magnificence of the brassy nouveaux riches who fought to seize control of high society during the Gilded Age. I can’t remember the last book that made me gasp ‘Oh, no!’ as many times at unexpected reversals. The pages all but turned themselves!”
—Julia Claiborne Johnson, bestselling author of Better Luck Next Time
“The Social Graces is Renée Rosen at her finest! Pulling back the curtain on the blood-sport world of Gilded Age high society, Rosen’s captivating story of rivals Alva Vanderbilt and Caroline Astor shows what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.”
—Bryn Turnbull, author of The Woman Before Wallis
PRAISE FOR
PARK AVENUE SUMMER
“A delightful and empowering read.”
—PopSugar
“Renée Rosen is my go-to for whip-smart heroines who love their work. . . . Park Avenue Summer is a delightful summer cocktail of a read!”
—Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Rose Code
“Filled with wit, heart and verve, Rosen’s novel dazzles and empowers. Simply wonderful!”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Train to Key West
“Part historical fiction, part coming-of-age story, this is a novel for our keeper shelves, to read and reread when we begin to doubt that there is still time to become the best version of ourselves. Lovely prose, a unique story line and a heroine who will stay with you for a long time make this a book I highly recommend.”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Night in London
“A breezy, delightful novel that celebrates female friendship and ambition.”
—Jamie Brenner, USA Today bestselling author of The Forever Summer and Summer Longing
“Rosen’s command of historical detail is masterful; so, too, is her ability to create fictional characters, among them her heroine Alice, who are as fully realized and compelling as the beguiling Brown herself.”
—Jennifer Robson, USA Today bestselling author of Our Darkest Night
“Rosen delivers a cast of complex and ambitious female protagonists to truly root for. The Devil Wears Prada meets Mad Men, Park Avenue Summer is pure joy from cover to cover. I loved it.”
—Hazel Gaynor, New York Times bestselling author of When We Were Young & Brave
“Renée Rosen combines meticulous research with a true affection for her characters to bring this heady time movingly to life.”
—Elizabeth Letts, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Finding Dorothy
“Park Avenue Summer is a frothy and fun cocktail of fact and fiction, perfect for anyone who has ever been a ‘Cosmo Girl.’”
—The Augusta Chronicle
“Park Avenue Summer is a fascinating behind-the-scenes glimpse into the world of the iconic Cosmopolitan magazine and its equally iconic editor, Helen Gurley Brown. . . . The story line is fast-paced and utterly absorbing: a delight from start to finish.”
—Historical Novels Review
“Instantly absorbing, thoroughly researched and a fun, breezy read. It’s like revisiting Mad Men, but from Peggy’s and Joan’s points of view.”
—Bookreporter
ALSO BY RENÉE ROSEN
Park Avenue Summer
Windy City Blues
White Collar Girl
What the Lady Wants
Dollface
Every Crooked Pot
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2021 by Renée Rosen
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Renée Rosen
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rosen, Renée, author.
Title: The social graces / Renée Rosen.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020040654 (print) | LCCN 2020040655 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984802811 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984802828 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Belmont, Alva, 1853–1933—Fiction. | Astor, Caroline Schermerhorn, 1830–1908—Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3618.O83156 S63 2020 (print) | LCC PS3618.O83156 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040654
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040655
First Edition: April 2021
Cover design: Sarah Oberrender
Cover photograph of Washington Square Park © George P. Hall & Son Photograph Collection / Bridgeman Images; Four women by Haeckel Collection / ullstein bild via Getty Images
Family trees by Nancy Resnick
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
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To my family with love
Contents
Cover
Praise for Renée Rosen
Also by Renée Rosen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
The Astor Family Tree
The Vanderbilt Family Tree
Prologue
The Seasons: 1876–1878
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
The Society Pages: 1880–1884
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Four Hundred: 1890–1894
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Society as We’ve Known It: 1894–1908
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
Pray to God. She will help you.
—Alva Vanderbilt
PROLOGUE
Society
NEW YORK, 1876
They call us the fairer sex. Something we find flattering and maddening in equal measure. Dainty. Delicate. Weak. Come now, if a man donned a corset, laced so tight as to shave four inches off his waist, he’d pass out on the first deep breath. And need we broach the subject of childbirth? The fairer sex, our bustles.
We are the wives and daughters of wealthy men, though our family fortunes are recent. A generation or two ago you would have found our mothers and grandmothers standing over wood-burning stoves and mending socks, knitting woolen blankets. For the most part, our fathers and grandfathers worked hard, in legitimate businesses—although some may have taken advantage of circumstances after the War Between the States. They call it war profiteering but we like to think of it as seizing the moment.
We are the nouveau riche. The new money. Enemy of New York’s old money, those insufferable yet enviable snobs called Knickerbockers.
In our best efforts to emulate the old money, our calendars, like theirs, revolve around two seasons: winter and Newport. Winter takes place in Manhattan and lasts but twelve weeks. The festivities begin in November, and the recent debutantes among us are put on display in hopes of landing husbands. Gentlemen in search of wives do not care if we are fluent in five languages, or none. In fact, some might prefer the latter. They are not impressed that we’ve been educated in France, can play the harp and piano and have studied ballet. These suitors are only concerned with the size of our dowries, the length of our slender necks, and our doe-like eyes, which we enhance with belladonna-berry juice. Thankfully, by the start of the first waltz, the tearing and stinging subsides, and our vision usually returns to normal.
The married among us feel relieved and perhaps a bit smug. We may not be sitting behind mahogany desks or holding positions on the boards of big corporations, but we do exercise a different kind of currency. Social currency. It’s our form of gold. Our means of trading—for better invitations, more status and greater influence.
When you first come into money, no one tells you that being rich takes some getting used to. There is a rhythm to a wealthy woman’s day, set routines that leave no room for spontaneity, no room for error. We’ve come to learn that there’s a proper way of doing everything—and we do mean everything. From how we dress to how we sit, how and what we eat, down to how we greet a gentleman on the street. This is the price we pay to keep our influence.
Now lest that sounds too dreary, rest assured we do have every comfort we could ask for. Liveried servants, dressing rooms with armoires of French couture meticulously organized by our lady’s maids, whose chores include keeping the ostrich and osprey feathers faced out on our Reboux hats. We have cedar closets filled with garment bags guarding the delicate beading and fabrics of our ball gowns, still stuffed with the tissue paper and perfumed sachets they were packed in prior to making their journeys from Paris, arriving to us without a wrinkle.
Of course, not one stitch of clothing, not even a pair of kid gloves, belongs to us outright. They are the property of our husbands. As are we. We indulge at the pleasure of these men. And do we ever indulge! We throw ourselves into the fray. We feast on nine-course meals and dance until dawn, still twirling when we return home, or perhaps it’s just the room that’s spinning from too much champagne. Our social calendars are full. We attend luncheons, teas and recitals by day, receptions, dinner parties and balls by night. And of course, the most special night of the week is always Monday.
On Monday nights we attend the opera, dressed in our finest gowns and jewels, accompanied by our husbands, fathers or perhaps our wooers, along with a grim-faced chaperone, there to ensure no hand-holding or other debauchery takes place.
In the snow, peppered with coal dust and soot, we make our way to our horse-drawn carriages bound for the Academy of Music. The doors open at half past eight, and we arrive precisely ten minutes after that. The orchestra is already playing the overture, but that is of no concern. We are not there for the music. Heavens no. Most of us don’t particularly like opera, and yet, we faithfully attend because this is what society does, and being there, being seen there is all part of the game. And we aim to play. We aim to be victorious. Eventually.
Our seats are on the main floor, where anyone who can afford a ticket sits. At first blush the red and gilded auditorium appears the very essence of splendor. It’s only upon closer examination that we notice the threadbare carpets, the cracking plaster and peeling paint. The theater holds 4,000, and by the end of the second act, rest assured, every seat will be taken just in time for the arrival of the Academy’s most honored guest. As if perfectly planned with an orchestral crescendo, she steps into her velvet box in the balcony, high above us all. In kind, we turn to her like flowers to the sun.
There she is—Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor. Mrs. Astor.
While our ancestors were biding their tim
e in Europe, hers were already walking these very streets—the first Dutch settlers to arrive in New York. That makes Mrs. Astor a Knickerbocker, American royalty.
We always yearn for intermission, our bottoms aching from the aging springs in our seats. While the smart set lines up outside Mrs. Astor’s box, waiting to pay homage to their reigning queen, we congregate in the lobby to stretch our legs and mingle. Creatures of habit, we will have the same conversations we had the Monday before and the Monday before that. Penelope Easton will comment that if this were Wagner, we’d still be stuck in the second act, and Mamie Fish will tell us her favorite musical instrument is the comb. There are never any surprises.
But tonight, just after Faust has seduced Marguerite in the third act, our lorgnettes rise in unison. Across the way, rustling in gold lamé, trimmed in silver tulle, is Alva Smith. No, pardon us, Alva Vanderbilt. The new Mrs. Vanderbilt is accompanied by her handsome husband. Her vibrant red hair is crowned with a tiara, and she wears a thick rope of pearls rumored to have once belonged to Catherine the Great. She’s also adorned with a diamond stomacher, sparkling earrings and half a dozen bracelets riding atop her supple gloves. If there were such a thing as being overdressed for the opera, this would be it.
Finding the performers more engaging, most eyes return to the stage, but for those of us still paying attention to Alva Vanderbilt, we see—but for a moment—that she does the most outrageous thing. She turns toward the balcony where Mrs. Astor is sitting, looks directly at the Grande Dame. And smiles. Suddenly the cymbals clash, the kettledrums thunder and for an instant we fear this is Mrs. Astor’s wrath. But then the flutes, the violins and other instruments join in, and our attention is lulled back to the stage as we settle in for the final act.
It’s only much later, while the moon slips out from behind the clouds, sending predawn shadows through our bedroom windows overlooking Fifth Avenue, that we sense some infinitesimal shift has occurred. This is the start of something. We just don’t know what that something is yet.
THE SEASONS