The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  “You’ve pulled off quite a victory tonight,” he said. “So what’s wrong? Was the foie gras not to your liking?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t smiled much tonight.”

  “That’s because I’m exhausted.”

  He nodded, unconvinced. “So what’s next?”

  “Next?” she laughed. “You mean this isn’t enough?”

  “Nah”—he smiled and twirled her around—“not for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me? What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “No, tell me.”

  He sighed. “All right. Very well. You, Mrs. Vanderbilt, are never quite satisfied with what you’ve got. I know that because you remind me a little of myself.”

  She was facing him now, his gaze fixed on hers. She’d never really noticed how lovely his eyes were. Or how comfortable she was with him, which suddenly made her most uncomfortable.

  She looked across the way and saw Willie K. waltzing with Duchy, who, in Alva’s mind, was the grandest of all the Princesses de Croy. She was smiling, laughing at something Willie just said, and it pleased Alva to see her friend enjoying herself. She was grateful that Willie was keeping an eye on her, especially since the viscount had been unable to attend.

  When the dance ended, Alva thanked Oliver, though she wouldn’t have minded a second dance with him.

  No sooner had she returned to her hostess duties than Ward McAllister came up to her explaining that Mrs. Astor had left early, at half past three. “And don’t you know, the press left right behind her . . .”

  While he was talking, Alva thought about all the reporters scrambling back to their desks, writing up their articles that would appear in the next day’s society pages. She looked around, distracted by her various guests: Oliver Belmont was now waltzing with Puss; Alice Vanderbilt’s light switch had stopped functioning, and Cornelius was attempting to fix it; Mamie and Tessie Oelrichs were bickering over who had first decided to come as Elizabeth I. Ward was still talking about Mrs. Astor when Alva excused herself to steal Duchy away from Willie. In the midst of some 1,500 people, she felt lonely and wanted a quiet moment with her friend.

  As the evening wore on, Alva was exhausted and, frankly, a bit bored. Her wig was heavy and hot, and her gown was digging into her waist. Willie was offering guided tours of the house as if he’d been the genius behind it all. Everywhere she looked she saw bits and pieces of discarded costumes: a trampled mask in the hallway, plumes that had come loose from someone’s hat, a gentleman’s gloves, a white powdered wig that turned out to be Willie K.’s. The hour was growing late; it was nearly dawn. Soon her staff would be setting up for the morning buffet, and then, after all the planning and all the anticipation, it would be over. Done.

  * * *

  —

  Hours later, the last of her guests were gone. Willie K. had passed out just before daybreak, having to be escorted upstairs by a footman. The sun was coming up now, and other than the servants who were putting her house back in order, Petit Chateau was eerily quiet. As tired as she was, Alva knew she’d never be able to sleep. She started back at the beginning, reliving the evening moment by moment, already rewriting her personal assessment of the ball. Her mind canceled out those instances where she’d felt disappointed or flattened. She negated any details that were less than spectacular, less than perfect, until her memory had crystallized the unprecedented success that she hoped her ball had truly been. But of course, the press would have the final say on that.

  It was going on eight o’clock in the morning. Willie and the children were still asleep, and Alva was wide awake, a nervous energy festering inside her. When she couldn’t take the quiet another minute, she reached for her overcoat and satchel and stepped outside into the morning air.

  The red carpet that had been pristine the night before was now trampled on by thousands of footsteps. It was a cold, crisp day already set in motion: children being marched off to school by their governesses; businessmen in their bowlers, carrying attaché cases and walking sticks; carriages and hacks maneuvering up and down Fifth Avenue.

  Alva saw a newsboy standing on the corner beside stacks of papers held together with fraying twine. Her heart began beating a bit faster. She felt like an actress or an opera star anticipating her opening night review. Those newspapers held her fate, and after buying one of each, Alva, still dressed in her Venetian gown, her wig and her pearls, sat down on a nearby bench and began scouring the papers one by one until she came to the one article, the only one that really mattered.

  There it was, a quote from her harshest critic, someone who rarely spoke to reporters:

  “We have no right to exclude those whom the growth of this great country has brought forward, provided they are not vulgar in speech and appearance,” said Mrs. William B. Astor as she was leaving Petit Chateau, adding, “The time has come for the Vanderbilts.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Alva

  Several months after her masquerade ball, Alva discovered she was pregnant again. And though plagued with morning sickness, she refused to let her delicate condition interfere with the traction she was gaining in society. Petit Chateau had accomplished exactly what she’d hoped it would. She had recently been invited to dinner parties, balls and other events that had previously been denied her. With her one fancy dress ball and Mrs. Astor’s presence, Alva had moved to the top of nearly everyone’s guest list.

  But Mrs. Astor remained lukewarm at best. Despite her declaration to the press, Mrs. Astor had yet to extend a personal invitation to Alva for so much as tea, let alone to one of her exclusive dinner parties or balls. It had infuriated Alva, but she also knew it was just a matter of time before Mrs. Astor would have to come around. Each day more calling cards arrived for Alva, and her engagement book was filling up weeks and months in advance.

  And it wasn’t just Alva who’d found herself embraced by society; all the Vanderbilts benefited from what she’d done. Especially Willie. She didn’t have to say, Told you so, when suddenly the men’s social clubs invited him in, including the Knickerbocker, the Union Club and the New York Yacht Club.

  Now that the construction of Petit Chateau was completed and they were finishing up the opera house, she was eager to work on another project. She wanted to build a new cottage in Newport, but Willie wasn’t in favor of the idea, especially when she was expecting. He complained that construction absorbed all her attention and took her away from him and the children. Even she couldn’t deny that he was right about that. She could pore over blueprints, losing track of time, oblivious to her children waiting at the table for her to join them for luncheon, or standing by her desk with a book in hand waiting patiently for her to read aloud with them. Willie would ask if she was coming up to bed soon. “Five minutes,” she’d say, stunned when he’d reappear an hour or two later, already in his bathrobe, his cowlick sticking up, indicating that he must have already fallen asleep for a bit.

  Now without blueprints to consume her, she was obsessed with the opening of the new theater—the Metropolitan Opera House.

  “For the inaugural season,” Alva said, addressing Billy and the other board members, “we absolutely must hold the grand opening on the same night as the Academy of Music’s opening season performance.”

  The men looked at her wide-eyed and openmouthed. Someone—she wasn’t sure who—gasped. Alva refused to look at Willie and figured he’d reprimand her later.

  She was thinking of how to soften the request when Billy said, “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”

  “But on the same night?” asked Willie. “How can we possibly do it on the same night?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said J. P. Morgan. “It’s brilliant.”

  “The Academy can’t possibly compete with our new theater,” said Cornelius. “Every
one’s dying to see it. That old hall will be empty on opening night.”

  “And the old money will be seething when they hear,” said Mr. Gould.

  “But,” insisted Willie, “what are we going to do for talent?”

  Alva glared at him. Why was he challenging this when everyone else was in favor of it? Was it resentment? Did he feel threatened? What happened to the adoring boy she’d married? She wished he could just be proud of her.

  “Don’t you see,” Willie persisted, “in terms of talent, we’ll be left with second fiddle. I’ve heard they’ve already hired Christine Nilsson to perform for their opening night.”

  “Don’t worry about the talent,” Alva said. “I’ll take care of that.”

  * * *

  —

  On a clear Monday night, the twenty-second of October, when those loyal to old New York money went downtown to the Academy of Music, Alva’s carriage arrived outside the new Metropolitan Opera House. She was dressed in a royal-blue gown with a gold-and-silver-embroidered basque. The gown had been designed in Paris by Madame Buzenet, and Alva’s local dressmaker had let out the seams to make allowances for her child on the way. She was on the arm of Willie K., smiling for the press, which lined both sides of Broadway, between Thirty-Ninth and Fortieth Streets. She wondered if anyone was covering the arrivals at the Academy.

  Once inside, Alva stood back and watched everyone marveling at the great hall. It was so spacious, they could have tucked the entire Academy into the first floor. Now that the massive crystal chandelier had been installed, the intricate carvings along the gilded molding were much more prominent, impossible to miss. She was also pleased with the feel of the sumptuous crimson carpeting beneath her feet. Though she’d fought the architect every inch of the way, the Metropolitan Opera House had her name written all over it, and everyone knew it.

  She watched as people entered the auditorium. They were delighted to see not one, not two, but three tiers of luxury private boxes awaiting the very best of society. And for once, because of Alva, her circle would be among those fortunate enough to sit there. Just as she’d instructed Mr. Cady to arrange it, every guest in those boxes found that they were on display as much as the performers.

  The tide was starting to shift, and Alva took the moment to luxuriate in it. She glanced about and saw Puss stroking Mr. Fritzy, who sat primly on her lap, showing off his diamond collar. Ophelia happily fluttered her silk fan back and forth with one hand while nudging her husband awake with the other. Lydia kept toying with her pink and brown topaz brooch, which she told Alva had been designed by her friend Louis Comfort Tiffany. Penelope was so delighted to be there she didn’t seem to care that her husband was peering at another woman across the way through his opera glasses. Alva watched those women sitting just a bit higher in their plush seats, shoulders back, heads held high. They were no longer second best; now they were right where they’d always wanted to be.

  Alva settled back, watching Christine Nilsson perform the role of Marguerite in Faust. When Alva had offered double what the Academy was paying, the opera star had agreed on the spot.

  During the intermission, Alva and Willie were joined by Oliver Belmont, who had escorted Miss Louise Baldwin that night. With her honey-colored hair, she was a stunningly beautiful debutante whose popularity was rivaled only by Carrie Astor’s. Alva thought Oliver and Louise made for a smart-looking couple, and Oliver was particularly handsome that night in his silk top hat and white cravat. Over the past year or so, the roundness of his face had given way to more definition and the hint of a strong jaw to come. He truly did have lovely eyes. Lovely and yet sad. Alva recalled that dance they’d shared at her ball when he told her she reminded him of himself, never quite satisfied with what you’ve got. She, too, now recognized that same restlessness in him and wondered how long it would be before Oliver would move on from Miss Baldwin to the next socialite.

  “You’re looking ravishing tonight, Mrs. Vanderbilt.” He bowed to kiss Alva’s hand, just as he’d done countless times before, but this time it gave her a tiny unexpected prickle, a spark.

  “Why, Mr. Belmont, I didn’t expect to see you here this evening,” she said. “I thought for sure you’d be with your daddy at the Academy.” She smiled, cocked her head and added a bat of her lashes before realizing that she was flirting with him.

  “My heartfelt congratulations on tonight’s opening,” he said with the briefest nod to Willie before shifting his attention back to Alva. “And don’t you worry, Mrs. Vanderbilt, I will be sure and let Father know that you’ve given him a run for his money.”

  As she watched Oliver and Louise Baldwin make their way through the lobby, she wondered what his father’s reaction would be when he learned that his son had come to her opening. Her opening. She thought of it that way. And part of her did wonder if it was because of her that Oliver had come.

  When she and Willie were about to return to their seats, she spotted Mr. and Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish attempting to sneak out before the fourth act. “And where do you think you’re going?” Alva asked Mamie, only half-teasing.

  Stuyvesant’s face flushed as Mamie gave off a shrill chuckle, waving her kerchief. “You know I hate the opera. Three acts of Faust is about all I have the stomach for.”

  Alva smiled even wider. Three acts of Faust. That was laughable. Everyone knew that while Mamie said she hated opera, she attended the performances on Monday evenings as religiously as she attended Sunday Mass. Alva knew exactly where Mr. and Mrs. Fish were heading. She was well aware that others, too, including Puss, Tessie and Lady Paget, were planning to shuffle back and forth between the two theaters. They were all hedging their bets on the off chance that the Academy would outshine the new opera house. Everyone wanted to be at the right place at the right time.

  “If you hurry,” Alva said to Mamie, “you’ll be able to catch the fourth act. Oh, and do be sure and say hello to Mrs. Astor for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Society

  Across town, those of us who have defected enter the Academy’s theater and work our way to our seats on the main floor. Tucking in the many layers of our expansive gowns, we sidestep down the narrow rows to our fold-down chairs with the squeaking hinges and the worn-out springs that are getting a bit too familiar with our behinds.

  We see Mrs. Astor in her private box, naturally accompanied by Ward McAllister. Mrs. Astor is wearing a forest-green velvet gown covered with diamonds along the bodice. Someone who saw her entering the theater said her train is embellished in fourteen-karat-gold beads. Even from the main floor we see her three diamond necklaces and her diamond harp brooch. And if by chance anyone missed that, the diamonds adhered to her wig are sure to catch their eye. Each time she shifts in her seat, her bejeweled gown catches the light and shimmers, making it impossible to look at anything or anyone other than her.

  By the start of intermission, Mrs. Astor and Ward McAllister remain in their seats while people line up to visit her box. It’s very obvious that the line is much shorter than usual. We imagine that neither Mrs. Astor nor Ward McAllister will acknowledge this truth any more than they’ll speak about the number of empty seats there are in the theater. It must be too horrific to admit that many of their regular subscribers have opted for the new opera house over their beloved Academy. It must fill them with sentimental sadness, for there was a time when there was never a question of where one should be on a Monday night. But all that is changing now, because of Alva Vanderbilt.

  For years now we’ve listened to Alva going on and on about the new opera house. She made sure we knew it was all her idea. And she wasn’t shy about her triumphs, either—how she’d gone up against her father-in-law and the other board members. We pooh-poohed her at the time, but now, to think she’d been the driving force behind it all, to think she’d been given such responsibility, leaves us speechless. Even jealous. But also hopeful. It makes us take a breath
and—for better or worse—reexamine our lives.

  Each, in our own way, begins to question what we are doing with our time here on earth. While our husbands and fathers spend their days on their yachts or at their gentlemen’s clubs, or locked away in their offices, we convince ourselves that we have important work of our own. After all, our balls and nine-course dinner parties don’t plan themselves, now do they? And if we weren’t so damn busy doing that, how else might we fill our days? Would we study philosophy and ancient Greece? Write great works of literature? Compose operas? Find cures for smallpox and malaria?

  If Alva can build an opera house, just think what we could do if given the chance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Alva

  NEW YORK, 1884

  In 1884, on the sixth of July, Alva and Willie welcomed Harold Stirling into the world. And on the fifteenth of July, just as soon as Alva felt strong enough, she welcomed the press to Petit Chateau to meet the newest Vanderbilt heir. At least that was how she’d explained it to Willie and how she set it up with the reporters.

  It had been a difficult pregnancy, and Alva had been prescribed bed rest for the last three months, which had felt more like three years. With each passing day, with no luncheons, no dinner parties, balls or theater to attend, she felt herself drifting further and further away from the life she’d known. She feared that all the progress she’d made in society would be lost. Even more than that, she feared that Mamie and Tessie would take over that spot she had so painstakingly carved out for herself. Her remedy was to bring the press to her, get her name back out there before everyone forgot about her.

  Reporters from the New York Times, the World, the Sun, the Evening Telegram, Town Topics and various other newspapers gathered in the great hall of Petit Chateau. Though many of them had been there before, they were still captivated by its sublime grandeur. Alva had become so accustomed to the mansion, she no longer saw its magnificence. Instead, she was critical, thinking the molding wasn’t quite right in one of the parlors or the draperies weren’t hanging properly in the study. Those minor imperfections festered and magnified in her mind. It was good to see her creation through the fresh eyes of the press. And that day, the summer light was coming in through the double-arched windows as if she’d trained it to enter her home that way, the sun’s rays landing just so.