The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  Willie looked at the floor plan and then up at her. “Have you gone mad?”

  “But even you said we’re going to need a bigger house. Especially now with the new baby.”

  “A bigger house is one thing,” he said. “What you have here is ridiculous. It’s a monstrosity. Where would you even put a place like that?”

  “Richard found a perfect spot. Right on Fifth Avenue. A little farther up in the Fifties.”

  He looked again at the blueprint and scratched his head. “And what does something like this cost? It must be $2 million.”

  “Actually, it would probably be $3 million.”

  “What!”

  “Or more.” She smiled and fluttered her lashes.

  Willie looked at her in disbelief. “That’s absurd. You know I can’t afford that. Even with my inheritance.”

  “But it’s not as if you’d have to come up with the money all at once—and he said a house like this would take at least two years to build, anyway. If we needed a little help, we could always go to your father.”

  He walked away from the table and dropped down in a chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

  “Oh, Willie, don’t you see?” She went to his side. “You’re thinking too small—and I’m not just talking about the house. I’m talking about everything. You just have to trust me.”

  He smiled and reached up to touch her cheek. “I do trust you. You know I do.”

  “Then let me build this house. Let me do it for us. Together, you and me, we could rule all of New York.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Caroline

  Caroline’s carriage arrived outside her mother’s townhouse on West Twenty-Third Street. She had moved from Lafayette Place and Great Jones Street several years ago, and Caroline was only too happy not to have to step foot inside her childhood home ever again.

  When she was growing up, her mother was either tending to sick children or mourning the ones she’d lost. Caroline had never even known some of her siblings who’d died. There was Henry, gone before his first birthday. Augustus from influenza; Archibald, run over by a carriage; Elizabeth in childbirth; Cordelia passed from consumption; and Catherine from some mysterious undiagnosed illness. If Caroline’s mother wasn’t pregnant, she’d been in mourning and sometimes she was carrying one child while grieving the loss of another. Black bunting hung outside, mirrors always covered, clocks stopped at the time of each family member’s death. It was a morbid house, heavy, filled with sorrow. Children in the neighborhood said it was haunted.

  For the most part, when Caroline was a young girl, her care had been left to a stern governess who sent her to the servants’ quarters when she misbehaved, which turned out to be no punishment at all. Smithy, the family butler, brought her lemonade and fresh biscuits. The maids, Sissy and Abigail, called her Miss Lina and doted on her. Caroline sometimes sassed her governess just to be sent back downstairs. But soon the novelty wore off. She grew bored watching them at work and eventually persuaded Sissy and Abigail to let her help fold laundry, dust the furniture, make up the beds. A pile of bed linens whose edges she’d lined up perfectly filled Caroline with an immense sense of accomplishment. Nothing in her privileged upstairs world—certainly not her studies nor music lessons—delivered such immediate and satisfying results.

  And now, years later, Smithy, Sissy and Abigail were still working for Caroline’s mother, who was getting up in years. Because it was harder for her to get around, to climb in and out of carriages, up and down the stairs, Caroline made regular visits to see her. Each time she arrived, those same kindly servants who had once lavished affection on Miss Lina now only saw her as Mrs. Astor. She’d wanted to throw her arms around Smithy, now stoop shouldered with more wrinkles than crinkled tissue paper. She was saddened by the way he led her into the drawing room with the formality reserved for strangers.

  Her mother was in a high-back chair, clutching a lace handkerchief in her liver-spotted hand. Her cane was hooked over the armrest. A footman—someone Caroline didn’t remember from childhood—appeared with teacups on a sterling silver tray.

  After he’d left, Caroline’s mother announced that she was going to host an engagement party for Helen and Mr. Roosevelt. “As her grandmother, it’s the least I can do. I didn’t want to even acknowledge Emily’s wedding. Good heavens—why you didn’t stop it, I’ll never understand,” she said now, waving her handkerchief. “You should have stepped in, used a firmer hand.”

  Caroline never told her mother about General Van Alen and the duel. And regardless of what her mother thought, no one could deny that Emily and James appeared to be a harmonious couple. The two of them, along with baby Mary, were forever going on picnics, or attending birthday parties, puppet shows and the sort. Honestly, she’d never seen Emily so happy.

  “Well, at least Helen has chosen well,” her mother said. “She’s always been such a sensible girl. So is Carrie. That one is wise beyond her years. Now we just have to do something about Charlotte.”

  “Oh, Charlotte.” Caroline shook her head. “She shows no interest in society. She wants to serve the poor and the needy.”

  “What does she know about being poor and needy? It’s time she turned her attention to finding a husband.”

  “She tells me she has no interest in marriage.”

  “No interest in marriage?” Her mother drew a deep, incredulous breath. “Charlotte is a beautiful girl but she can’t afford to wait any longer. You must step in this time or she’ll end up a spinster.”

  Caroline feared her mother was right. She turned away and looked at the mantel, lined with photographs of her father and dead siblings.

  “What about the Drayton boy?” her mother asked.

  “From Philadelphia?”

  “Isn’t Charlotte friendly with him?”

  Caroline thought. “She knows him, but I’d hardly say they’re friendly.”

  “He comes from a fine family. The Drayton lineage is sterling.”

  “But Charlotte is headstrong. She’s just as stubborn as her father and—”

  “Oh, Lina, do you hear yourself? Come now, you’re only making excuses. You can’t allow Charlotte to just go along her merry way. It’s time she settle down, have children. Take her place in society. For goodness’ sake, you absolutely must step in this time. It’s your responsibility as her mother.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, Charlotte came downstairs for breakfast wearing an old dress, with a fraying hem and sleeves. Every time she wore it, Caroline asked her to throw it out, but Charlotte continued to wear it proudly, as if it were a banner. As of late, she no longer wanted to dress like an Astor. Didn’t want to be mistaken for a spoiled rich girl—which of course was exactly what she was. But she wanted to cut a more noble image, like a missionary, especially while running food drives for the needy, attending suffrage rallies and marches—places where she’d never meet suitable men.

  Caroline held her tongue, and merely told Charlotte that she had invited the Draytons for dinner the following week.

  Charlotte didn’t say anything and focused her attention on her egg cup, clearly not understanding that this dinner had anything to do with her. With her entire future.

  “I’ve asked them to bring their son, Coleman, with them.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte set her spoon down. “Coleman?” She said his name as if she were asking, Is that the best you can do?

  Carrie turned and looked at her older sister—something passed between them, something understood that needed no words. The two of them had a language of their own just like Emily and Helen.

  Charlotte raised one eyebrow in response and pushed her plate away. She didn’t finish her breakfast, said she’d lost her appetite.

  One week later, the Draytons arrived. Twenty-six-year-old Coleman wasn’t a bad ca
tch at all as far as Caroline was concerned. He was handsome with a strong chin and gentle pale blue eyes. A bit jittery, though, constantly smoothing down his mustache or patting down the lapels of his dinner jacket. William said he found Coleman’s constant fidgeting maddening and stayed in his study until he was called in for dinner.

  Caroline had warned Charlotte ahead of time not to spout off about votes for women and her other causes, but a few comments had slipped out over the bluepoint oysters.

  To Caroline’s surprise, Coleman had jumped right in. “They blame it on the Panic of ’73,” he’d said. He was very animated, hands gesticulating so, she thought he might knock his wineglass over. “But they need to look at what caused the depression in the first place.”

  “Exactly,” said Charlotte. “It goes back to all that speculative investing in the railroads.”

  “Not to mention the decline in the silver market.”

  “And don’t forget about all the property lost in the Chicago fire,” added Charlotte.

  Coleman nodded. “It’s all so intertwined . . .”

  Caroline didn’t know if she was impressed by Charlotte’s knowledge or embarrassed that she was discussing such subjects at the dinner table. Either way, it was obvious she and Coleman would never be at a loss for conversation, and Caroline decided that the two of them were quite well suited for each other.

  The following day, unbeknownst to Charlotte or Coleman, Caroline had arranged a meeting with the Draytons to discuss their children’s future. The adults agreed that the two should marry. One week later, the Draytons’ lawyer, a young, eager sort who looked like he’d yet to hang his diploma on the wall, rode the train from Philadelphia to New York with a three-page financial agreement in hand. It was settled.

  * * *

  —

  Charlotte was in her bedroom, posing for Carrie at her vanity, her hairbrush suspended inches from her blond curls as she gazed thoughtfully in the mirror. Carrie was sitting on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed, knees bent, sketch pad resting on her thighs. They were chattering about something but went quiet as soon as Caroline appeared in the doorway.

  She peered over Carrie’s shoulder. “You’ve captured her eyes quite well,” said Caroline. “This one might be good enough to frame.”

  Carrie smiled as she smudged and blended the charcoal pencil, highlighting Charlotte’s cheekbones.

  “Carrie, dear, would you give me a moment alone with Charlotte?”

  “Can’t I stay? I won’t say a word.”

  “No you may not. Besides, you shouldn’t sit like that. It’s bad for your posture.”

  Carrie gathered her pencils and sketch pad, letting her sister know she’d be back to finish the drawing. As soon as Carrie closed the door, Caroline said she had good news: the arrangements with the Draytons had been finalized and she should expect a proposal within the week.

  “What?” Charlotte set her hairbrush down, staring at Caroline through the mirror. She seemed completely caught off guard. “Was this his idea or yours? Does Coleman even want to marry me?”

  Caroline heard someone out in the hall and presumed it was Carrie with her ear pressed to the door. “Why else would he be proposing? And you do think he’s handsome, don’t you?” Caroline asked. “And very smart.”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” She was about to chew on her cuticle and thought better of it, dropping her hand to her lap. She seemed utterly confused. “Shouldn’t we get to know each other better? What if we find out we don’t like each other? Shouldn’t I at least like the man I’m supposed to marry? And what about love? When I marry—if I marry—it should be to someone I’m madly in love with. Someone I can’t live without.”

  “And what if that man you’re madly in love with never comes along? What then?”

  “Then I’ll be a spinster. I’d rather that than be sold off like a piece of chattel.”

  Caroline frowned, blaming this all on William. By making Charlotte his favorite, by always treating her with the importance normally reserved for sons, he had given his Charlie a sense of entitlement. She actually believed she could put her foot down on this matter. She believed it, and now it was Caroline’s responsibility as her mother to stomp on it.

  “This is not up for discussion, young lady. You’re twenty years old. It’s time you get married. Pretty as you are, you can’t afford to wait much longer.” Caroline once again sounded just like her mother. “Well?”

  “Well what?” Charlotte shot her a harsh look. “Don’t you see—I want to do more with my life than be someone’s wife, someone’s mother. Is that so wrong?”

  Caroline thought for a moment. “No, my darling, it’s not wrong. Not wrong at all. I think it’s perfectly understandable for a woman—especially an ambitious woman like you—to want more for herself. That’s why society is so important. You need to get more involved. You could do a great deal of good there.”

  “Society?” Charlotte laughed. “How can society possibly be enough?”

  “Because we make it enough. It’s what your grandmother did and what I’ve done and your older sisters do, too.”

  “But society is an illusion. Aside from a handful of charitable events, society doesn’t help anyone outside your circle, and I’m sorry, but that’s not enough for me.”

  “But it’s all we have.” Caroline’s chest grew tight. Yes, she could appreciate that Charlotte wanted more—Caroline had wanted more, too. But they had to face reality. In Caroline’s eyes, all Charlotte’s marching, all those lectures she’d attended were just another form of illusion, no different from Caroline serving society. They were two sides of the same coin: two women looking to bring meaning to their lives, even if that meant they had to invent it out of thin air.

  “Charlotte, the sooner you accept things as they are, and quit bucking up against everything, the better off you’ll be. This proposal is for your own good.”

  “You really think so, don’t you?”

  “I’m your mother—don’t you think I want what’s best for you? Don’t you think I want to see you happy?”

  Charlotte looked at her, and Caroline could see that something had hardened within her. The air between them thickened, and when it was obvious that Charlotte wasn’t going to fire back, it threw Caroline. Something was going on behind those big blue eyes, and Caroline found it unnerving.

  When she couldn’t take it anymore, Caroline broke the silence. “Well? Am I to assume you’ll accept Coleman’s proposal? You’ll agree to marry him?”

  Charlotte’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t suppose I have a choice in the matter now, do I?”

  An hour later, Caroline walked by Charlotte’s room and heard her daughter inside crying to Carrie.

  * * *

  —

  Before the guests began arriving for Helen and Rosy’s engagement party, Caroline’s mother insisted on having a family photograph taken. The photographer, a tall, slender man in a snug-fitting vest and brown tweed trousers, set up his tripod and began posing everyone in the parlor. He seated Caroline’s mother in front with Helen and Rosy to her left, Caroline and William to the right. He scooted Coleman Drayton closer to Van Alen and then scooted Van Alen closer to Emily, who had baby Mary in her arms. He moved Carrie next to her aunt Augusta and put Jack in the back row next to his uncle John and cousin Waldorf.

  The photographer stood before them, squinting one eye, sizing them up as if he were the camera’s lens. “Lovely,” he said. “Just lovely. Stay just like that.” He jogged back to his tripod and ducked beneath his dark curtain. “Ready, everyone? On a count of three—”

  “Not so fast,” said Caroline’s mother, tapping her cane to get everyone’s attention. “Far be it from me to raise concern, but has anyone seen Charlotte?”

  The family photograph was put on hold while everyone went off in different directions, searching t
he house. Coleman, in his usual frenetic manner, began looking behind curtains, under tables, as if his wife-to-be were a child, playing hide-and-seek. Meanwhile, Caroline and her mother took the main floor, her mother rising out of her chair with herculean force. She kept pace with Caroline as she went room to room, her mother displaying more vigor than she had in months.

  “Charlotte? Charlotte, where are you?” Caroline called out as they left the music room and entered the drawing room.

  “She has to be nearby. She was with you all when you arrived,” Caroline’s mother muttered. “How does one misplace a grown child?”

  Caroline turned and saw Carrie standing near the front door, pointing. “She’s outside.”

  Caroline threw open the front door and there was Charlotte, waiting out front. Caroline called to her just as she took off running in the opposite direction. Caroline stepped onto the stoop and saw that she was running toward a man coming up the walkway. It wasn’t until he cleared the shadow of a tree that Caroline recognized him. It was Duncan Briar.

  Caroline saw what was happening, but she couldn’t get herself to move. Charlotte looked back at Caroline, her sister and her grandmother, but she kept going, heading toward Duncan Briar.

  “Charlotte?” Caroline’s mother called out. “Charlotte, where do you think you’re going? Lina, what is going on? Charlotte? Charlotte, you get back here.”

  It was hearing her mother take charge, knowing that she was standing right behind her, witnessing it all, that prompted Caroline into action. Under the pressure of her mother’s watch, Caroline rushed down the front steps. If ever she was being tested, forced to call upon all her negotiating and diplomatic skills, this was it. She could hear her mother’s voice inside her head: Be firm, Lina. Take charge of this. It’s for her own good.