by Renée Rosen
From what you told me, it sounds like you’ve got those men eating out of the palm of your hand. Has your father-in-law even realized yet that you moved him around like a chess piece? You always have been clever as a fox. First Billy Vanderbilt, next, I imagine, is Mrs. Astor . . .
If only, thought Alva. She still hadn’t a clue as to how to win that woman over. She continued reading and when she reached the postscript—Coming for a visit the second week in March—Alva felt a rush of excitement. And it wasn’t only about seeing her friend. No, it was bigger. And just like that, a whole new idea—fully formed and waiting for her—had been sparked. She could feel herself tingling because of it.
The viscountess was coming to town! The viscountess was coming to see her! Everyone—Puss, Tessie, Ophelia, Penelope, Lydia—everyone would want to see her. Those who didn’t know her would surely want to meet her.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Alva’s new home would be completed by then, and if ever there was cause for celebration, this was it. Who wouldn’t want to attend a ball with the Viscountess Mandeville? Alva had tried so many other avenues to get herself and the Vanderbilts recognized by society, and nothing had worked. But now she had a different approach. Alva had found her angle. The wheels were already turning. Her friend was right—she was clever as a fox. If she’d manipulated Billy, she could do the same with Mrs. Astor.
With Duchy’s visit and the new house, Alva finally had a way to get society’s attention and make them come to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Society
NEW YORK, 1883
As soon as Alva tells us she’s throwing a masquerade ball in the spring that will make Mrs. Astor’s look like a barn dance in comparison, we begin to ponder our costumes. We meet with dressmakers and wigmakers, jewelry designers and prop masters. We leaf through history books, looking for figures from the past that we think might inspire the most impressive costumes.
Tessie wants to go as Queen Elizabeth I but so do Mamie and Lady Paget. Why so many wish to be illegitimate and a virgin is a mystery to the rest of us. Penelope and her husband are going as George and Martha Washington; Lydia and her husband will go as incroyables and merveilleuses appearing barefoot with rings on their toes and Greek tunics. Penelope has laid claim to Joan of Arc, which means Ophelia will have to rethink her costume.
We hear this is going to be the biggest ball ever held in a private home and that the guest of honor is going to be Viscountess Mandeville, whom we remember as plain old Consuelo Yznaga. Those of us with daughters know this is a golden opportunity for luring husbands.
“Well, I just better be invited,” says Mamie.
“Then you might try not insulting Alva for once,” says Tessie.
“Me? What about you?” Mamie snaps back.
Their exchange makes us all take a moment to reflect on our previous encounters with Alva. For some, petty jealousies have gotten in the way of common courtesies. A few of us have been less than gracious. Others, like Mamie, have outright snubbed her. But it’s clear to all that Alva is a formidable woman on the rise in society and that we’d best get on the right side of her.
Thoughts of Alva’s masquerade party consume us for days on end until on one cold, wintry morning, the first week in January, we pick up our newspapers and see the headline: Crepe Badges Removed from Astor Home. We go on to read:
The mourning period has officially ended and plans are underway for Mrs. William B. Astor’s annual ball. Sources say invitations to the coveted 400 guests were hand delivered this morning . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Alva
Alva stared at the headline for a second time and read the article, top to bottom. Mrs. Astor was back. Sitting at her table, Alva could feel her entire body tensing up, her jaw clenched, pulse racing.
She set the newspaper aside and dared herself to shuffle through the mail that her butler had delivered earlier that morning. She went envelope by envelope, foolishly hoping that Mrs. Astor’s invitation would be among them. But of course it wasn’t.
Alva hurried through her morning toilette and called for her carriage. It was snowing but not terribly cold; mostly the flakes turned to slush upon landing. She glanced out the window at the paperboys on the corner, standing next to stacks of wet newspapers.
When they finally reached the Glenham Hotel, she had her driver pull over. Thankfully Jeremiah was home. Letting her into his room, filled with stale air and dust-covered surfaces, he looked rather glamorous in a satin floor-length smoking jacket she’d never seen before.
“Where did this come from?” she asked skeptically, tossing her hat and gloves onto the bed. “I thought you weren’t gambling anymore.”
“Oh, don’t be such a worrier. I’m on a winning streak.”
“I’ve heard that before.” She turned toward him. He smelled faintly of whiskey despite it being the middle of the day.
“I’m up. Significantly,” he said with a great hand flourish.
“Don’t forget, you’re on limited funds now.”
“I was just about to roll a cigarette. Why don’t you have one with me?” As he retrieved the tobacco from a dented-up blue tin resting on the chest of drawers, Jeremiah started going on about the poker game he’d sat in on the night before. “. . . So then I had a flush, and right after that, unbelievable, the dealer—you’re not going to believe this—I end up with a full house. You should have seen me. I was—” He stopped and looked at her. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I’m in a foul mood.”
“Another fight with Willie?”
“No, I did not have another fight with Willie.” Though they had been arguing more than usual lately. Ever since he started running around with Oliver Belmont, who had recently divorced Sara Swan Whiting after barely being married a year. They said he abandoned her in Paris and took up with a dancer or singer—she couldn’t remember which. “It’s not Willie,” she said, watching Jeremiah meticulously sprinkle the tobacco inside the paper. “It’s that woman.”
“Oh dear. I assume we’re talking about Mrs. Astor?” He laughed as he released another pinch of tobacco.
“I’m just furious. I can’t believe she didn’t invite me to her ball. Again.”
“How can you be so sure you’re not invited?”
“The invitations already went out—this morning. Hand delivered.”
“Ouch!” He made a face.
She didn’t appreciate his attempt to lighten her mood, and he knew it.
“Well,” he said, offering her the cigarette, “I think you’ve worked your way into the fringes of society as best you can, but let’s face it”—he struck the match—“society will always look down on you as new money.” He paused while Alva leaned into the flame. “Now remember, don’t inhale.”
But she did anyway and coughed out a cloud of smoke.
“Here,” he said, handing her a glass of whiskey.
“What are you trying to do, kill me?” She pushed the glass away, still choking, her eyes tearing up.
“A good belt of this stuff”—he downed the whiskey—“never killed anyone.”
Alva recovered, letting out a few more coughs, and dabbed her eyes. “That woman has kept me out of the Academy of Music and—”
“And the Patriarch Balls, too,” he said, as if she needed reminding of that.
She was stewing while he prepared another cigarette for himself, lit it and leaned back in his chair, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “But what can you do about it?” he asked, crossing his long legs, letting his satin slipper dangle off his foot. “She’s never going to let you into society, you know that.”
“That’s what you think. You have no idea how far people will go to get an invitation to this ball.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Less than twelve hours ago, Caroline’s townhouse had been filled to capacity with some 400 guests, mingling, dancing, dining at her annual ball. The festivities had gone on late, the last to leave climbing into their carriages at dawn.
Caroline was still in bed, surprised when she glanced at the clock and saw that it was a quarter till two in the afternoon. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept past noon. Caroline was always faithfully awake at half past eight, regardless of how late the balls went the night before. She was one of those people who prided themselves on needing only four hours of sleep a night, as if that were a sign of strength, endurance.
But on that bone-chilling January day, she was dragging, her body stiff, her head throbbing. What is the point of getting dressed yet anyway? Even from her bedroom she could hear her staff shuffling about, moving furniture back in place, sweeping the floors. Downstairs in the kitchen, she pictured the china and glassware being washed, dried and put away. She figured someone must have been taking down the garlands and packing up the floral arrangements that would go directly into the trash. Pity. But she hated wilting flowers. Limp petals made her sad, and she couldn’t bear it that day.
In the past, she’d always felt a sense of accomplishment after her ball, but on that day, she felt let down. Waldorf and his wife had put in their appearance, as if they were doing her a favor. They were among the first to leave at three o’clock. Thankfully everyone had the good taste not to ask where William was. He rarely attended her balls anymore, and she wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. She didn’t need him causing any drunken scenes, and yet, she wondered where he’d been, who he’d been with and if he had managed to find his way home last night. She cleared the thoughts from her mind and wondered instead if Thomas was directing her staff to work as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her. He was always protective of her in that way. She wished William were more like that. How pathetic that her butler should be more concerned about her than her own husband.
She was focusing on William, but she knew that wasn’t what was really bothering her. The ball had been a success, just the same as every ball she’d been throwing for the past ten years. But one thing was different this time and she couldn’t deny it. Even as she’d sat at the top of the stairs beneath her six-foot portrait, receiving her guests, she was aware that her annual event had been eclipsed by Alva Vanderbilt’s upcoming masquerade ball at the end of March.
Caroline had purposely left Alva off last night’s guest list, but still that woman had managed to make her presence known. In fact, she was constantly intruding on Caroline’s life these days. All night long she’d overheard people talking in rapt anticipation of Alva Vanderbilt’s ball at Petit Chateau. Petit Chateau—Caroline scowled. No one named their city homes. It simply wasn’t done.
The event was two months away, and already everyone was all aflutter over the guest of honor, Viscountess Mandeville. Caroline resented the encroachment and found everyone’s preoccupation with the Vanderbilt ball most upsetting. The New York Times had already declared it the season’s most anticipated ball. In the past, they’d said that about Caroline’s ball. She decided she didn’t care. She was still the head of society and she had no intention of attending Alva’s masquerade ball.
* * *
—
Later that afternoon she sat at her dressing room table, her black pompadour wig, which she’d worn the night before, resting on its stand. Looking in the mirror, she observed how gray she’d gone and how much her hair had thinned. Her lady’s maid hadn’t mentioned it, but over time, Caroline had become aware of the pale, ever-widening spot on the crown of her head, the size of a coin. Though her hats and bonnets had camouflaged the situation at first, in the end, the only remedy was a wig. Or wigs, as it turned out, for now there was a separate closet that housed the various styles in varying shades of browns and blacks. The fragile condition of Caroline’s hair and her need for wigs was something that she and her maid addressed without ever discussing outright.
With her fingertips, she worried her center part, growing wider all the time. When she couldn’t look anymore, she reached for her wig, squaring it on her scalp just as Carrie appeared in the doorway. Through the looking glass Caroline could see that something was terribly wrong.
“Heavens, child”—she turned around, facing her—“what’s wrong? Are you unwell?”
Carrie’s shoulders were slack.
Caroline pushed away from her dressing table and went to her daughter’s side, placing her hand on Carrie’s forehead, feeling for fever. Her daughter had just returned from practicing her quadrille for the Vanderbilts’ ball, of all things. Carrie and her friends were performing an homage to the king of Prussia, Frederick the Great. Caroline felt Carrie’s forehead a second time. “You haven’t got a fever.”
“I’m not sick.”
“What is it then?”
“All the girls were talking about the Vanderbilt ball at rehearsal.”
“This is what you’re so upset about? That silly ball?”
“Oh, Mother, why do you hate Mrs. Vanderbilt so?”
“I don’t hate her,” Caroline said, trying to sound indifferent. “I simply have no use for her.”
“I don’t think you understand. Alva Vanderbilt is shrewd. She’s calculating. They’re all saying she’s out to take over society. To take it away from you. They’re all saying how she has a new vision for society. Charlotte’s been hearing talk of it, too. You can’t afford to have her as an enemy anymore. You either need to join forces with her, or risk losing your position. And I’m sorry, but if you do lose your position, what happens to the rest of us? We’re going to be has-beens.”
“Oh pish-posh.” Caroline waved off Carrie’s concern. “That will never happen.”
“But it’s already starting. All my friends—they’ve all received their invitations to the Vanderbilt ball and I haven’t.”
“Your invitation just hasn’t arrived, is all.”
“No, you don’t understand. The others received their invitations more than a week ago. It’s obvious that I’m not going to be invited. How am I going to tell the others? We’ve been rehearsing our quadrille for weeks. You have to find a way to mend fences with Mrs. Vanderbilt.”
Caroline felt a barb run down her spine. “There’ll be other balls,” she said without much conviction.
Carrie looked up, glassy-eyed. Caroline hated for her daughters to be weak and Carrie knew that. “As you said, there’ll be other balls. I’ll be fine.” A tear slid down her cheek. “But what about you? What about your future?” And with that, she covered her face in her small, pale hands and wept so hard her shoulders shook.
A lump rose up in Caroline’s throat. “Well, there’s obviously been some mistake,” she said.
Carrie hiccuped, breaking into another spasm of tears.
Caroline was seething. She felt manipulated. How dare Alva Vanderbilt punish Carrie like this? She would not tolerate this kind of societal warfare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Caroline
The next day, Caroline called on Ward McAllister. No one understood the intricacies of society better than Ward, and he knew Carrie, even loved her like a daughter. Caroline was certain that, together, they could figure out a solution. The two were huddled in his library, surrounded by heavy dark paneling and plush velvet drapes that let in a single slant of sunlight. Tea service on a silver tray was perched on a table between them. Caroline was demanding they call for all of society to boycott the Vanderbilt ball.
“On what grounds?” Ward looked at her skeptically. “Just because your daughter wasn’t invited? Come now, Lina.”
The look on his face made her realize how ridiculous she sounded. “But Carrie is brokenhearted. I have to do something. And now she’s worried that Alva is going to take over society.” Caroline laughed a
s if that were absurd.
“Well”—McAllister plucked a sugar cube with a pair of gold tongs—“it’s no secret, that is part of her grand plan. She is very crafty. You need to watch her.”
So it was true. Something shattered inside her, like glass breaking just beneath her skin. She’d thought Carrie was exaggerating, being overly dramatic. Caroline tried to play it off as nothing, dismissing the notion by rolling her eyes—rolling one’s eyes! Such a pointless gesture, a weak display of disapproval that she had always detested, and yet here she’d gone and done it. “Well, from what I hear,” she said, “this is going to be more of a circus than a ball anyway.” Normally she was better at keeping her opinions to herself and immediately regretted having said anything. She sounded petty and defensive.
“It may be a circus, don’t you know,” said McAllister, stirring his tea, “but you can’t escape the chatter about costumes and invitations and all.” McAllister scooted forward in his chair as if their discussion was about to take a significant turn. “I’ve just come from the New York Times, and they told me that Alva Vanderbilt has invited them to a preview tour of Petit Chateau.”
“Oh, that house is an embarrassment,” said Caroline with a shudder, failing once again to rein herself in. She couldn’t help it—Alva had become a thorn in her side. Caroline had never given much thought to any of the other women who had tried to topple her, but for some reason Alva, with that massive Vanderbilt fortune behind her, was beginning to concern Caroline. “That house is a brazen declaration of that woman’s insecurities.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said McAllister. “But it is an astonishing display of wealth. The moment I stepped inside I saw how—”
“Inside? You’ve been inside? You mean to say you’ve called on Alva Vanderbilt?” She felt her eyebrows rise.
“Oh.” He waved his hand as if it were nothing. “Mrs. Vanderbilt merely wanted my advice on the ball, don’t you know.”