The Social Graces

Home > Other > The Social Graces > Page 1
The Social Graces Page 1

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

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Renée Rosen

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Renée Rosen

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  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.

  pid_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0

  To my family with love

  Contentsr />
  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

 

‹ Prev