The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  At some point she wore herself out and drifted off into a chain of restless dreams. When she awoke early the next morning, Willie K. was fast asleep in the chair next to her bed, his hair as rumpled as his clothes, a shadow of whiskers coming up on his cheeks and chin. She worried that he was going to wake with a kink in his neck. The maid said he’d been there all night, wanting to make sure “both his girls” were okay.

  Alva watched him sleeping and realized that, in fact, she wasn’t alone. She had Willie K. and she had her baby. A family of her own. Why this very obvious fact hadn’t entered her mind before, she couldn’t say, but this time when her little girl cried, Alva didn’t panic. She knew what her baby needed. As the nurse placed the infant in her arms it felt as natural and as right as anything ever could have. When that tiny mouth latched onto her breast, Alva felt her power coming back.

  In that moment Alva realized that everything—everything—was different now. She was seeing the world through the eyes of motherhood, a kind of double vision; one eye on her daughter’s future, the other on her own. Her priorities shuffled, falling into different places. All at once society seemed a shallow pursuit for herself and yet absolutely essential for her daughter. Alva vowed to do whatever was necessary to ensure that her daughter would be received by the finest families, welcomed in the very best circles. She looked at the child in her arms, those eyes staring up at her, all innocence, and she vowed that her girl would never know the kind of rejection that Alva had faced since she was sixteen.

  Willie awoke shortly after she’d finished feeding the baby. “You’re peacocking,” she said, pointing to his charming little cowlick, right on the top of his head. It was sticking straight up like it usually did in the mornings. The first time she’d seen it, she’d laughed, said he looked like a peacock.

  He smiled back at her, flattened his hair down with his palm. He asked how she was feeling and asked if he could hold their little bundle.

  “‘Little bundle.’” Alva smiled as she placed the baby in Willie’s arms. “We can’t call her that. What do you think of the name Consuelo?”

  “Really? After your friend? I was thinking maybe Louisa, after my mother.”

  “But Consuelo introduced us. And we already agreed she would be our baby’s godmother.”

  And so, it was settled. The newest Vanderbilt heiress would carry on with the curious moniker, and Alva, a new mother and the wife of a man $2 million richer, would carry on in her quest to be accepted into high society with even more vigor and greater urgency. She wasn’t doing it just for herself and the Vanderbilts now, she was doing it for her daughter, too.

  * * *

  —

  Later that morning, after Willie had cleaned up, shaved and changed his clothes, he returned to Alva’s bedroom, kissed the crown of her head and announced that he’d been called away for a meeting at his father’s home.

  “Now? But—”

  “I’m sorry. My regrets to your sisters. It really can’t be helped. Family emergency. They’ve asked us all to be there—Cornelius, George, Fred, Mother—everyone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  After he left, Alva sat up in bed, her pillows fluffed, propping her up from behind. The baby was sleeping in her bassinet in the corner of the room. Alva wished she could have rested as well, but she was too curious and mildly irked, wondering what constituted a family emergency. What could have been more important than their coming over to meet the newest member of the Vanderbilt family?

  She’d never understand her in-laws. They were cold people. Such a contrast to her sisters, who had ridden a train all night just to be there. And as soon as they’d arrived, they had gathered around baby Consuelo, taking turns holding her, cooing, marveling at her tiny fingers and toes. Jennie thought she looked like Willie. Julia thought she was “all Alva.”

  Armide, with her dark brown hair piled high and pinned slightly off-center, disagreed with them both. “She’s the spitting image of Mama.”

  Mama. They all sighed. A swell of pride, of longing. Each year the sisters made a pilgrimage to her gravesite on the anniversary of her death. Their father’s grave, as far as Alva was concerned, just happened to be there. She couldn’t speak for her sisters, but she herself would never have gone out of her way to pay her respects to him.

  “How did Mama manage with all of us?” Alva said, dreamily looking at Consuelo nestled in Jennie’s arms. “Four daughters.”

  “She had help,” said Julia, resting her foot on the stand of the baby cradle.

  “Oh, be careful, Julia,” Alva said, pointing.

  Julia removed her foot and raised her hands, giving her other sisters a look. “Is it okay if I touch this chair?”

  “Oh, stop it, Julia—I’m sorry, but that’s a very expensive cradle. That wood is imported from Africa. It’s very rare.”

  “Oh, ‘it’s very rare,’” mocked Julia.

  “Now you were a handful,” Armide said to Alva, changing the subject, restoring peace.

  “That’s not so,” Alva attempted to protest before her argument collapsed and they all broke into a fit of laughter. From a young age Alva had it in her head that the rules and conventions that everyone else abided by did not apply to her. She played by her own rules, repercussions be damned.

  “You knew how to manipulate and bully everyone,” said Jennie.

  “It’s because of her thumbs,” Julia said to the others, as if Alva weren’t there.

  “That’s right—she has those crooked thumbs,” said Armide.

  “Oh, no,” said Alva. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “Put ’em up,” said Jennie, volunteering, raising her thumbs and joined by Julia and Armide—all of them perfectly straight. “Alva?” Jennie taunted. “Come now—your turn.”

  Alva was already laughing as she raised her thumbs—definitely crooked and curving outward. “That doesn’t prove anything,” she said, still cackling so loud, she snorted.

  “Remember what you did to Miss Naisy at the beach?” asked Armide.

  “You mean our governess?” Alva shook her head, remembering the day Miss Naisy refused to let Alva go swimming. Well, Alva wasn’t having it. In great defiance and with great delight, she ran away from the governess and plunged into the water. She refused to come out, eventually making Miss Naisy go in after her, clothes and all. Alva’s mother got the strap out after that, but Alva never regretted her actions for a second.

  “And didn’t you torture your reading tutor?” asked Jennie.

  “I didn’t torture her—please, I wasn’t that bad. I may have nudged her off her stool once.”

  “That’s right—you shoved her right onto the floor.”

  “Well, I didn’t like her, and I didn’t want to read the book she selected,” said Alva with a shoulder shrug. “She quit on the spot.”

  “And you got another lashing for it,” said Julia.

  “Yes, but I didn’t have to read that book,” said Alva with a tinge of pride. She would willingly accept any punishment in exchange for getting her own way first. The one thing she could not and would not tolerate was being controlled. By anyone. Fearless and emboldened by that very fearlessness, she did as she pleased, bending and often breaking the rules.

  “Mama couldn’t take her eyes off you for a second,” said Jennie, passing baby Consuelo on to Armide, who was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner.

  “Alva wouldn’t let her,” Julia laughed, crouching down to look at the baby in her sister’s arms. “You always had to have Mama’s attention. All of her attention. You’d do things just to rile her up. You’d rather she get out the riding crop than ignore you.”

  Alva couldn’t deny that. They were playfully ganging up on her, three against one, but she didn’t mind. She was enjoying it, welcoming more teasing, when suddenly Consuelo let out a robust wail. It was hard to believe that such a tiny
figure could have produced something so loud, so shrill. In an instant everyone’s focus was back on the baby. As her sisters circled even closer around Consuelo, Alva realized it was the first time she’d been willing to be overshadowed. Call it a mother’s pride, but her daughter was an extension of herself. Alva understood that, for the rest of her life, she would be sharing center stage with her daughter.

  * * *

  —

  When Willie K. returned, he came upstairs and, without a word, dropped down in the chair beside her bed. He was exhausted.

  “Has the family emergency been resolved?” she asked, adjusting the baby blanket, tucking it under Consuelo’s chin.

  “Hardly,” Willie said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Uncle Jeremiah is contesting Grandfather’s will.”

  “Can you blame him?” Good for you, Jeremiah, she thought. Good for you.

  “He’s being very stubborn. If anyone ever questioned whether or not the man is raving mad, well”—he shook his head, bewildered—“here’s your proof. Father even offered him an additional $250,000 and he turned it down.”

  “That’s an insult coming from your father, and you know it.” She heard herself and thought, Since when is $250,000 an insult? Jeremiah’s words echoed in her head: The Vanderbilts are ruthless people. They get in your system. They’ll warp your mind if you let them . . .

  “That’s not the point. My uncle is not a responsible man. Never has been. It’s for his own good. I know you’re awfully fond of him but please, Alva, do us all a favor and cut ties with him.”

  “Pfft.” That was not about to happen, and the mere suggestion made her all the more determined to see Jeremiah as soon as she’d recovered from the birth.

  “I mean it, Alva. He’s trouble.” Willie blew out a deep breath and stared at the floor. “Uncle Jeremiah is holding us all hostage. The money’s locked up until this whole mess gets resolved. There’s nothing we can do now but wait. And who knows what will be left by then and what we’ll end up with.”

  What we’ll end up with? Alva looked at him, feeling her eyes growing wider.

  “We’ll have to put the new house on hold for now.”

  “What?” She was crestfallen. She thought that whatever Jeremiah was owed would have come directly out of Billy’s money. It didn’t occur to her that Jeremiah could interfere with Willie’s inheritance, too. She’d been counting on that money for their new house, to help them establish all the Vanderbilts in society, to pave the way for their child and more children to come.

  The family emergency had just taken on a whole new meaning for her, too, because now this was affecting her plans. It was endangering her daughter’s future. She found her heart conflicted, her support of Jeremiah collapsing, sudden as an avalanche. Perhaps she was becoming a Vanderbilt after all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Caroline

  Caroline heard the piano music trilling from the ballroom as the Pendletons’ butler escorted her down a long hallway, graced with family portraits and enormous tapestries. Caroline was hoping to slip quietly inside but she was hardly inconspicuous. She attracted attention and altered the atmosphere of every room she entered. So when she stepped inside the Pendletons’ ballroom, she was not surprised that all eyes turned her way. The cotillion leader, Peter Marié, stopped calling out figures, and the dancers came to a standstill. The fifteen or so chaperones—including Ward McAllister—seated along the perimeter of the ballroom rose to pay homage to her.

  Everyone seemed pleased to have her there except her daughters. She saw Charlotte and Carrie flatten down, their wings clipped. Charlotte had rolled her eyes when Caroline first entered the room and Carrie’s brow had creased, her cheeks flushed pink. Caroline felt a stab to her heart.

  When had she become the enemy? There was a time when they always wanted to be around her, the closer the better, all of them fighting over who got to perch on her lap, hold her hand, sit next to her. Now they behaved as if wanting nothing to do with her. Didn’t they understand that Caroline had already lost Emily to James Van Alen? Caroline wished now that she’d used a firmer hand with Emily and had put her foot down when the couple first started courting. And even though Helen was now engaged to Rosy Roosevelt and Caroline had gotten rid of Duncan Briar, she still couldn’t risk Charlotte or Carrie marrying the wrong man.

  “Please,” Caroline said to everyone with a dismissive wave of her hand, “continue.”

  Mrs. Pendleton offered Caroline her chair, a throne-like Henry Williams with gilt trim, velvet upholstery and lovely roundels. Ward McAllister was seated next to her on a walnut hardback. It was only Wednesday and she’d already seen Ward three times that week. They’d met on Monday to schedule next year’s operas for the Academy, on Tuesday afternoon he’d assisted with the seating arrangements for an upcoming dinner honoring the visiting Alexander II, and Tuesday night the two had dined lavishly at the home of a mutual friend, Mr. Frank Gray Griswold. You’d think they’d have nothing left to say to each other, but Ward had already informed her that Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt had been overheard saying some rather unflattering things about Caroline.

  “The nerve of her,” he said. “Calling you snobbish and rude. Why, I’ve never known you to be rude unless provoked.”

  “Well, Mrs. Vanderbilt has certainly provoked me,” Caroline said while keeping an eye on her daughters, watching them move through the various figures and the complicated windmill steps. Of course, she knew her girls weren’t merely interested in learning those cotillion routines. The real reason they were there, the reason they had both taken such extra care with their morning toilette, was because of the young men at the rehearsal that day.

  “Well, well, well,” Ward said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “would you look at that.” He motioned with a tilt of his head toward Charlotte, who had just dropped her glove while looking into Peter Marié’s eyes.

  Caroline was stunned. Charlotte was never clumsy, and dropping her glove was no accident but rather a coded declaration of love. Her girls probably couldn’t have imagined that she, too, had once been a debutante, sending secret messages to William Backhouse Astor Jr. across the room by dropping her glove, or holding her fan in a particular way, or twisting her kerchief, certain that she’d fooled her chaperones, too. But Caroline knew all those tricks, all those hidden signals. Times may have changed, but that secret language of love hadn’t.

  “Very good,” said Peter Marié with a single clap of his hands. “That was excellent. Excellent. Let’s do it again. Places, everyone! Places.” He walked over, letting his hand rest on the small of Charlotte’s back, whispering something in her ear that made her smile.

  Was Peter Marié flirting back with her? Caroline observed that the entire time Charlotte was dancing with other men, she had not been able to take her eyes off Peter Marié. Mr. Marié was tall and fit, with dark hair, beautiful dark eyes and a face to be admired. But he was too old, had already declared himself a chronic tease and a confirmed bachelor.

  Meanwhile, Caroline’s youngest, Carrie, who was just sixteen and had only recently been introduced to society, flitted and twirled from one dance partner to the next. So bold, so self-possessed her youngest was. She was nothing like her eldest. When Emily was a debutante, she’d been all hesitation and self-consciousness. While the other girls danced about, her precious Emily had kept herself small, those delicate shoulders rounded, her big brown eyes trained on her feet, her lips moving, counting her steps. Caroline had felt a special tenderness toward Emily then, recalling how she herself had been timid and awkward at her first dances. All this was floating through her mind when she saw Carrie stealing lovesick glances at the Reinhardt boy across the room and while exposing her ankles!

  Caroline was appalled. When had her daughters developed such passions? The other young ladies managed to control themselves. But not her girls. They let their hearts lead them about, rather than their good sen
se.

  * * *

  —

  When they arrived home, Caroline marched her daughters into the drawing room. They were seated side by side on the satin settee, backs straight, hands in their laps. Hade appeared just in time to bring Caroline a much-needed cup of tea and to stoke the fire. The room was quiet, the girls were waiting for her to speak, but Caroline wasn’t ready, though she understood her silence was torturing them. Of course, she knew her daughters were burdened by her position, that they were scrutinized more closely, held to a higher standard than other girls. But that was all the more reason why they had to be careful about their behavior. Especially Charlotte. Caroline always knew she was precocious, just like her father. No wonder the two were thick as thieves. Caroline was tired of watching her make a spectacle of herself, first with that coachman, now today with the cotillion leader, flitting from one inappropriate man to another like a bee going from flower to flower.

  While watching Hade tend to the fire, Caroline took a sip of tea and finally said, “You must remember that you are not just ordinary girls. You are the Astor girls, and you must conduct yourselves accordingly.”

  Charlotte exploded. “Why were you even there today? We’re not babies, you know. And plenty of other chaperones were there.”

  “Excuse me, young lady,” said Caroline. “Those other chaperones are not your mother, and none of them would tell you what your behavior looks like to the outside world.”

  “What it looks like.” Charlotte stood up and slapped her hands to her thighs. “Is that all you care about?”