The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alva

  It was November and a new season was already underway. Any hope Alva had about her Cliff Walk rescue ingratiating her with Mrs. Astor had been dashed when she and Willie K. were not invited to Emily’s wedding. Alva had even had a special dress made, had bought their wedding gift—a pair of Venetian enamel vases once owned by an eighteenth-century viscount. She’d boasted to Alice and the rest of the Vanderbilts that she would be attending the wedding, hobnobbing with Mrs. Astor’s smart set. Alva had been mortified by the rejection.

  And then, as luck would have it, luck that turned to misfortune, Alva had spotted Mrs. Astor one day at Tiffany & Company on Union Square. The Grande Dame was at the counter, looking at an array of diamond brooches the clerk had set before her on a black velvet tray. Alva inched closer while they pared down the selection.

  “I’m torn between these two,” Alva overheard Mrs. Astor saying.

  Alva peered in closer. One was a lovely oval amethyst stone set in an elaborate laurel wreath of rose-cut yellow diamonds. The challenger was a cluster of deep blue sapphires set in a flower head pattern of diamonds.

  “They’re both lovely,” said the clerk. “I’m certain that Mrs. Van Alen will be delighted with either one.”

  Mrs. Van Alen? Emily? This is for Emily?

  “I just can’t decide which one would suit her best,” Mrs. Astor lamented.

  That’s when Alva spoke up. “Pardon me—I couldn’t help but overhear.” She felt Mrs. Astor tense up beside her. Keep your mouth shut, Alva. Don’t say another word. Don’t, don’t, do not— “With Mrs. Van Alen’s coloring,” she said, “I think the amethyst would be better.”

  “Very well then,” said Mrs. Astor to the clerk. “I’ll take the sapphires.”

  * * *

  —

  Alva sulked and then, a few weeks later, she decided the time had come to pay a social call to Mrs. Astor. Yes, there were rules about this sort of thing, but as far as Alva was concerned, rules were meant to be broken. While it was customary to drop off one’s card ahead of time and wait—sometimes up to a week—for Mrs. Astor’s reply, Alva wasn’t willing to do that. She’d already followed the proper etiquette and had dropped off her card not once, not twice, but three times. She was tired of waiting. Hers wouldn’t be one of a hundred or so cards awaiting Mrs. Astor’s approval. Alva had never been passive about anything she’d wanted before, so why this?

  She checked herself in the mirror one last time. She had decided to wear her pale green dress with the emerald beading along the bodice and the creamy strand of pearls that Willie said had once belonged to Catherine the Great. Those pearls along with her mink coat would make a statement.

  It was snowing that day, the first measurable snowfall of the year. When the family’s coachman brought the brougham around for her, a dusting of flakes had already accumulated on the two black horses, steam coming from their muzzles. The driver lowered the carriage steps and helped her inside. Alva, who had walked the city till the soles of her shoes wore away—who had ridden crowded omnibuses alongside men with mud-caked boots and rank breath, women in threadbare clothing with children on their laps—would never take a private coach and driver for granted. She stuffed her gloved hands deep inside her silk-lined muff while the brougham eased forward.

  By two o’clock that afternoon, a good four inches of snow had already fallen, with a gray sky promising more. Alva’s coachman negotiated the ice and snowdrifts, staying within the deep tracks laid down by previous carriages that had trekked up Fifth Avenue. Clearing a porthole in the window fog, Alva was mesmerized by a city that seemed to be growing skyward as much as it stretched outward. Those buildings, their stature and sense of permanence, left her in awe. She could only imagine what it must have been like to create something that solid, that enduring, something one could put their name on.

  When she arrived at Thirty-Fourth Street, Alva gazed out at a rather unremarkable four-story townhouse. So, this is where the great queen lives? Alva had been expecting something much grander and noted that it was a tad bit smaller than the home of her brother-in-law, John Astor III, right next door. And, of course, the Alexander T. Stewart mansion across the street dwarfed them both.

  Before the coachman helped her out of the carriage, he offered to deliver her calling card on her behalf. Alva thanked him anyway, and though it was out of the ordinary—highly so—she needed to meet with the Grande Dame in person, look her in the eye and win her over. She wouldn’t mention Emily’s rescue, wouldn’t say a word about the incident at Tiffany & Company. No, Alva would appeal to Mrs. Astor just as any other young society lady might do. She would make Mrs. Astor see that she could contribute to society, that not all railroad money was bad.

  Alva proceeded, allowing her driver to guide her up the front stairs and tug the bell pull, before sending him back to the carriage. Alva clutched her calling card, practicing her lines: Why, Mrs. Astor, what a lovely home you have . . . It’s a shame the two of us haven’t met properly yet . . . Soon the front door opened, and Alva was face-to-face with Mrs. Astor’s butler, a tall, slim gentleman with a long, solemn expression and heavily lidded eyes that made him appear sleepy. He bowed respectfully and, without a word, held out a silver tray.

  As Alva placed her card on top, she smiled and asked, “Is she in?”

  His eyes flashed, breaking from his stuffy composure. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “Is Mrs. Astor in? I’d like to have a word with her.” Alva wasn’t sure if it was her request or her Southern accent—which she’d played up—that had confounded him. She smiled in that way that had opened many a door for her in the past and was about to step inside, when the butler deftly blocked the entranceway.

  “I’m afraid Mrs. Astor does not receive guests in this manner.” He bowed again and, in his deep voice, wished her a good day and closed the door.

  * * *

  —

  Alva stared at the bell pull, stunned, as if expecting him to open the door again. Through the stained-glass windows she saw him disappear down a long dark hallway. She’d been dismissed. By the butler. Forcing herself down the front stoop, her heart in her throat, she kept her shoulders high and dignified as she walked back to her carriage.

  “Take me to Miss Yznaga’s home,” she said as her coachman helped her into the brougham.

  She stuffed her hands inside her muff, fingers balled into fists. She needed Consuelo’s advice. Thankfully her friend was back in New York, preparing for her marriage to George Victor Drogo Montagu, Viscount Mandeville, the future eighth Duke of Manchester. At least that was one wedding she’d be invited to. Thankfully none of those ridiculous social formalities mattered when it came to Consuelo.

  The two had met as young girls in Newport. Consuelo’s father had been a wealthy Cuban sugar plantation owner, and Alva’s father had run a successful cotton plantation. Both girls had grown up in the South, Consuelo in Louisiana, Alva in Alabama, their summers spent in Newport. Consuelo was the only one who had stuck by Alva after her family lost everything.

  When she arrived at the Yznagas’ home, she found Consuelo in the music room, practicing her banjo, which accompanied her just about everywhere. Alva had seen her friend strumming away at lawn parties and dinner parties, and only Consuelo was charming enough to get everyone applauding and encouraging her to play more. She soaked her fingertips in a dish of butter each night to keep them from becoming calloused.

  Alva whipped her muff and hat across the room and pulled her traveling gloves off with her teeth before relaying what had happened with Mrs. Astor’s butler.

  Consuelo strummed a few chords and said, “Well, what did you expect? You know better than that, Alva. That little gesture of yours probably did more harm than good. You can’t go around bullying everyone—especially not Mrs. Astor.”

  “And apparently not you, either.”

/>   Consuelo laughed. “You’ve always been such a terror. When we were little, you’d do just about anything to get your own way.”

  “And it worked, didn’t it?”

  “That was then. This is now.” Consuelo accented her point with a C chord. “Society won’t give an inch. I’m warning you. And you have to stop following Mrs. Astor around in stores.”

  “I wasn’t following her. She just happened to be there.”

  “And you should have had the good sense to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Well, I’ve about had it with society. I can’t seem to do anything right by these people.”

  Consuelo laughed, set her banjo aside and patted her tight dark curls in place.

  “It’s not funny. Oh, heaven help me!” Alva dramatically pressed the back of her hand to her forehead as if about to faint. “How dare I call on the great Mrs. Astor? At least I waited until two o’clock.” Alva had observed the rule that it was impolite to make a social call before two in the afternoon and even worse to stay past four.

  “I think asking her butler if you could speak to her was probably the greater offense.”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Alva. “I didn’t realize it’s such poor form to ask to be received by the high-and-mighty Caroline Astor.”

  “Now you’re just being a brat,” she teased. “And really, you mustn’t speak that way about Mrs. Astor. She’s a very powerful woman, and like it or not, Mrs. Astor is the only one who can grant you entrée into New York society.”

  “But she’s too old-fashioned. Too set in her ways. And she’s cold. I tell you butter wouldn’t melt in that woman’s mouth.”

  “Now, Alva.”

  “Okay, all right.” She raised her hands.

  Consuelo went over to Alva and cupped her face in her hands. “Calm down. You’re a very bright girl—you will figure this out. If Mrs. Astor is standing in your way, maybe it’s time to try another avenue.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know”—she dropped her hands and shrugged—“maybe the Academy of Music.”

  “I’ve already tried buying a box. They won’t even meet with me to discuss the matter.”

  “Well, try again. I’ve known you a very long time and you’re not a quitter. You’ve always gotten everything you’ve set your heart on, including Willie Vanderbilt. If you put your mind to it, Mrs. Astor and the Academy of Music won’t stand a chance.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Caroline

  Caroline was about to start a new book and had settled into her favorite Herter Brothers armchair, across from the crackling fireplace, near the upstairs bay windows. It was a crisp, sunny fall day, and most of the leaves from the Norway maples out front had withered weeks ago, giving her a clear view of Fifth Avenue through the tree branches.

  She’d yet to open the book resting in her lap and was instead gazing out the window, watching the family brougham pulling up out front. The coachman jumped down from his box and when he opened the carriage door, Charlotte stepped out. She smiled and leaned toward him while he held her by the waist, raising her up like a ballerina, her feet fluttering the hem of her coat. They were laughing, the winter sun glinting off the brass buttons on his uniform.

  Caroline got up, moved closer to the window, pulling back the drapes, watching the two of them, the rush of her pulse beating up inside her head. She stood there, transfixed, until Charlotte left the coachman and came inside.

  When she heard her coming up the stairs, Caroline met her at the top of the landing. “Might I have a word with you, young lady?”

  Caroline knew she had to say something, but she was so unprepared to deal with this. She was still thinking of what to say when Charlotte spoke up.

  “I saw you watching us just now,” she said smugly, as if she’d done it intentionally, performing for Caroline’s benefit. Was Charlotte taunting Duncan Briar or Caroline? She couldn’t tell.

  “He’s a very interesting man. You would realize that if you’d ever bothered getting to know him.”

  “I don’t need to get to know him. And neither do you. For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, he’s a coachman! You are not to go out riding with him again without a chaperone. Do you understand?” My goodness, she sounded just like her mother. Hadn’t she uttered that very same sentiment to Caroline when she’d learned about Horace Wellsby?

  Charlotte smirked. “Don’t worry, Mother, I’m not going to marry him.”

  “Of that you can be certain.”

  Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. “Will there be anything else?” She stood, drumming her fingers along the sleeve of her dress. “I promised Father I’d beat him in another chess game.”

  Caroline was at a loss. She shook her head and waved Charlotte away.

  * * *

  —

  Later that day, Duncan Briar stood before Caroline in her sitting room, head bowed, hat in his hands, fingers crumpling the brim. He’d brought the smell of the horses in with him from the livery stables out back.

  Caroline set her teacup aside and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid your services will no longer be needed here.”

  His head shot up, surprised. He had shaggy brown hair and a strong chin. His blue eyes opened wide. “If this is about repairing the carriage wheel—”

  “I assure you it has nothing to do with that.”

  “Then may I inquire as to why I’m being dismissed?”

  There was an earnestness in his eyes, as if he had no idea what was coming. Caroline thought for a moment, weighing her response. The less said the better. “I would be happy to provide a reference for your future employer.”

  As Duncan bowed, thanked her and walked away, Caroline felt a twinge of guilt. After all, he’d been a fine driver, a loyal employee, but Caroline had to get rid of him.

  Later that afternoon Caroline found Charlotte in her bedroom, holed up in the little nook built into the bay window. A magazine lay facedown on the seat cushions alongside her stocking feet.

  “You didn’t have to let him go,” she said, staring out the window, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  So she’d already heard. Maybe Carrie or Jack had told her. “I did it for your own good.”

  Charlotte reached for the magazine and began leafing through its pages. Her eyes were shimmering, and Caroline could tell she was beating back more tears. “He didn’t do anything wrong. If you want to punish someone, it should be me, not him.”

  Caroline didn’t want to punish Charlotte. She had simply wanted to remove the temptation. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me, huh?” she said bitterly, chucking the magazine aside. “I don’t need protecting.”

  Caroline knew better than to press the matter. If she backed off now and said no more, it would simmer without boiling over into an argument. As she turned to leave Charlotte’s room, she saw her daughter’s shoes pushed into the corner, caked in mud with a few straws of hay stuck to the soles. Obviously she’d been down to the stables to see Duncan Briar one last time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alva

  NEW YORK, 1877

  Months passed and nothing changed. Consuelo was in Europe with her future husband, and other than attending a few dinner parties with Emily and James Van Alen, Alva felt abandoned. With no one else to turn to, she found herself gravitating toward the only person who seemed to understand her: Jeremiah Vanderbilt. As of late, they’d become quite good friends. He would come to her house or she would go to his, a modest brownstone equally modest in its furnishings.

  “For a Vanderbilt, you really don’t know how to spend your money,” she’d said the first time she was invited to his place.

  He laughed, reaching for a cigarette.

  “Have you noticed,” she’d said, “that all Vanderbilt houses look the same inside?
Everything is always done in that god-awful mossy green.”

  “Well, you know what they say, just because you have money doesn’t mean you have taste.” He’d laughed again.

  “You’re certainly right about that.”

  He struck a match, and there, with his handsome face inches from the flame, she saw a hint of madness, but also a flash of genius. His wit and timing were uncanny. And yet, when he wasn’t uttering quips and being sarcastic, he could be intensely deep and sensitive. He knew when and how to make her laugh and when to keep quiet and commiserate. He’d done just that when Alva learned she wasn’t invited to Emily’s wedding, when Mrs. Astor snubbed her at Tiffany & Company and again after Alva had dropped off her third calling card for Mrs. Astor.

  The more time they spent together, the more she marveled at his uniqueness. He was a true original who did his own thinking and didn’t care what others thought of him.

  Alva remembered the first time she’d met Jeremiah’s companion, George Terry. He was a short, stocky man with a handsome face and round oversize spectacles, which he’d removed upon their introduction, as if to get a better look at her.

  “So this is Alva,” he said, shaking her hand. “I understand that you’ve been a very good friend to Jeremiah. He needs a good friend like you.”

  She was moved by what he’d said and hadn’t realized until then just how difficult life must have been for someone like Jeremiah.

  “I’m not ashamed,” he’d said to her one day, unprompted, out of the blue. They were walking down Seventh Avenue. Jeremiah liked walking. Said it cleared his head and swore the exercise kept his spells, as he called them, at bay. “George is my best friend. My favorite person on the planet.”

  “I thought I was your favorite person on the planet,” she teased.

  “Next to you of course.” He looped his arm through hers. “If we had half a brain, George and I would move to Paris.”