by Renée Rosen
She finally peeled herself off the bed, went into the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face before sobbing again into a hand towel. When she was able to compose herself, she remembered her masquerade ball was less than a week away. She was supposed to have checked in with the florist, the chef and the wine merchant that afternoon, but none of that mattered now. She didn’t care about her ball and couldn’t imagine going through with it.
Now she was crying again, overwhelmed by the thought of bringing everything to a screeching halt. She turned on the tap and ran more cool water over her face. When she glanced in the mirror, she swore she saw Jeremiah looking back at her, frowning. “Don’t you dare think about canceling your ball,” she heard him say. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Caroline
The Vanderbilt ball was called for ten o’clock, but the quadrilles wouldn’t begin until midnight, and just as Caroline never arrived at the opera a minute before the second act, she and Carrie would not step foot inside the Vanderbilt mansion a moment sooner than was absolutely necessary.
As their carriage made its way up Fifth Avenue, Caroline saw people congregating along the side of the road. At first she thought they were all in costume—sack coats and woolen shawls—but then she realized they were just commoners from the poorer neighborhoods, there to watch the guests arrive. One block farther north, the crowd grew larger. Police officers were there to contain the onlookers. Carrie pressed her face to the window, her excitement as palpable as Caroline’s curiosity.
When they drew closer still, Caroline saw the city’s finest carriages lining the street. If she didn’t know better, Caroline would have thought she was in Paris with all the liveried coachmen and footmen assisting guests. An enormous awning stretched from the doorway to the curb along with a thick red carpet there to protect everyone’s delicate footwear.
As she and her daughter made their approach, Caroline heard the orchestra music spilling forth from the mansion and good lord people were dancing in the great hall by the staircase. A woman dressed as a hornet with a diamond in her cone-shaped headdress was fluttering about, stinging guests and laughing as if she’d already gotten into the punch. A man dressed as Daniel Boone was chasing Mother Goose with a tomahawk made of flowers. A woman, whom Caroline would later realize was the other Mrs. Vanderbilt—Cornelius’s wife, Alice—was dressed in a white gown studded with diamonds that shimmered like tiny lightbulbs, and in her hand, a genuine electrical torch gave off a glow each time she pressed a switch hidden inside her pocket. There was a carnival-like atmosphere in the air, and everyone was laughing and carrying on recklessly. It was as if the costumes shielded their identities, giving them permission to do away with decorum altogether. Caroline shuddered. People never would have conducted themselves in such an undignified manner at one of her balls. Never!
Unlike the majority of the guests, hiding behind their disguises, Caroline was in plain view for all to see. She hadn’t given much thought to her costume and, frankly, hadn’t had much time to prepare it, opting at the last minute to wear a Venetian gown. It was a Rococo style in purple velvet, with a dramatic neckline cut low enough to display her four diamond necklaces. She drew a deep breath, feeling everyone turn her way. The wide-eyed glances told her that no one had expected her to be there.
As Carrie excused herself to prepare for her quadrille, Caroline saw that Puss Strong had come dressed as a puss herself, complete with a taxidermy cat on her head and several tails sewn into the back of her gown. She was making her way toward Caroline when, thankfully, Ward McAllister intercepted, cutting in front of Puss and practically galloping to Caroline’s side, all dignity abandoned.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, as if he were the host, which irked Caroline to no end. She didn’t like his embracing this charade of an affair. “My Mystic Rose has arrived, and now the real ball can begin, don’t you know.”
“And who, pray tell, are you supposed to be?” she asked, scrutinizing his outfit, uncertain what was more absurd: his powdered wig, the enormous plume protruding from his cap, the bright orange stockings or the pleated gorget framing his head. Were it not for that Mystic Rose and the don’t you know, she might not have recognized him.
“Why, I am a member of the French nobility.” He offered a grand bow that was entirely out of character for Ward McAllister. She gave him a disapproving glance as he straightened up. “Step right this way,” he said, still acting his part.
Passing through the great hall to the salon, Caroline willed herself not to glance up and admire the calcium lights illuminating the room along with the largest arrangements of flowers she had ever seen, orchids and bougainvillea everywhere she turned. It was also quite obvious that Alva Vanderbilt didn’t want a single guest to overlook her very expensive Louis XV furnishings. Caroline did her best to look unmoved. She had to retain a sense of superiority and would let it be known that she was not impressed, when in truth, she was immensely so. It seemed the only way to cope was to feign disgust—even if only to herself.
Suddenly there was a round of applause as a trumpeter began to play and a flock of white doves appeared from behind a curtain. Just as they flapped their wings and started taking flight, they revealed the hostess herself, Alva Vanderbilt, in grand preposterous style. Caroline assumed that Princess de Croy standing next to her was Viscountess Mandeville.
After the doves cleared her view, the first thing Caroline noticed was that Alva was also wearing a Venetian gown. Hers was a lemon-and-white brocade, and she had Catherine the Great’s pearls about her neck. Alva looked like a princess, but Caroline reminded herself that she was still the queen.
Through the crowd of adoring guests, Caroline and Alva locked eyes. It was like a matador facing off with a bull. Alva stood, waiting to receive her guests alongside the viscountess, and Caroline felt propelled toward her. The side conversations had stopped. All eyes were on Caroline and Alva, everyone waiting to see what would happen when the two came face-to-face.
Alva spoke first, her Southern accent syrupy sweet. “I’m so pleased that you could join us tonight, Mrs. Astor. Especially on such short notice. I do hope you’ll forgive my not receiving you that day when you came by.”
Touché. Caroline took a moment before responding. “Mrs. Vanderbilt, you seem to have outdone yourself tonight,” she said with a regal nod, and then turned away, only to be greeted by a masked man in yellow tights and a floor-length cloak.
“Isn’t this marvelous?” he said. “I’m mad as hops to see you here.” The accent gave him away. James Van Alen was all smiles. “How splendid that you’ve put your collieshangies aside. Emily would have loved that.”
Emily! For a split second, Caroline expected to see her daughter standing next to him.
“Emily was forever in Alva’s debt,” he said. “That day in Newport, we might have lost her had it not been for Alva . . .”
Oh, Emily. The ache in Caroline’s heart made it hard to focus on what Van Alen was saying and yet, she longed to talk about her daughter just to keep her memory close and alive. She was about to ask Van Alen to slow down and explain it all, when Carrie appeared and Van Alen vanished, swept away by another masked man.
“Mother,” said Carrie, “may I present Mr. Wendell Perkins.”
“Mrs. Astor, it’s a true honor.” He offered a ceremonial bow. He was wearing a diamond aigrette as if he’d stepped out of the days of Henri III.
Caroline sensed that Carrie wasn’t truly interested in this young man. Judging by the way she’d haphazardly introduced him to Ward as well, Caroline could tell that Wendell Perkins was just another admirer, wanting to meet Carrie’s mother. Still, Caroline and Ward exchanged pleasantries with the young man until the first quadrille began, and Carrie and Wendell excused themselves to prepare for their own presentation.
As soon as they left, Ward McAllister’s gossipy nature took o
ver. “What was that business Van Alen was saying about Alva and Emily?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Well, I assure you, I will get to the bottom of it at once.” And off he went.
Caroline’s head began to throb; the pulsing of her temples seemed to be keeping time with the orchestra as they moved into the ballroom for the quadrilles. The majority of the presentations left much to be desired as far as Caroline was concerned. She found the Mother Goose and hobbyhorse routines unintentionally laughable and the Dresden quadrille far too dark. The last dance, the one Caroline thought was the most impressive, and certainly the most dignified, was Carrie’s star quadrille.
It was nearly two in the morning when the footmen made their way through the crowd, distributing party favors. Caroline and the other ladies were presented with diamond-encrusted brooches and matching bracelets. Caroline remembered the days when silk fans and boutonnieres were considered fine favors. She found Alva’s flaunting most distasteful, as was Ward McAllister’s obvious delight with his new ruby cufflinks.
As the hour grew later, many of the gentlemen—and a good number of ladies, too—had consumed an excessive amount of claret and champagne and were acting a fool; one of the Marie Antoinettes was clonking people on the head with her scepter, as was Little Bo-Peep with her crook. Napoleon Bonaparte was arm-wrestling with Amadeus Mozart while onlookers cheered and clapped. Never in her life did Caroline imagine she’d see the day when society’s most respected citizens would behave in such a way. Such a spectacle. She caught herself staring and at one point even laughing, both tickled and appalled. The whole thing was just that absurd.
When they were called downstairs for supper, Caroline had regained her composure and was now bracing herself, imagining to what lengths Alva had gone to impress society. The dining room was enormous with a vaulted ceiling and a hundred or more round tables, each graced with cobalt-blue-and-gold Royal Worcester china, a plethora of crystal glasses and fourteen-karat-gold cutlery. Each table had an enormous centerpiece of American Beauties, which had always been Caroline’s flower of choice. She considered it to be her flower and felt a bit encroached upon.
A commotion across the room interrupted her thoughts as she saw one of the footmen gracelessly traipsing about, nearly knocking over one of the Catherine the Greats. Apparently a pair of doves from Alva’s grand entrance had escaped and were now flapping about the dining room. As the footmen tried to wrangle the birds, one of the doves landed atop Puss’s mummified cat hat. Puss didn’t seem to notice. With enough champagne, what was one more creature perched upon one’s head?
Ward McAllister ran—he ran—to Caroline’s side, nearly breathless and eager to tell her what he’d learned. “So I spoke with Van Alen, don’t you know . . .” He was saying something about Newport, something about Cliff Walk, jabbering on when Caroline stopped, unable to listen because she saw that her seat was on the dais, next to Alva’s. She should not have been surprised. She was always seated next to the hostess. But this was different. Caroline knew that she was being used as a prop, there to make a statement, put on display, and there was nothing she could do about it. All who saw her coming stepped back, making way for her.
Ward took his seat on Caroline’s other side and proceeded to tell her about Alva rescuing Emily that day on Cliff Walk.
“What?” Caroline looked at him.
“That’s right. Emily slipped and fell. Alva just happened to have been passing by and ended up saving her life . . .”
Caroline listened as the commotion around her faded to background noise, muffled and dimmed. She tried to absorb what Ward was saying but couldn’t make sense of it all. Emily was on Cliff Walk? With Alva Vanderbilt? One thought led to another as she vaguely remembered that day in Newport when Emily came home limping with scratches and bruises on her face. Alva had been with her. For some reason she remembered the black-and-gray-striped bathing costume. It was true. Alva really did save Emily’s life. Caroline brought one hand to her mouth, the other splayed across her chest. She could feel the rapid heartbeats beneath her fingertips.
Ward went on, whispering to her, but Caroline was lost in her own thoughts. She was struggling to reconcile her resentment and anger toward Alva with her sudden gratitude for rescuing Emily.
There was another round of applause as Alva and her husband—dressed as the Duke of Guise—entered the dining room. Caroline felt the energy shift as the couple made their way to the dais. She was still letting Ward’s news sink in. Caroline had to admit she was somewhat surprised, maybe even impressed, that Alva hadn’t exploited the incident with Emily. Maybe Alva had better judgment than Caroline had given her credit for. It didn’t make Caroline like her any more, but it did stir within her a genuine feeling of appreciation.
After Alva curtsied and her husband bowed, the couple took their seats, and the footmen began bringing out the first course. Caroline was sitting so close to Alva she could smell her perfume and see the exceptional cut and clarity of her diamonds. It was only a matter of time before they would have to acknowledge each other, and when their eyes met, Caroline knew it was up to her to speak first.
Had it been anyone else, Caroline would have apologized for her past actions against Alva, for Caroline was never afraid to admit when she’d been wrong. But Caroline had already swallowed her pride by attending the ball and now, looking into Alva’s blue eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. The best she could do was say, “Thank you.” And to indicate that she was not thanking Alva for the invitation to her ball, she added, “Thank you for what you did for Emily. I didn’t know.” And with that she started on her turtle soup.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Alva
At first Alva didn’t know to what Mrs. Astor was referring. But then she understood. Someone—probably James Van Alen, since no one other than Willie knew—had told her about Cliff Walk.
“I was happy to help,” Alva said, not quite sure that the Grande Dame had heard her, for she kept her eyes fixed on her soup.
And that was it. Not another word was spoken between them.
Throughout the meal, Alva glanced around the room, amazed at how her children’s gymnasium had been transformed into such an elegant dining hall. She was serving a nine-course meal prepared by the Delmonico’s chef himself, something that no hostess had ever done before. She couldn’t help but recall the times when she didn’t know where her supper would come from or if her family would be turned out on the street. Imagine, recovering from such a humbling setback. Alva had dreamed of this night, had craved it as much as she’d once craved a morsel of food. This was a moment she wanted to mark in her bank of memories, to never be forgotten. Here she was, with Mrs. Astor seated next to her, in her palace of a home. She wished that Julia were there, but she hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the invitation. Last Alva heard, her sister had moved to Brooklyn and was devoting herself to the suffrage movement. Alva looked about the room for Jennie and Armide, hoping they would at least understand the significance of this evening. Despite what Julia thought about the house, Alva knew her mother would have been proud. This was exactly the sort of life she’d always intended for her daughters—all of them, not just Alva.
There was no denying that Alva had achieved exactly what she’d set out to do, what even Alice Vanderbilt couldn’t have done. She had gotten the Vanderbilt family admitted into society’s highest echelon. She’d won and now she was waiting for that validating effervescence to bubble up inside her like a swallow of champagne. She waited. And waited. So where was it? Alva felt underwhelmed to say the least. She watched the festivities whirling around her—the feasting and dancing, her husband and Duchy laughing jovially—and yet Alva found such little satisfaction in her triumph.
Losing Jeremiah must have had something to do with it. Earlier in the evening she thought she saw him. Could have sworn he was one of the King Lears. It was just too hard t
o fathom that she’d never see him again, that she’d never had the chance to say goodbye. She felt tears building up behind her eyes and willed them away.
Mamie Fish interrupted her thoughts. She’d come dressed as Elizabeth I, her gown made of gold with a silver farthingale and a matching neck ruff that made it impossible for her to turn her head. In typical Mamie style she said, “I hope you and Willie don’t end up in bankruptcy after this ball.” She laughed, making everyone nearby turn around.
“Oh, go on, Mamie,” said Alva without cracking a smile. “I’m serious”—she gestured in the direction of the ballroom—“go on.”
But Mamie stayed where she was, undeterred.
Soon Puss joined them, holding one of her many tails in her gloved hands.
“I’m so glad you were able to get that bird off your cat,” said Mamie with another sharp laugh.
Puss patted her hat as if making sure the taxidermy was still in place. “Now, Alva, tell us about the new opera house. Is it still scheduled to open in October? Do you know who will be performing yet? Are you pleased with the seating . . . ?”
Alva was still fielding questions when Oliver Belmont appeared at her side, dressed in yellow-and-red-silk tights and a black velvet cloak. “Mrs. Vanderbilt, may I have the honor of the next dance?” He leaned in and whispered, “You look like you need rescuing.”
And she did.
“I’m warning you,” he said, leading her onto the dance floor, “I’m very light on my feet.”
In fact, Oliver Belmont was indeed light on his feet, a far better dancer than she would have expected. If he was at all self-conscious about dancing with a woman taller than himself, it wasn’t evident.