by Renée Rosen
Even Carrie had come to Caroline, tiptoeing into her room barefoot one night, unable to sleep, asking how it had happened, why it had happened—all the questions Caroline had no answers for. So she took Carrie in her arms and held her close, already bargaining with God to spare this one, to spare Helen, Charlotte and Jack, too.
Having covered every mirror in her house, out of respect for the dead, Caroline dressed blindly each day in her heavy black gowns. She spent her time mostly by herself in the library with the curtains closed, the lights dimmed, the logs ablaze in the fireplace. It may have seemed to others that she just sat and stared for hours on end, but what they didn’t realize was that Caroline was hard at work. She was looking and waiting for a sign; the flickering of a lamp, an unexplained draft, the sensation of touch that would send a shiver down her spine. She was waiting to hear from Emily, needing some indication that her daughter was still connected to her, that they could still communicate, that her beautiful girl was at peace.
Caroline heard the loud gong of the front door bell. A log gave off a sharp crackle, shooting sparks past the bronze andirons onto the marble floor, where they dulled and died. She heard footsteps in the hallway and realized she’d been crying. Caroline quickly composed herself, clutching her silk handkerchief between her fingers after she’d dabbed her eyes. The footsteps drew closer, so heavy she thought it was William. Is he back? Her heart lifted as the footsteps stopped. The doorknob turned.
“Madam?” Hade entered the room, setting a tray on the table before her. “I brought you some chocolate biscuits and tea.”
She watched him tending to the fire, realizing that aside from her children, he was the only other person she talked to on a daily basis. Being in mourning she had excused her social secretary, who was in Europe for six months. Her lady’s maid and the rest of her staff—even Smithy, Abigail and Sissy—tiptoed about, not wanting to disturb her. She felt so isolated, and though she had wanted to strictly observe the traditional practices, Caroline was beginning to question the wisdom of being in full mourning. Being alone for so long with one’s thoughts spelled trouble.
“If ever the grieving should be kept busy, too busy to think, it’s during our time of mourning,” she said, unaware at first that she was speaking out loud. “Without balls and dinner parties to plan, the opera and ballet to attend, one is left with little to do but think. Thinking”—she shook her head—“thinking can be a dangerous thing.”
“Indeed,” Hade said, pouring her tea. “Best to always keep one’s mind occupied as best one can.” He set her teacup on a saucer and handed it to her.
After he left, Caroline reached up and touched the locket about her neck that contained Emily’s hair. She squeezed it, as if it had magical powers, and kept waiting for her world to turn right again. For things to go back as they once were. Emily’s absence felt as if it were something temporary. Something still not quite real. Any minute now she expected her to come through the door. How could it be that she is gone forever?
* * *
—
That Hade also suffered from insomnia was, for Caroline, a blessing, and in those days of mourning, it wasn’t unusual for the two of them to sit down in the middle of the night and pass the time with a few hands of cooncan. Other times they’d sit in the library, where he would read aloud to her, both their slippered feet sharing the tapestry-covered ottoman between their wingback chairs.
Somewhere along the line she had begun calling him by his first name, Thomas, rather than Hade, and he in turn now called her Mrs. Astor rather than madam. She thought Thomas had a marvelous reading voice, rich and deeply resonant. They discovered a mutual love of Russian novels, and after completing War and Peace they had moved on to Crime and Punishment.
One night, even though she was tired and probably could have drifted off, she fought sleep, and at midnight, she went to her dressing table for her wig before heading downstairs. She went into the library and waited. And waited. It had never occurred to her that Thomas wouldn’t be there. She felt foolish for so desperately wanting her time with him, but his company had been the only bright spot while she was in mourning.
In mourning. These past few months had opened her eyes. Now she understood how her mother must have felt, over and over again. Losing a child—it wasn’t natural, it wasn’t right. For the first time she understood why her mother was the way she was. She had needed all the rituals, the traditions and routines to hold her together. Caroline understood that now, because when Emily died, she had taken Caroline’s lightness with her. All that newfound joy and freedom were gone, along with looking to the future. She wasn’t ready for change. She didn’t want it, couldn’t handle it. Now what Caroline needed was stability. She needed things to stay exactly as they were. She was struggling every day, clinging to the tried and true, things she could depend on.
That night, while waiting for Thomas, Caroline crawled back inside her mother’s world and pulled the lid shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alva
NEW YORK, 1882
When Emily died, Alva took it hard. It wasn’t that she and Emily were so terribly close, nothing like Alva and Duchy or Alva and Jeremiah, but still a friend. And so young. And a mother, a wife, a sister and a daughter. With everyone else Alva had lost, from her mother to the Commodore, there’d been time to prepare, to enter the sickrooms, sit by their bedsides, hold their hands and say her goodbyes. Emily had gone so quickly, so unexpectedly. The shock was what she couldn’t get past. It made her realize how precious and unpredictable life was, that nothing could be taken for granted, and yet she still did all the time.
She had wanted to attend the funeral, but of course, she and Willie weren’t invited. Instead, they’d paid a condolence call to James where the three of them sat around the fireplace, reminiscing about the dinners they’d all shared, about the birthday parties for the children, their christenings, how every year, the day after Christmas, they’d all get together and exchange gifts and drink mulled wine, laughing over one thing or another. Emily’s laugh—once you got her going she couldn’t stop, and that had always made Alva laugh all the harder. Oh, how she’d miss that about Emily. James had choked up now and again, having to remove his monocle in order to wipe his eyes. When the nurse brought the baby out and placed her in James’s arms, Alva had nearly burst into tears herself.
The next day, Alva mustered up the courage to drop off her calling card for Mrs. Astor with the left-hand corner turned down in a show of sympathy. She’d wanted nothing in exchange, only merely to pay her respects, and for once Alva didn’t take it personally when Mrs. Astor hadn’t responded or acknowledged the gesture.
Time moved on and while Mrs. Astor remained in mourning, Alva, like so many up-and-coming hostesses, made the most of the Grande Dame’s absence from the social scene. Alva was busy. She paid social calls, attended teas and luncheons and made exorbitant donations to the other matrons’ charities, but mostly, she went back and forth between two construction sites. Of the two projects, she had far less influence over the new opera house.
From the start, Alva thought Mr. Cady was wrong for the job, and she’d been right. The board members, especially her father-in-law, only pacified her when she showed up at their meetings, voicing concerns over the design for the facade. They’d nodded when she said it had no style and the stone was all wrong, but didn’t do a thing to remedy it. She realized there was nothing she could do about the exterior now, but she wasn’t about to keep quiet on the interior.
Bypassing the men, she met directly with the architect at Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street. The sound of hammering was coming from all directions as she walked alongside Mr. Cady, passing the sawhorses, ladders standing two stories high, the slabs of marble and massive steel support beams.
She reached into her satchel and retrieved a sketch she’d drawn the night before. “Now this is what I had in mind for the ceiling.” Sh
e handed him the piece of paper. “As you can see, I’ve indicated where the fresco begins, and see how it runs right to the edges here?”
He squinted, studying the paper. “I’ll be sure and ask Mr. Vanderbilt what he thinks.”
“Mr. Vanderbilt trusts my opinion.” Alva smiled.
“I’d still feel better dealing with Mr. Vanderbilt on all this.”
“I’m certain you would, but I can assure you that won’t be necessary.”
When she walked to the edges of the shells that would become the boxes, she frowned. She had envisioned something much more elaborate. “Mr. Cady, do you and Mrs. Cady enjoy attending the opera?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, somewhat perplexed by the question. “Mrs. Cady especially does.”
“And I’ll just bet Mrs. Cady enjoys watching the audience as much as the performers.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, as you know, and as I’m sure Mrs. Cady will attest, part of the magic of attending the opera is seeing who else is there. We want to see the dresses, the jewels. Everything! The boxes need to extend out far enough so that our most important guests will be on display as much as the performers.”
“You said, extend the boxes farther out?”
She giggled demurely. “Just listen to me telling you how to build a theater box when I’m sure you’re already well aware of the problem.”
“But, Mrs. Vanderbilt, according to the blueprints—”
“Isn’t it wonderful that blueprints can be altered? Now let’s talk about the stage. Did you see my note about the distance between the stage and orchestra pit?”
“I did but—”
“It’s going to look divine, Mr. Cady. Everyone’s going to be singing your praises, saying what a marvelous job you’ve done.” She took a step toward him, and when she brushed a bit of plaster from his lapel, he jumped back as if she’d pinched his bottom.
A flustered Mr. Cady excused himself after that, and Alva continued on alone. She walked through the stairwells and hallways, the taste of plaster and marble dust in her mouth. She didn’t care. She felt more at ease in the midst of a construction site than she did at one of those society luncheons. At least she could shape and alter the appearance of the opera house. That was easy. Transforming society and dealing with the opera house’s founding members was another matter.
By the time November arrived, the stockholders gathered for a meeting to elect their board of directors. They met that night at Sherry’s, a new restaurant that had just opened on Thirty-Eighth Street and Sixth Avenue. They had a private room, and Alva, her sister-in-law Alice, Lucy Clews, Cettie Rockefeller and Helen Gould were all crowded into the rear, sitting on hardback chairs while the men sat at the table with their brandy snifters.
“If there’s no other pressing business,” Billy said, his fingers laced together, “shall we begin the nominations for our board of directors?”
One by one various gentlemen stood and put forth the names of those they felt best suited for the role. Cornelius nominated John Rockefeller, Jay Gould nominated Willie, someone else suggested Henry Clews, and on and on it went. When Billy said, “All those in favor, raise your hand,” Alva’s hand shot up, making the room erupt in a burst of gasps and nervous laughter.
“Alva, please,” whispered Alice. “Put your hand down. You don’t get a vote. This is just for the men.”
Alva’s hand dropped to her lap as if it were made of lead. They probably thought she was embarrassed, but their snickering and laughter only infuriated her. She knew no one would have nominated her for a position because she was a woman. She hadn’t even expected that, but given her involvement with every phase of the building, given that the whole idea of a new opera house had been hers to begin with, she thought she’d at least be given a vote. She looked at the other wives, their hands primly resting in their laps, docile and maddeningly content.
* * *
—
Alva brought Jennie and Julia with her one afternoon to show off the progress on the new house. Armide was back in Mobile. Her sisters stayed a good three feet behind Alva as she walked them past several drays lined up, piled high with wood, marble and steel. The smell of lumber and manure wafted through the air. There must have been fifty carpenters and twenty-five masons balancing high up on ladders, sculpting the Indiana limestone in order to achieve the French château effect she wanted. She had never seen so many different chisels and mallets. Several workers stopped what they were doing just long enough to say good day and tip their caps.
“Now that rooftop will be trimmed in copper, all the way around,” she said to her sisters. “And wait till you see the inside.”
“What in the world is she going to do with a house this size?” Julia asked Jennie, loud enough for Alva to hear.
“Easy now.” Jennie rested her hand on Julia’s shoulder.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t see what’s wrong with the house she’s got. Still nicer than any place she’s ever lived before.”
Alva turned and glared at her. “I’m standing right here, Julia. If you have something to say, you might as well say it to my face.”
“All right then.” Julia marched up to her and planted her knuckles to her hips. “I think you’re getting a little too big for your britches. All your husband’s money is going straight to your head. Sometimes I look at you, Alva, and I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“Come on now, you two.” Jennie stepped in between them, her arms stretched out to keep them apart.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” Julia said, not backing down, which was rare because Julia, the youngest, had almost always cowered before Alva. “All that money—it’s not going to make you happy.”
“This is exactly the kind of house Mama would have wanted me to have,” Alva fired back.
“If Mama were here, she’d be downright disgusted by your greed.”
“You’re just being ugly now,” Alva snapped. “You’re plain jealous is all.”
“Jealous.” Julia laughed. “Jealous of what? You and your snobbish friends? You and this ridiculous house? Just what exactly am I jealous of? You’re still not on Mrs. Astor’s guest list. You’re still on the outside looking in.”
“I suppose you think that, too?” Alva said to Jennie.
“Now don’t go putting words in my mouth, Alva. I think it’s lovely. If this is the kind of house you want, why then I think it’s just fine.”
“Well, now I don’t even feel like showing you the inside.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Julia, folding her arms. “I’ve seen more than enough already.”
“Oh, come on now, you two.” Jennie was still standing between them. “Let’s just go see the inside and get it over with.”
Alva was still stinging from Julia’s remarks. If her own sister—who couldn’t have cared less about society—knew that Alva was still outside the circle, then everyone knew. She wasn’t fooling anyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Alva
On a cold December morning, Alva and Willie were finishing up breakfast when Oliver Belmont sauntered in. The two men had an appointment to look at a new Friesian horse that Willie was interested in purchasing. Willie had recently become friends with Oliver, though for the life of her, Alva couldn’t understand why. Not only was Oliver a Jew, a rarity in their circles, but his father, August Belmont, was among those who’d blocked them from joining the Academy of Music.
Oliver was only twenty-four, nearly ten years younger than Willie, five years younger than Alva. She supposed he would be handsome once he matured, but for now, he had a round baby face with hardly a hint of whiskers. Yet, despite standing barely five feet tall, he’d managed to woo one socialite after another, including the stunningly beautiful Sara Swan Whiting. Rumor had it they were engaged. Alva had to admit that Oliver had a cert
ain something, and she wasn’t sure if she found him annoying or intriguing. Either way, Sara must have seen that something in him, too. Alva would have assumed that Sara was enough to make any man settle down, but Oliver behaved as if he were still in the Naval Academy, always running around and carrying on until the wee hours of the morning. She worried that Oliver was a bad influence on her husband, who seemed to take on a different persona in Oliver’s presence. When Willie was out with Oliver, he tended to return home with a large gambling loss, smelling of liquor and perfume.
“Good morning. Good morning,” said Oliver, helping himself to a sip of Willie’s coffee. “Overslept,” he said by way of explanation as he reached for a slice of toast, spreading a thick layer of butter and jam on top. “Had to leave the house without breakfast today.” He raised his toast as if cheering with a glass of wine.
Alva smiled to be polite.
“Well,” said Willie, “shall we be going?” He stood up and squared his bowler on his head.
“Have I mentioned lately that I’ve always looked up to you?” said Oliver, popping a crust of toast in his mouth. “But then again,” he laughed, “when you’re my height, you look up to everyone.” He laughed some more as they bid Alva adieu.
His self-deprecating sense of humor—one more thing she didn’t like about Oliver Belmont.
After they left, Alva went back to sipping coffee, and while she sorted through the mail, she came across an envelope addressed to her in Duchy’s familiar handwriting. It had been months since she’d heard from her friend, and Alva had lost count of the number of letters she’d sent that had gone unanswered. Slicing the envelope open, she unfolded the stationery and began to read.
After the obligatory apologies for not writing sooner, she congratulated Alva on getting the new opera house off the ground: