The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  “Why don’t you? I’ll come visit.”

  “Takes money,” he said. “Now you’d think my father would like it if I’d—poof—disappear. But no. He’s cut my allowance. Again. So now I can’t leave. I’m stuck here. At least for the moment until I can turn things around.” Jeremiah was on a losing streak. “The Commodore—”He shook his head and laughed. “Come on now, who calls themselves ‘the Commodore’? It’s ridiculous. The man’s an absolute loon. And don’t be fooled by his old man act. Watch him, I mean it. He’s calculating. And mean. Do you know that he once put my hand in a keystone press?” He held out the evidence.

  Alva studied the mangled fingers, having always wondered what had happened to his hand.

  “And that’s nothing compared to what Billy used to do to me. He used to chase me around with a hook wrench. He’d catch me right in the collar and drag me around. So much for brotherly love, huh?” He laughed.

  Alva thought about her own sisters. There were times she’d chased Julia and Jennie around the house with her hairbrush or anything else she could get her hands on. Armide was bigger than her, so she never dared. Their fights were always verbal.

  “Sometimes I can’t believe Billy and I have the same blood running through our veins,” Jeremiah was saying now. “I don’t think like a Vanderbilt.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that.”

  “You want my advice? Be careful. Keep your guard up. The Vanderbilts are ruthless people. They get in your system. They’ll warp your mind if you let them. Given half a chance, they make you think you’ve gone mad.”

  * * *

  —

  Alva decided to follow Consuelo’s advice, and after several more attempts, she was finally granted a meeting with August Belmont, the Academy of Music’s impresario.

  It was raining the day of her meeting, a steady downpour, peppered with sleet, the temperatures on the brink of changing to snow. The Academy was located on East Fourteenth Street and Irving Place, in a pocket of Manhattan that had once been the pinnacle of New York society. Now that had changed. Alva passed by a sign for Tony Pastor’s, a raunchy vaudeville house in the basement of Tammany Hall, located next door to the opera house. The sidewalk was crowded and she had to weave through clusters of protestors, men and women, hoisting signs that read EMPLOYMENT FOR JOBLESS MEN, WE SHALL FIGHT UNTIL WE WIN, WORK OR RIOT. Some of the lettering blurred, the paint running in the rain. As she passed them, she recognized the same anger and determination etched in their faces, regardless of their causes. She wondered what pushed a person to the point that they’d stand on a street corner on a miserable wet day like that.

  After shaking the rain from her umbrella just outside the front door, Alva found a young woman with a very pointy chin waiting for her inside. She was polite, and overly formal as she showed Alva into a dark, cavernous office just off the lobby. “Mr. Belmont will be with you momentarily, Mrs. Vanderbilt.” She practically bowed as she closed the door.

  Alva took one of the chairs opposite the desk, hooking her umbrella over the arm. A puddle of rainwater immediately began collecting on the floor, and she regretted not having left the umbrella in the lobby. She scooted her chair over just a bit to hide the one puddle while another, slightly smaller one began forming.

  On her carriage ride over, Alva had recalled Tessie Oelrichs saying that Mr. Belmont was a Jew—the only Jew to have gained acceptance into society, as far as she knew. She had been nervous about the meeting, but once Mr. August Belmont walked in, all her foreboding seemed to have been for naught. August Belmont, a slight man, clean-shaven with distinguished graying temples, could not have been more welcoming, apologizing for keeping her waiting, even offering her tea and biscuits.

  “Now tell me, what can I do for you, Mrs. Vanderbilt?” He smiled and sipped his tea as his spectacles rode down his nose.

  “First, I’d like to thank you for making time in your busy schedule to meet with me,” she said, sounding as if she’d just arrived from the Deep South.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” He resettled in his chair. “Although I do have another appointment coming up,” he said, checking his pocket watch, “so perhaps we should begin.”

  “Very well then,” said Alva, “I requested this meeting because I would like to purchase a box at the Academy.”

  “I see.” He hesitated, setting his cup down and squaring his elbows on his desk. “We of course do appreciate your interest; however, the matter of boxes remains a rather complicated one.”

  “How so, Mr. Belmont?” She felt the tug of resistance. The trepidation she’d experienced earlier was starting to return.

  “Well, for one thing, our members are all quite passionate about the opera and—”

  “I can assure you, the Vanderbilts are extremely passionate about music. About all the arts.” Alva sipped her tea, her voice calm, polite, proper.

  “I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with the tip of his finger. “Boxes at the Academy are extremely rare. When one does become available, it’s generally passed down to the family’s next generation. But even more than that, there are commitments to owning a box.”

  “And what might those commitments be?” She tilted her head, fluttered her lashes.

  “Because they’re of a financial nature, this might be a conversation more suited for Mr. Vanderbilt.”

  “Oh, I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of talking finances, especially where my family is concerned.” She could see this had thrown him. Good. “Please, Mr. Belmont, as you were saying? The commitments?”

  He cleared his throat, reached up for his spectacles again. “Actually, there is a significant financial commitment that comes with owning a box. For example, even a mezzanine box, seating just four guests, starts at $400 per season. And the price only rises from there.” He gestured with his hands, as if to say, There, that explains it all.

  She recognized a polite rebuff when she encountered one. Refusing to be put off, she said, “Naturally, I’m prepared to pay whatever the asking price is. And it goes without saying that a balcony box would be most desirable.”

  “Well now,” Belmont laughed, suggesting she was out of her depth, “those are quite pricey. They start at $800 per season.”

  “I’ll pay twice that much,” Alva shot back with a smile.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Belmont, you should know that I’m prepared to pay well above your asking price.”

  He cleared his throat again. “I’m afraid it’s not as simple as all that.”

  Alva set her cup down and leaned forward in her chair, her eyes zeroing in on his. “I would think the Academy would welcome the Vanderbilts’ contribution. I know for a fact that the Academy is in debt.” She watched him shift in his chair. She kept going. “According to the article in the New York World, you’re $50,000 short for the season. Your building is in constant need of repair. The roof leaks, the walls and ceiling are crumbling, the boiler is failing. They said Adelina Patti demanded $4,000 for her last performance. Christine Nilsson wants $4,500 for her upcoming engagement.”

  Belmont removed his glasses. “I see you’ve done your homework, Mrs. Vanderbilt. I’m impressed but—”

  There was a knock on the door as the young lady from the lobby tucked her head inside. “Mr. Belmont, please forgive the interruption, but Mrs. Astor is arriving.”

  “Oh dear, she’s early.” Belmont sprang up from his chair, collected Alva’s teacup and the platter of biscuits, handing both off to the woman. “I’m afraid we’ll have to conclude our meeting.”

  “Well, I was—”

  “Please, Mrs. Vanderbilt.” There was a hint of panic in his voice as he opened another door, which Alva hadn’t even noticed was there before. “Mrs. Astor is here!”

  “But I—”

  He stepped in and coaxed her out of her c
hair.

  Alva was stunned. She was being ushered out as if he feared being seen with her there. She reached for her umbrella but then thought better of it and left it there hooked on the arm of her chair.

  “Please, hurry.”

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she went to the doorway. “I do hope we can continue our discussion later—”

  “Just follow the stairs at the end of the hallway,” he said. “It leads to the rear of the theater.”

  She heard the door close behind her and found herself in a musty back hallway lined with murals of rolling hills in clover, balconies, backdrops of gardens, cluttered racks of costumes, throne-like chairs and other props. Forcing herself down the rickety staircase, her anger intensified with each step. Mrs. Astor was early—she should have been asked to wait while Alva finished her meeting.

  Standing outside under a dripping awning, she counted to one hundred, drew a deep breath and walked back around to the front, past the protestors outside Tammany Hall. Another deep breath and she breezed through the lobby, past the pointy-chinned young woman who attempted to stop her. “Wait, Mrs. Vanderbilt, please, you can’t go in there! Mr. Belmont is—”

  Alva was already back inside Belmont’s office.

  His face blanched as his mouth dropped open. Mrs. Astor was seated beside him on a velvet settee, a fresh pot of tea and plate of biscuits on the table before them.

  “Why, Mrs. Astor,” said Alva, “so lovely to see you again.” She paused, waiting for some sign of recognition. Not even a hint. “I’m Alva. Alva Vanderbilt—Emily’s friend?” If Mrs. Astor had remembered meeting her—not once but twice now—she wasn’t going to acknowledge it. Alva remained undeterred. She was going to finish her meeting with Mr. Belmont—and in the presence of Mrs. Astor. She’d plead her case to the Grande Dame, she’d reiterate the Academy’s financial troubles and offer a solution: one box for which Alva would gladly pay handsomely.

  “Mrs. Vanderbilt, please—” Mr. Belmont stood up, befuddled.

  “Oh, do forgive me. I forgot my manners right along with my umbrella.”

  “I do apologize,” Belmont said to Mrs. Astor, who had yet to utter a word.

  With her umbrella in hand, Alva was about to launch into her speech, but before she could get the first word out, Belmont steered her out of his office.

  It all happened so fast and the next thing Alva knew, she was just outside his door, listening to Mrs. Astor say, “What on earth was she doing here? Everywhere I turn, there she is. And her manners are no better than the Commodore’s. I tell you, the Vanderbilts do not belong at the Academy of Music.”

  Alva’s grip tightened on her umbrella as her heart pounded. She knew she’d just ruined her chances of ever getting a box at the opera.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Society

  So Alva Vanderbilt came to us. By default. Actually, it was Lady Paget—formerly Minnie Stevens, who has taken to wearing twenty pounds of jewelry along with her title—who first brought Alva into our circle. Most popular among us is Kate Strong, nicknamed Puss on account of her affinity for felines. She has blond Little Bo-Peep curls, and always wears a diamond brooch shaped like a cat. Also in our set is Mrs. George Cavendish—Peggy to us—a gracious hostess with a pronounced stutter that makes her try all the harder. Peggy’s oldest and dearest friend is Lydia, the romantic among us, who adores the books of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. There’s also Tessie Oelrichs and of course Mamie, as well as Penelope, Ophelia, Fanny and Cettie. Together, we’re the lower-ranking class of society ladies. The whole lot of us have been lumped together and labeled the robber barons’ wives, married to men like John Pierpont Morgan, Jay Gould and John Rockefeller.

  Alva should be grateful that we’ve welcomed her in, but we can tell our friendship feels like a consolation prize. While we invite her to our dinner parties and luncheons, she rarely reciprocates. Lady Paget insists it’s because Alva thinks her home is too modest. We aren’t convinced that’s the reason, and yet we understand Alva’s ambivalence about being one of us. Some of us don’t even want to be one of us, either.

  This afternoon, we’re gathered in Cettie Rockefeller’s drawing room, sitting in a semicircle, our spines uniformly eight inches from the backs of the caned Louis XV chairs, while we balance Coalport china plates of finger sandwiches on our laps. The only exception is Puss, who has traded in her plate for Mr. Fritzy, a rather well-behaved Persian lounging peacefully while she strokes his ears.

  The conversation today, like most days, begins with a recap of last night’s dinner parties, balls, the ballet. It’s agreed that so-and-so’s dress was too tight, too embellished, too bland, too something. We share snippets of gossip about so-and-so’s daughter, husband, mistress, and it doesn’t take long before we find ourselves talking about Ward McAllister and Mrs. Astor.

  The mere mention of Mrs. Astor’s name piques Alva’s ire. While we’re talking about ways to impress her, Alva is talking about ways to bring the Grande Dame down.

  She suggests throwing a lavish ball and inviting everyone but Mrs. Astor. Penelope insists this will never work. If people knew she was trying to exclude Mrs. Astor, no one would come for fear they’d be cut from her guest list forever. We all saw what happened when Mamie tried hosting a fish fry on the same night as her clambake. Though Tessie is quick to point out that Mamie’s attempt did get her into society.

  “Well, I don’t want in through the back door,” says Alva. “When I enter society, it will be through the front door.”

  Alva is certainly a bit more haughty than usual. We suspect this has something to do with the inheritance. At the start of the new year, on the fourth of January, the Commodore passed away. Eighty-two years old and worth $100 million. The day after his funeral, they did the reading of the will, as if they couldn’t wait another second to see what he’d left them. They say the bulk of his estate, some $75 million, went to Alva’s father-in-law, Billy, and the rest was divided among the male heirs.

  It hasn’t been that long—just a few weeks—but already we can see the change in Alva. She’s always dressed with a flair, but even more so now, despite her being pregnant. Even with her belly showing, she isn’t afraid to wear bright reds or oranges regardless of their clashing with her hair color. And yet, she knows—or at least she should know—that even her husband’s newly acquired millions won’t make a difference as far as Mrs. Astor is concerned.

  So like it or not, she’s stuck with us, and us with her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alva

  $2 million changed everything. Alva had always known her husband was wealthy, but now he was wealthy beyond anything she could have imagined. This wasn’t just money, this was a fortune. She couldn’t get that glorious dollar amount out of her mind. Knowing she could afford anything her heart desired was a heady thing. No price tag was beyond her reach.

  Though she’d done absolutely nothing to contribute to her husband’s vast wealth, she felt it belonged to her as if she’d earned it herself. And in truth, Willie hadn’t earned it, either. She told herself she’d be generous, that she’d be charitable, but still she was reluctant to part with too much just yet—even to the worthiest of causes. There was the fear there wouldn’t be enough left for Alva and Willie. And there were so many things they needed, wanted, or simply had to have.

  As much as she tried to conceal it, Alva felt a bit smug. She now had an edge over Mamie, Tessie, Penelope, Puss and the rest of her peers. She felt almost sorry for them. Almost. The one she truly did feel sorry for, though, was Jeremiah, who’d received only $200,000. Only $200,000—do you hear yourself, Alva? She knew plenty of people who could have lived comfortably off that amount for the rest of their years. But not a Vanderbilt, definitely not a Vanderbilt—not even Jeremiah Vanderbilt.

  She tried not to dwell on that and instead focused on the fact that she and Willie K. were moving
up. Alva had been seven months pregnant at the reading of the will, and she and Willie had immediately begun talking about building a new house, a bigger house, a house that she could decorate as she saw fit. It was time.

  Nearly two months to the day of the Commodore’s passing, on the second of March, 1877, Alva gave birth to their first child. When the midwife placed the baby in Alva’s arms, she was speechless. The little girl was a sheer delight, beautiful with Willie K.’s dark hair and Alva’s blue eyes. With tears running down her face, Alva was stunned by the wonderment of it all, that this child had come from her. She had created this little girl and now she belonged to Alva. Forever.

  Just then that tiny face scrunched up red and began sputtering, tears flowing, chest heaving. Alva froze. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Oh, nothing’s wrong. She’s just hungry is all,” said the midwife, who had been in favor of bringing in a wet nurse. But Alva had objected, insisting on feeding her baby herself, just as her own mother had done.

  The midwife positioned the baby on Alva’s chest, but when the infant’s mouth clamped down on Alva’s breast, her suckling wasn’t strong enough. Nothing happened. Her milk wouldn’t flow. She had nothing to give her. It was then that she realized this new life was so fully dependent on her and already she was failing her. Unable to feed her—the most basic thing a mother could do—Alva was flooded with fear. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t do this on her own. She panicked and began to sob until the midwife stepped in and took the baby from her.

  “It’s okay,” the midwife assured her. “We’ll just bring in a wet nurse if you can’t manage it.”

  But the baby was still crying and so was Alva. She couldn’t help it. She desperately wanted her mother, wanted her alive and by her side to show her how to do this. She didn’t want Alice and Louisa there, telling her everything she was doing wrong, making her doubt herself and second-guess her every move. Her sisters were still making their way from Mobile, where they’d gone to visit an elderly aunt. Besides, none of them were married and they wouldn’t have known what to do, either. Consuelo was in Europe, Emily had her hands full with a baby of her own, so the only friend left was Jeremiah, and he was of no use in this situation. Alva had never felt so alone. She cried harder, unable to stop. Her head was congested, temples pounding; her body felt wrenched.