The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  With the handsome little red-faced Harold swathed in a fine cashmere blanket and nestled in Alva’s arms, she stood before the grand staircase. Seven-year-old Consuelo was to her left, six-year-old Little Willie to her right, while she answered a flurry of questions: How was she feeling? Who was Harold named after? How did Consuelo and Little Willie feel about having a new baby brother?

  The baby was growing restless and started to fuss and then cry. His shrieks grew louder, making Little Willie fidgety while Consuelo covered her ears. Eventually Alva had to hand the baby off to the nurse and dismiss the other two children. Now it was just her and the reporters, which was really what she had wanted all along. But as the questioning shifted from the baby to society, something also shifted inside Alva.

  She couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly. When a reporter asked if she planned to return to Newport for the balance of the season, and others asked if she would be attending the Livingstons’ coaching party and Mrs. Astor’s annual clambake, Alva grew weary. The light that she’d marveled at earlier was now glaring in her eyes. She heard herself answering each of the questions, but the words seemed to be coming from somewhere outside herself.

  She realized she no longer wanted to be on display. Suddenly, everything she’d been sheltered from while pregnant, everything she’d thought she’d been longing for, came rushing back. She knew she’d never be invited to Mrs. Astor’s clambake, and in that moment, she didn’t care. In fact, she felt a little relieved. Alva was just beginning to realize how fatigued she was. After taking a step back from society, she wasn’t quite ready to reenter its drama.

  She thanked the reporters, and after they left, she was all alone. The house was quiet and she was grateful for that nothingness. That very nothingness that had nearly driven her mad now made her feel safe and protected. For the life of her, she couldn’t say what it was all these months that she’d been missing.

  * * *

  —

  The Third Avenue line had recently made its way as far as the Bronx, but Alva loathed the elevated trains and instead rode in her carriage. Such a swelteringly hot day. There was a slight breeze, but it wasn’t enough to bring relief. Alva had canceled her plans to return to Newport, in part because of the baby but mostly because she wasn’t ready to face society just yet. She needed to ease back into its harsh rays. So she had stayed in the city, but on days like this, she ached for the salty sea breeze.

  It was the eighteenth of August. Her mother had died on this date just one week shy of her fiftieth birthday, but the sickness that had ravaged her body made her appear much older. Alva wished she could remember her mother in healthier days without the sunken eyes, the hollowed-out cheeks, her rawboned torso, her chest rattling with each labored breath. Alva shook her head to clear the image, trying to think of other things. She and Willie had been talking again about building a new cottage in Newport. Or rather she had been talking about it. He was still resisting the idea, saying the cottage they had was good enough.

  Alva sighed and closed her eyes trying to recall the last time she’d visited her mother’s grave. She couldn’t remember. She wished her mother had lived long enough to know Willie K. and her grandchildren! Though she would have gotten on Alva about Consuelo’s posture. She could hear her mother’s voice: Don’t let her slouch like that. She would tell her that the boys took after the Smith side of the family despite Alva’s mother-in-law insisting that Harold looked like Willie when he was a baby. Alva couldn’t see the resemblance. Harold was a good baby, though, a sound sleeper with an easy temperament. In that respect he was definitely more like his father.

  When Alva opened her eyes, they had arrived outside the cemetery. The coachman jumped down, unlatched the catch on the massive wrought iron gates and pushed them open. The dirt pathway forked off in various directions, surrounded by rolling green hills, home to fields of headstones.

  With a bouquet of flowers in hand, Alva climbed down from the carriage and headed over to her mother’s gravesite. As she made her way toward the large granite monument, she saw her sister Julia kneeling in prayer. She wasn’t surprised. There was a time, before Alva began spending her summers in Newport, when all of them visited their mother’s grave together on the anniversary of her death.

  Julia stood and turned around just as Alva stepped forward and placed the flowers on the headstone.

  “I was hoping you would be here,” Alva said, standing shoulder to shoulder with her sister.

  “You just missed Armide and Jennie.”

  Alva nodded, wondering if Julia had lingered, waiting in hopes that Alva would show up. It had been two years since they’d seen each other. They were both too stubborn to have reached out to each other directly, but arranging a chance meeting allowed each to preserve her pride.

  For a moment, they just stood silently until Alva said, “Remember how Mama used to dress us up, make us wear white gloves and sip tea on the front porch?”

  Julia laughed. “I mostly remember Mama yelling at you to get down from the trees. Alva! You git down here and quit showing the whole world your petticoat.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Alva. “And then she’d whip me.”

  “And the next day you’d get back up and do it all over again.”

  “Well, I did like climbing trees.”

  “You liked seeing what you could get away with,” she laughed.

  “Perhaps.” They both smiled as Alva placed her arm about Julia’s waist. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “I just wish it didn’t have to be here.”

  Julia nodded, leaned in closer to Alva. “You’re looking good.”

  “No.” Alva shook her head. “I’m fat. I just had another baby.”

  “I heard. Jennie and Armide told me. Congratulations.”

  “Maybe you’ll come see him someday? After all, you are his aunt.”

  She paused, considering it. “I would like that. Yes, I would like that very much.”

  They went silent again, and Alva suspected that Julia didn’t know what else to say any more than she did. She’d forgotten how much Julia resembled their mother, with her red hair a shade deeper than Alva’s, her eyes a darker blue.

  Looking straight ahead, Julia said, “I’m sorry about the things I said to you that day when you were showing us the house. I hear it turned out beautifully. I read all about your big ball . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment before she said, “I really am sorry about everything.”

  “Are you getting on okay?” Alva asked, sidestepping Julia’s peace offering so that she herself wouldn’t have to apologize.

  “I’m doing some writing,” Julia said.

  “Writing, huh?”

  She shrugged. “Just short little pieces. For a women’s journal.”

  “Well, good for you.”

  Another awkward silence fell over them. Alva observed the fraying sleeves on Julia’s dress. The fabric on her shoes was worn; one of the embroidered flowers was gone save for one petal.

  “I don’t have much on me right now,” said Alva. “But—”

  “What?” Julia kept her eyes straight ahead.

  “If you come by the house tomorrow, you can see the children. Meet little Harold, and I can have Willie give you some money.”

  “Money?”

  “However much you need. I know Willie would be happy to help you out.” Jeremiah flashed through her mind. Willie wouldn’t have given him a dime, but this was different. Willie had always liked Julia, and she was responsible, wouldn’t squander it . . .

  Julia didn’t say anything, but Alva felt her sister’s body go stiff. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Julia turned and looked at her. “For a moment there, you were starting to sound like yourself again. You were doing fine until you mentioned the money. You just had to bring that up, didn’t you?”

  “Now, Julia—”
/>   “You were always so ashamed of being poor. I never understood that. We were still the same people, we just had less money. And it wasn’t like we were poor because we were bad people or because we did something to deserve it. We just had a streak of bad luck is all. Could have happened to anyone. I thought you would have learned something from that.”

  “I did. I learned that I never want to be poor again.”

  “You still don’t get it.”

  “Oh, come on now, Julia. I’m just trying to help—”

  “I don’t need your help. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want your money. And I’m not impressed by your big fancy house or your clothes or all your wealth, so you don’t need to flaunt it.” She turned and started to walk away.

  “Julia . . . at least let me give you a ride back.”

  “No thank you. I’d rather take the train.”

  She watched her sister walk away, and it was only her pride that kept Alva from chasing after her. Did Julia think Alva had forgotten what it was like to go hungry, to go without? If she hadn’t married Willie, who knows what might have become of her?

  There was a time when all she wanted was to take Mrs. Astor’s place. Now, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. It was all such a silly game. Julia had just made her realize that she no longer knew how to reach out to people just as herself. She always relied on her money, thinking she had to impress them. It was exhausting. Something as simple as paying a friendly social call required wearing just the right dress and jewels. She thought about how much she’d spent on Emily’s wedding present, on all the birthday presents for her children. She’d done the same for Tessie’s children and had thrown elaborate dinner parties for Ophelia and even Mamie—whom she didn’t really like—and so many others that she’d lost count. When Consuelo became Viscountess Mandeville, Alva worried Duchy would no longer think she was worthy of her friendship. In part, she’d even thrown her masquerade ball hoping to prove herself to her oldest, dearest friend. She’d even tried to buy the press. Though she never doubted her bond with Jeremiah, she wished she’d spent more time trying to understand his troubles, rather than trying to pay them off. There was no denying it; Alva led with her money because, without it, she didn’t believe she had anything of value to offer.

  Alva turned back to the headstones, watching her mother’s and father’s names blur through her tears. She felt lost as she dropped to her knees, praying for guidance, help in finding her way back to herself again. And she prayed that, despite it all, her mother would still have been proud of her, and that her father would have realized that a daughter was just as good as a son after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Caroline

  “Why?” Carrie asked, standing in her father’s library, hands on her hips. “Give me one good reason.”

  Caroline looked up from her needlepoint. A deep vertical crease had formed between Carrie’s brows. William cleared his throat, not saying a thing. Orme Marshall Wilson had just asked for Carrie’s hand in marriage, and William said no and had the young man escorted out of the house.

  Orme may have been handsome, intelligent and well-mannered, but his family had amassed their fortune in the railroads, which was a strike against him. Plus, his father was known as a swindler who’d made a good sum of money during the Civil War by selling soldiers woolen blankets that had turned out to be cotton. Besides, the Wilsons were friendly with the Vanderbilts.

  “But you let Emily marry James,” Carrie said, her voice still calm, reasonable, but those eyes steely, unwavering. “Well?”

  Caroline looked at William, his fingertips pressed into the arms on his club chair. They had never told their children about the duel. William didn’t want them knowing that the only reason they’d let Emily marry James was to save their father from imminent death. He didn’t want them thinking he’d been a coward.

  “This is different,” said Caroline.

  “How so?” Carrie folded her arms. She didn’t raise her voice. She seemed so composed, so determined.

  Caroline glanced back at William. His fingertips were turning white. “It just is,” Caroline said, pushing her embroidery needle through the hooped fabric. “For one thing, Orme Wilson is a fortune hunter.” It was true. All the Wilson boys were known for acquiring even greater wealth by marrying into families with money—mostly new money. They were known as the Marrying Wilsons.

  “Your mother’s right,” said William, getting up from his chair, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a drink. “All he wants is your money.”

  “Please don’t insult my intelligence,” said Carrie. “I know he loves me for me. And I love him.”

  Caroline paused her embroidery needle. “Your father and I are only thinking of what’s best for you.”

  “If that’s true, you’ll let me marry Orme.”

  “Get the idea out of your head,” warned William. “You are not marrying him.”

  “This conversation is pointless.” Carrie turned and started for the door.

  “You get back here, young lady,” said William.

  But Carrie kept walking, stopping just before she reached the doorway. “I think it’s best that I leave now,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “If I stay another minute, I’m likely to say something we’ll all regret.” Throwing the French doors open, she walked out to the hall, dignified and measured as she climbed the stairs. She was completely in control until they heard her bedroom door bang shut all the way down in the library.

  Caroline looked at William, who was refilling his glass. “I’ll go talk to her,” she said.

  Standing outside Carrie’s room, Caroline straightened the portraits that had been knocked off-kilter when Carrie slammed her door. She was trying to reason with Carrie, trying to convince her to let her inside.

  “Go away, Mother. Please, just leave me alone.”

  “Carrie.” She knocked again. “You unlock this door right this minute. I want to have a word with you.” Caroline was about to give up, when she heard the light padding of footsteps, followed by the turning of the latch. Thank goodness.

  Caroline stepped over Carrie’s shoes that were lying in the center of the room, kicked off along with her ribbed lavender stockings that were balled up on the floor. Her dress was slumped in the seat of a chair by the open window, the drapes stirring in the breeze. Carrie was down to her union suit, her plaited light brown hair hanging down to her waist. Had it not been for her puffy eyes, the red nose and flushed cheeks from a previous crying bout, Caroline would not have known she’d shed a tear. When she came face-to-face with Carrie, her eyes were dry, her position unflappable.

  “I know it’s hard to understand, but this is for the best,” Caroline said.

  “I know what’s best for me. I’m not like Helen and Charlotte. Helen married Rosy just to please you. Charlotte married Coleman because you left her no choice, and she’s been miserable with him ever since. You broke her heart when you sent Duncan away, and you have no idea how she’s suffered with Coleman. I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m not backing down on this. I can’t. This is my life and I am going to marry Orme.”

  Carrie was so matter-of-fact it was unnerving, and Caroline knew she had to be equally composed, even more so. “If you feel so strongly,” said Caroline, tranquil, outwardly calm, “then I suggest you and Mr. Wilson elope.”

  Carrie looked as if she’d been expecting this. She was prepared. “That won’t serve either one of us, Mother, and you know it. Society doesn’t look favorably upon elopements, and I’m sure you’d rather not have the family dragged into a scandal. I was raised an Astor and I’m not willing to give that up. I won’t have society turn its back on me. I plan to marry the man I love and have my place in society. And we both know I can’t have that without your blessings.”

  Caroline was taken aback. Carrie’s rational reasoning had thrown her off.
She’d dealt with her daughters’ anger, their hysterics, their childish antics, but this was a cool, even exchange and she realized that Carrie had learned all this from Caroline herself. The way she held Caroline’s gaze, the irritating logic she used, the steady cadence to her voice. It was much the same way Caroline argued with William. She didn’t know how to respond. So she left Carrie, sitting on her bed, staring at the wall. She’d try talking to her again later.

  When it was time for supper, Carrie refused to come downstairs and didn’t eat a morsel from the tray that Thomas had taken to her room. The next morning, she hadn’t touched her breakfast, either.

  “You have to eat something,” Caroline said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Now it had been three days since Carrie had eaten anything. Not a bite of food, not a drop of water. Trays were taken to her room and removed hours later, untouched. When glasses of water and cups of tea were brought to her, Carrie simply turned her face away.

  “What is this?” Caroline asked. “What are you trying to prove?”

  “I’m going to marry Orme. And I expect you and Father to give us your blessing. It’s just that simple.”

  So it was a test of wills, Caroline’s versus Carrie’s. One thing Caroline knew was that her daughter had the upper hand. She was in control of the situation, and all Caroline could do was wait it out.

  After two more days, she became concerned. Carrie hadn’t even had so much as a sip of water. She was complaining of a terrible headache but still refused to eat or drink anything. On the sixth day, when Caroline saw that Carrie was running a fever, she sent for the doctor.