The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  Tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that, we’ll be right back here, in this very spot. All will be the same, save for our finery.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Caroline

  Caroline was nearing the end of her daily carriage ride down Bellevue Avenue. She was accompanied by Charlotte, which was highly unusual. Could it be that her daughter was suddenly taking an interest in society? At eighteen, Charlotte preferred sailing and hunting with her father over anything having to do with society.

  Caroline glanced at her daughter’s gloved fingers curled atop the handle of her parasol, fingertips drumming impatiently as if she couldn’t wait for this to be over with. So why had she asked to come along? Why was she wearing one of her best day dresses with the open neckline trimmed in satin ruffles? And why had she pinned up her buttery blond curls, securing them beneath her favorite bonnet? Caroline focused on one strand of Charlotte’s hair that had broken ranks and was now dangling down her long neck.

  Charlotte must have sensed her staring because she turned, pressed her lips together tightly and looked away again. Charlotte was so hard to catch hold of, to pin down even when she was right there beside her. Caroline wanted to say something, but the moment had passed. Now she eased into the slow, steady rhythm of the carriage while listening to the hooves striking the cobblestones, the jangle of the bridles. She turned to gaze out the open carriage, the breeze carrying the smell of the sea punctuated here and there with horse manure.

  Just as their barouche was turning at the bend, Caroline felt a sharp jolt as a four-wheel trotter came charging out of nowhere. With a woman at the helm, it whooshed past them, making their horses roar violently and rear up. Caroline and Charlotte were thrown about in the back seat; their hats and parasols went flying until their coachman was able to regain control of the horses. He brought the carriage as well as the rest of the procession to a halt before jumping down from his box and coming around to the side to check on them.

  With his cap in hand, his dark lank hair hanging in his eyes, he said, “My apologies. I hope neither of you was hurt.”

  “We’re fine, Duncan.” Charlotte retrieved her bonnet and patted her hair in place. “Thank you.”

  “Women drivers,” he muttered.

  Women drivers indeed, thought Caroline, remembering the days she used to take her own coach out. Years ago, she had so enjoyed sitting up on the box, the breeze sharp against her cheeks, the leather ribbons steady in her riding gloves as she drove her four horses as fast as they could go. People would stand on the sidelines, clapping as she sped past them. Now, of course, taking the reins herself was out of the question as were so many other things, like playing croquet or lawn tennis.

  “You’re sure now?” asked Duncan. “No one’s hurt?”

  “Not a scratch on us,” said Charlotte. “You handled the horses so expertly.” She flashed a smile, which he returned as he bowed before replacing his cap and climbing back up to his seat.

  The puzzle pieces quickly fit together—Charlotte wasn’t remotely interested in society. This was all about the coachman! Caroline’s chest tightened.

  “What was that?” she asked as the carriages began moving again.

  “What was what?”

  “That little exchange with you and the coachman.”

  “Who? You mean Duncan?” she asked, as if it could have been anyone else. “He is awfully handsome, isn’t he? Even Helen thinks so and she’s madly in love with Rosy.”

  “That’s enough, Charlotte. Your behavior is most inappropriate.” She was going to say more but found herself distracted by two women walking up the sidewalk, right by the blue boxwood shrubs that lined the Astors’ cottage. They were leaning into each other, the one with red hair slightly taller than the brunette, something broken in their gait. Neither one had gloves, or hats, not even a parasol to protect them from the sun. The redhead was in a bathing costume. They looked mangy and scraggly like a couple of strays. Caroline assumed they were trespassers, locals from town who had wandered up to Bellevue, but on closer examination, something about the woman in the dress caught in her mind. She knew that dress. Her eyes moved up. She knew that woman! Her nerves started crackling, her mouth dropped open.

  The look on her face made Charlotte turn. “What is—what—oh my!” Charlotte gasped. “Is that Emily? What’s wrong with her? Who’s that with her?”

  Confusion gave way to alarm as Caroline realized Emily was hurt. The carriage was turning in to the long drive just as Emily and the other woman staggered up under the portico.

  “Emily—” Caroline called out. She didn’t even wait for Duncan to help her down from the carriage. Her hem caught on the fold-down steps, and she heard the fabric tear as she pulled herself free, rushing to Emily’s side. “Heavens, child, are you all right? What happened?”

  “She tripped,” said the redhead with a slight Southern accent. “And over her own two feet if you can believe that.” She tacked on a slight laugh, as if it were nothing.

  Emily hobbled, still holding on to the redhead.

  “You’re limping!” Caroline’s voice ticked up as she stepped in to take the redhead’s place. She needs her mother now, not you. “Have you broken anything?”

  “She’s just good and sore,” said the redhead, acting overly protective, almost possessive of Emily, who hadn’t yet said a word.

  Caroline saw a raised bump on Emily’s forehead, already starting to purple, a thread of dried blood running to her brow. Caroline reached over and brushed the hair from Emily’s eyes with her fingertips. She looked frightened, shaken. “Charlotte,” Caroline called over her shoulder. Her other daughter was still in the carriage. “Go get Hade! Have him send for the doctor.”

  “I think some bed rest is probably all she’ll need.”

  Who asked you? Caroline wanted to say to the redhead, and then noticed that she also had scratches and bruises on her face, though not as severe as the ones on Emily’s. Otherwise, she seemed unharmed and was now saying something about soaking in Epsom salt. Caroline wished she’d stop inserting herself in the middle of this. She just wanted to take care of Emily. All this chattering—Caroline couldn’t hear herself think. “Charlotte,” she called out again. What was the matter with her—just sitting there talking to the coachman. “Charlotte, go get Hade. Have him send for the doctor. Now, Charlotte!”

  “I’m Alva, by the way,” said the redhead, thrusting out her hand. “Alva Vanderbilt. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Astor.”

  Caroline didn’t catch the first name, but Vanderbilt registered. Everything she knew about the Vanderbilt family, she didn’t like. The patriarch, Cornelius Vanderbilt, whom everyone called the Commodore, was notorious for his unethical business practices and deplorable manners: cheating his competitors, chewing with his mouth open, picking his teeth at the table. He’d made his fortune in railroads, and Caroline didn’t care for railroad money. She believed one’s wealth should be inherited, not earned, as she herself had inherited a good sum in addition to marrying yet more money. Caroline never acknowledged William’s grandfather, the late John Jacob Astor, who had indeed earned his fortune—as a fur trapper, no less—and whose ruthless business practices and despicable table manners rivaled the Commodore’s. She knew the only difference between Astor and Vanderbilt was that John Jacob Astor had gotten a head start, some twenty years before Cornelius Vanderbilt began his business. Caroline didn’t address this parallel and made it a point to never speak of the Astors’ humble beginnings.

  The Vanderbilt woman was still talking. “. . . You’ll have to forgive my appearance”—she tugged on her flannel top—“I was on my way to the beach and—”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I want to get Emily inside.”

  “Of course. Of course,” she said, stepping in, taking hold of Emily’s other side. “I’ll just help you get—”

  “That won�
�t be necessary, I assure you.”

  The Vanderbilt woman backed off but only after Hade appeared with Charlotte trailing behind him.

  “Lovely to meet you,” Alva called out as Hade carried Emily inside.

  Caroline reached the doorway and looked back over her shoulder. “Charlotte, are you coming?” But Charlotte had drifted back over to the carriage, to the coachman.

  * * *

  —

  On the day of the clambake, Caroline took extra care with her toilette, knowing that all eyes would be on her. And her family. Though Emily had covered those mysterious scratches along her brow with face powder, the sunlight was unforgiving, making her attempt at camouflage obvious. And oh, what fodder that will be for the gossips. Thank goodness they didn’t know about Charlotte pining away for that coachman. My lord, they’d have a field day with that! Sure, the other matrons would smile and fawn over Caroline, but as soon as she turned her back, they’d start chattering about her daughters, speculating about her marriage.

  How odd, she thought, that no one ever questioned her relationship with Ward McAllister, who had escorted her to countless social engagements. No one said a word about that. But if William was seen speaking to a woman at the polo field, or down by the yacht club, it was scandalous.

  Oh, let them talk. Caroline knew she couldn’t stop them, and though her pride was wounded, her core was stronger than ever. She could take it, and later, after she received her two-faced guests, she would walk the grounds with William at her side and put that rumor to rest. Now she just needed an explanation should anyone ask what happened to Emily’s face.

  Caroline heard the thump-shuffle-shuffle, thump-shuffle-shuffle, thump of her mother approaching moments before she appeared, her cane pushing open the dressing room door. “That’s what you’re wearing tonight?” she asked.

  Caroline studied her choice in the mirror, the neckline enhanced with a silk ribbon, the satin bows along the bodice, the deep purple polonaise bustle.

  “Need I remind you, Lina, that a lady of true gentility never dresses in the height of fashion.”

  “It’s not as if I’m wearing Worth, Mother.”

  “Thank heavens for that. His designs are positively gauche.” She switched her cane from her left hand to the right. Caroline’s mother—Helen Van Courtlandt White Schermerhorn—was still a regal-looking woman, even at eighty-three. Her once glossy black hair was now white, and the face may have been well creased, but the eyes—the eyes remained icy blue and didn’t miss a thing.

  “You mustn’t feel you need to compete with the new money, Lina. It’s beneath you,” her mother said, reaching for a bar of soap, wrapped in lavender paper. “I do so hate the way our people are being influenced by the nouveau riche.” She smelled the soap, made a face and set it back down. “I thought you and Mr. McAllister were supposed to guard against that sort of thing.”

  “We’re doing our best, Mother, but times are changing and—”

  Caroline was silenced by her mother’s exasperated sigh, which led to a maddening standoff, one that Caroline knew she’d never win. She never had before. She turned away and busied herself with her earrings.

  As tough as Caroline was, she was no match for her mother, whose strength had been forged in tragedy. Here was a woman who had buried six of her nine children. Two of the three remaining daughters were sickly and for the most part bedridden. That left Caroline—Lina, as they called her. It wasn’t enough to survive; Lina had always been expected to thrive. She was the one her mother had pinned her hopes on, and when the opportunity came for Caroline to take over society, it was her mother who had urged her to do so. “You must protect our people from this assault by the nouveau riche,” she’d said to Caroline one day, while tapping her cane to the floor. “You have the breeding and lineage—and the means.” Tap, tap, tap. “You must take the reins and put an end to these interlopers.” Tap, tap, tap. “Our way of life is meant to inspire refinement and decency, and there is absolutely nothing inspirational about that lot . . .”

  That had been her mother’s sermon back in 1872, just before Ward McAllister had come to her to discuss a plan of his own for preserving society. “The women with their tiaras and coronets, the men with their fat cigars and bejeweled walking sticks,” he’d said in disgust. “They all reek of newly minted steel and railroad money. They’re trying to buy their way into society and it’s our duty to keep them out.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Caroline had asked, slightly bemused by his passionate stance.

  Well, it just so happened he’d had a plan. Like British nobility, he explained how he wanted to hand-select members of their peerage. “And I’m going to need a hostess of the finest and highest caliber, like you, to assist me in organizing this new chapter in society.”

  Caroline knew better than to have been flattered. “And why me?” she’d asked pointedly.

  “The question is, why not you? I can think of no other society hostess who possesses your sense of taste and refinement.”

  “I think what you really mean is that you can think of no other hostess who possesses her own money.”

  He’d laughed, a bit contrite. “Well, perhaps that does give you an advantage.”

  Unlike other hostesses, Caroline had inherited a fortune of her own after her father passed away. She didn’t have to ask her husband’s permission or present a weekly ledger of household and personal expenses for his approval. That level of independence for a woman was unheard of, and it distinguished Caroline from every other society hostess. It had helped make her society’s queen—that and Caroline’s desperate need to please her mother.

  Since then Caroline and Ward had spent hours holed up in her parlor, scrutinizing guest lists and seating arrangements, discussing which china setting and sterling silver to use. A debate over what wine to serve could last an hour or more. Ward took society very seriously, and over time, Caroline came to believe that all this mattered. William, on the other hand, thought society was frivolous. It occurred to her, only much later, that perhaps her husband had hoped she might have taken an interest in one of his pastimes or hobbies—yachting, horse breeding . . . He always seemed to ask if she’d join him when she had something else scheduled; a luncheon or meeting, a ball or opera to attend. His timing was impeccably off, and she sometimes wondered if he’d asked knowing she wouldn’t be available.

  It had never occurred to her that it stung her husband, her preferring the company of others, especially Ward McAllister. It also never occurred to her that her husband’s pride might have been hurt, knowing his wife’s appointment book was more full than his own. She hadn’t thought about those things because to Caroline, society was vital. For the first time in her life, she’d done something her mother could boast about. For the first time ever, Caroline was respected; she was important and valued for things separate from her role as wife and mother. By now this business of society was so deeply ingrained in her that she was certain that if it no longer existed, if it no longer mattered, she, too, would no longer matter.

  “Well,” her mother said, “I can see this conversation is getting us nowhere. I’ll be downstairs in the parlor.”

  Even after she left, the sound of her mother’s voice was still the loudest in Caroline’s head, and her poise slipped. She tugged off her earrings and tossed them on the dressing table, surprised her mother hadn’t said anything about them being too ostentatious for a woman in her position.

  Another moment passed and she went to her closet, where a simple blue gown without a single ribbon or flounce was hanging.

  She rang for her lady’s maid to help her change.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alva

  While James Van Alen and everyone who was anyone were getting ready for Mrs. Astor’s clambake, Alva was steeling herself for dinner with Willie’s family at his parents’ cottage. As the newest member of the Vande
rbilt family, she still felt like an outsider. She didn’t understand their ways. There was something uniquely Vanderbilt ingrained in them, a sensibility that she couldn’t define or grasp. She didn’t always get the jokes, nor was she able to follow the non sequiturs that had them shifting from topic to topic like trains switching tracks. At times it was as if they spoke a different language.

  Standing in her dressing room, Alva was faced with a new dilemma—deciding what to wear. How was she to choose between the gowns with opals, gowns with pearls and diamonds, satin and silk ribbons, delicate lace fringe, gold and silver threading? She couldn’t imagine how she’d once managed with only a handful of dresses that she’d mended over and over again. Just remembering those days had planted a horrifying thought in the back of her mind: What if this all goes away?

  Though Alva knew the Vanderbilts were one of the wealthiest families in the country, old fears persisted. Having seen a man’s fortune vanish once before, she didn’t trust that it wouldn’t happen again. For that reason, Alva always took a few greenbacks from her weekly allowance and placed them in a hatbox hidden in the back of her dressing room closet. Just in case.

  This fear of it all going away might have explained why Alva never saved the best for last. She was afraid that any delay might cost her the very thing she’d been holding out for. She didn’t want to put off her happiness for even a second. She wanted the best and had no intention of suffering through something inferior or unsatisfying just to get to it. She’d always wanted her reward up front and couldn’t understand why her sisters would suffer through the tasteless vegetables, dried-out meat and pasty rice just to get to dessert. She’d sneak the cake, the pudding, the tarts despite the consequences for eating them before her supper.