The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  There were several side conversations taking place all at once, and Caroline found herself dipping in and out of them, catching only fragments here and there: her husband laughing conspiratorially with Charlotte; Jack asking for the first course; her mother’s horror over Victoria Aarden, an unmarried woman, wearing a tiara. On the other side of the table she heard Helen saying something about Rosy.

  “Oh, so it’s Rosy now, is it?” Caroline teased. “Mr. Roosevelt has certainly expressed a great deal of interest in you lately.”

  “No more than usual.” Helen smiled, the color of her cheeks growing pink as she lowered her eyes.

  It was just like Helen to downplay the romance, not wanting to upset Emily. Everyone approved of Rosy, whereas no one approved of James Van Alen. Of all of Caroline’s daughters, Helen was the most congenial, the family arbiter, the one most likely to have forfeited a wooden penny doll when they were younger or a piece of Turkish delight if it meant keeping the peace between Charlotte and Carrie. Or Charlotte and Emily. Even Charlotte and Jack. Charlotte was always in the middle of everything.

  Caroline turned her focus toward Emily, who hadn’t said much about Rosy. Or anything else for that matter. She was jittery, looking around. Maybe she was adding up the number of pink plumes in the ladies’ hats or counting the straw boaters while no doubt searching for James Van Alen. Caroline wondered if Emily had any idea that he’d asked for her hand.

  A footman, dressed in Astor livery, handed each of them a menu engraved with the eight courses. Caroline’s mother raised an eyebrow as if to say, Is this necessary? And her brow rose higher still when the footmen presented the first course of caviar and oysters on the half shell.

  “Service à la russe is much more elegant than service à la française,” her mother said.

  Caroline knew her too well to assume this was a compliment. She took a sip of champagne and braced herself.

  “Serving each course one at a time rather than bringing the food out all at once is very European,” her mother added. “Of course, it’s also a much more dramatic presentation. Tell me, Lina, how many additional liveried footmen did you hire just for this?”

  “I told you, Mother”—Caroline looked across the way at Mamie, her fish fork scooting an oyster about—“I did what I had to do.” Caroline set her glass down. “I don’t suppose you approve of the favors, either.”

  “There was nothing wrong with the nosegays and handkerchiefs,” she said with a hand flourish, “but if you feel the need to impress your guests with expensive trinkets, far be it from me to say anything.”

  Caroline pressed her lips tight, willing herself not to scowl. There were too many eyes on their table and on her.

  The supper pressed on with one course followed by another. When the footmen served the Roman punch, William pushed his cup aside and Jack reached for it, plunging his spoon into the sweet meringue before Caroline could stop him. William dabbed his mouth and tossed his napkin onto the table before turning to Caroline and saying wryly, “May I be excused now?”

  She wanted to say no, but he wasn’t asking her permission. In fact, he had already stood up and taken his first step away from the table, and there was no graceful way to counter. She had to let him go and without revealing even a hint of disappointment. He had barely made it inside when Caroline realized she had a far bigger problem to contend with.

  James Van Alen had somehow managed to find his way back into the party. She watched in horror as he stumbled and tripped across the grounds. Caroline didn’t know what to do, but she was on her feet now, heading toward him.

  Her nephew sprang up from his table and grabbed Van Alen by the lapels, shouting, “Get hold of yourself, man.”

  “Please, Waldorf,” said Caroline, catching up to them. “That’s enough, thank you. People are staring. Let us not draw any more attention to the matter.” But of course, it was too late for that. Her guests were watching them while finishing their cherry compote, as if this were part of the evening’s entertainment.

  Emily was at Caroline’s side now, too. “James? Oh James, what’s—” She stopped and brought a hand to her chest. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yesh, yesh I—I have,” James stammered, belched and hung his head, teetering, his balance unsteady. “I’m verry tired,” he said, his backside already butting up against one of the tables, making a few of Caroline’s guests abandon their chairs.

  A footman took hold of him, and Waldorf held Emily back as Van Alen was escorted away from the clambake once again. Emily broke free from her cousin’s hold and stormed off toward the cottage. Caroline, all stilted smiles, followed, finding Emily already in the library confronting her father.

  “You know James doesn’t drink,” Emily was saying. “You’ve gone and made a fool of him.”

  “My dear, James Van Alen needs no assistance from me in that department.”

  “Don’t you see, he wants to marry me, and I want to marry him. I’m going to be his wife.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  And with that, Emily’s eyes grew glassy, her indignation faltering as she covered her face, sobbing into her hands. Though she hated to see her daughter in such pain, Caroline was relieved, certain they’d seen the last of James Van Alen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alva

  When Alva and Willie K. arrived at the Vanderbilts’ cottage for dinner that night, her father-in-law, Billy, nearly stampeded them in the drawing room. “Well, look who’s finally here.”

  It was obvious that Willie’s good looks came from his mother, Louisa Kissam, for his father was a stocky man with scraggly whiskers that irritated Alva’s cheek when he leaned in to kiss her hello.

  All the Vanderbilts were there, including the Commodore, a stoop-shouldered man with tufts of cottony white hair. He was accompanied by his second wife, Frank, named after her father’s best friend. She was forty years younger than the Commodore and a good twenty years younger than some of her stepdaughters. She also happened to be the Commodore’s second cousin, which no one thought odd seeing as his previous wife had been his first cousin.

  When one of the footmen held out a tray of aperitifs, the Commodore reached for a glass, dismissing the cocktail napkin with a swat of his hand. “Hmmmph,” he said, looking disapprovingly at the fluted sherry glass. “What a bunch of poppycock.”

  The Commodore had no use for society or manners. Willie’s grandfather had grown up penniless on Staten Island and had worked sixteen- and eighteen-hour days trying to get his own ferry business started. Back then, there was no need for etiquette. He downed his sherry in two gulps.

  Billy reached for an aperitif, raising his glass to his eldest son, Cornelius II. The two of them were talking about a new railroad line that would yield the family another million by its completion. Alva’s ears perked up at that. Another million. She still couldn’t get used to their tossing such staggering amounts of money around like a handful of coins. It would have been nice if some of that money found its way to a worthy cause, but the Commodore was not a big believer in philanthropy. He’d often said, Let others do what I have done, and they need not be around here begging.

  Alva pretended she wasn’t eavesdropping on the men while she stood with Willie’s sisters, Margaret and Florence, all encircling Cornelius’s wife, Alice. Alice Vanderbilt was ten years Alva’s senior, and despite Willie’s mother being alive and well, Alice considered herself the Vanderbilts’ matriarch. Alice had an interesting face, long and slender with a dark sprig of tightly wound curls resting on her forehead. Her small, narrow eyes made her appear as if she were always squinting. The other women were listening intently to her talking about how her young sons, Bill and Neily, were constructing a toy railroad of their own.

  “It must be in their blood,” said Alva.

  “Why, of course it is.” Alice looked at Alva as if she’d said something not only abs
urd but also obscene.

  Alva was thinking of her response when an unsavory-looking man barged into the room. At first, she thought he was an intruder, come to pick their pockets and help himself to all the women’s jewelry. But no one else was alarmed. Maybe he was a deliveryman or perhaps a servant out of livery. Wrong again. The tall, lanky, almost gaunt man in the threadbare suit was Cornelius Jeremiah Vanderbilt, whom they all called Jeremiah.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to Alva moments later, after having made his rounds to the others. He reminded her of those vagrants who slept in doorways and stole apples and grapes off the carts down on Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue. “And tell me, how are you related to all this?” He gestured to the others, to the room and all its excess.

  “I’m Willie’s wife. And you?”

  “I, my good lady,” he said with a grandiose bow, “am the Commodore’s ne’er-do-well son.”

  “I didn’t realize the Commodore had another son.”

  “And I didn’t realize Willie had a wife.”

  “Oh my,” said Alva with feigned alarm, “do you think we’re at the right dinner party?”

  At that Jeremiah threw his head back, raised his hand to his chest and laughed. He had long slender fingers except for two on his left hand. They were misshapen, slightly bent, the knuckles gnarled. Each time he blinked, his long lashes stirred the tips of the hair hanging down in his steely-blue eyes. Looking past the beard, she could now see a family resemblance, Jeremiah looking more like the Commodore than his brother Billy.

  “So, where have they been hiding you?” asked Alva. “And why weren’t you at our wedding?”

  “I wasn’t invited. I told you, I’m the ne’er-do-well son.” He sounded proud of the title, as if that distinguished him from the others. The footman came by with a tray of aperitifs. Jeremiah took two glasses, passing one to Alva. “It’s a rough crowd here tonight. Billy can’t stand me. Neither can Alice. Watch out for her. She doesn’t like you one bit, I can tell already.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Well,” he said, conspiratorially, “we interlopers have to stick together.”

  Alva raised her glass and an eyebrow in unison. Regardless of what the Vanderbilts thought, she liked Jeremiah. Felt an instant connection with him. Later she would learn that being the family wastrel wasn’t entirely his fault. Jeremiah had been born with epilepsy, and after his first seizure, complete with frothing from the mouth, the Commodore had put him in an asylum. After his release, Jeremiah picked up a gambling habit and some other vices. But that was years ago and according to Willie, Jeremiah had been behaving himself, and for now anyway, was back in the Commodore’s good graces.

  Twenty minutes later, dinner was served, and they’d all moved into the dining room, sitting around a table made of rosewood and mahogany trimmed in bronze. Two footmen brought out enormous serving dishes and tureens, steaming platters of capon, bass and lamb, the various aromas melding together, clashing and at times pungent. Alva had lost her appetite because they’d begun talking—of all things—about Mrs. Astor’s clambake. She would have given anything to be there instead that night.

  “I hear they’re bringing the Academy’s symphony in from New York,” said Willie’s mother.

  “I wonder how much that will cost them,” said Cornelius, tucking his napkin in his shirt collar.

  “Speaking of the Academy of Music,” said Alice, “with any luck we’ll be purchasing a box this coming season. I’m hoping to set up a meeting with the impresario when we return to New York.”

  The others thought that was splendid. The Academy of Music was the city’s opera house, the fountainhead of the Knickerbockers’ existence. Alva didn’t respond. She knew Alice had been denied such a meeting for the past three seasons. What made her think this year would be any different? The expression on Jeremiah’s face said pretty much the same thing.

  Alva took a good hard look at her new extended family. The people gathered around that table represented more wealth than was fathomable. Even more wealth than the Astors possessed. The Commodore was worth millions, which, upon his death, would be cut up like a pie and served sliver by sliver to his thirteen children and their descendants. The largest piece, of course, would go to his eldest son, Billy.

  The Commodore, seated to Alva’s right, was eighty-two, and his mind and vision were beginning to wane. He’d already mistaken Alva’s gown for his napkin, and when he bent over to dab his mouth on her dress, she yelped. The others looked on horrified, but not quite as horrified as they’d been when he splashed about in his finger bowl and then slurped it down the hatch.

  Looking around the table again, Alva saw exactly what she was up against. Yes, the Vanderbilts had enormous wealth, but no amount of money could buy the one thing they lacked: breeding. She was all too aware that Billy was using his oyster fork for his salad, Jeremiah had bread crumbs in his beard, Cornelius had his elbows on the table, and the Commodore was chewing with his mouth open.

  Though each new generation possessed slightly better manners and greater sophistication, the Vanderbilts hadn’t evolved enough for society. Frankly, they hadn’t evolved enough for Alva, either. It was obvious now that it was going to be up to her to get the Vanderbilts recognized by society.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Caroline

  Over my dead body. The day after the clambake, those words came back to haunt William Backhouse Astor Jr. Caroline was passing by the conservatory just as her husband was about to receive a most unusual visitor, an eager-looking gentleman with broad, square shoulders and an obedient stance. Hade announced him as George Pendergrass, General Van Alen’s second.

  “Van Alen’s second?” William laughed and looked at Caroline, who was now curious enough to join her husband in the chair beside him as the breeze coming through the open windows stirred the drapes.

  Pendergrass ceremoniously handed William a sealed envelope. “General Van Alen asked that I deliver this letter to you personally.”

  No one said anything. The sound of water trickling from the marble Apollo fountain in the center of the room was suddenly amplified.

  “Very well,” said William eventually. “You’ve delivered his letter, and now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time for this nonsense.” He gestured toward the door.

  “I’ve been instructed to wait while you read the general’s letter.” Pendergrass stood solid and stoic, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Utterly ridiculous,” said William with a wave of his hand. “I won’t be told what to do. Especially not in my own house and certainly not by Van Alen.”

  “Very well then, sir.” Pendergrass retrieved the envelope from William. “I’ve been instructed to read it to you, if by chance you refused to do so yourself.” He unsealed the letter, cleared his throat and began:

  Sir—

  Having learned of the unfortunate events that occurred on your property yesterday, Thursday, the tenth of August, I am gravely offended. You have not only humiliated and insulted my son, but you have besmirched my family’s good name. I demand you retract your statements and offer an apology at once to my son, and to each guest in attendance. Furthermore, I demand that you grant permission thereby allowing Miss Emily Astor to wed my son, James Van Alen Jr. If all of the above, as well as a formal written apology to me, are not forthcoming within the next twenty-four hours, I will have no choice but to challenge you to a duel using Colt pistols as our weapons. The time and place to be—

  “Enough!” William shouted, making Pendergrass take a half step back.

  A duel? Caroline shook her head. It was preposterous.

  “I refuse to waste my time listening to one more word.” William looked at Pendergrass and added, “You tell General Van Alen he’s every bit as pompous as his son.” He snatched the letter from Pendergrass, crumpled it into a tight ball and deposited
it back into Pendergrass’s hand. “There’s his apology. What he chooses to do with it is of no concern of mine. However, if he’s looking for suggestions, I can offer a prime location as to where he may shove it.”

  Caroline listened to her husband hurling insults about General Van Alen, and when his language became too colorful, she excused herself, doubting that anyone noticed she’d left the room. With the sound of William’s bluster echoing off the walls, Caroline went upstairs to check on Emily, who had not stepped out of her room since the clambake.

  When she knocked on the door, there was no answer. She tried the knob, surprised when it turned. Letting herself in, she saw Emily on her side, facing the wall. She didn’t stir at all, and at first, Caroline thought she was asleep. But then Emily craned her neck, rolling onto her back.

  “I haven’t heard from James since the clambake. It’s over. I’ve lost him. Lost him for good.”

  “Shhhhh.” Caroline sat on the side of the bed, smoothing her hands over the coverlet while General Van Alen’s ultimatum rang out, again and again inside her head. She couldn’t shake it loose.

  “I feel like part of me has died,” said Emily. “It hurts so badly. Sometimes I can hardly breathe.”

  “Your first heartbreak always hurts the most,” said Caroline. “But you’ll see”—Emily rolled back onto her side—“your heart will mend, stronger than it was before. I promise you that. The heart is resilient. The more it breaks, the stronger it becomes.”