The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  “Happy at what cost?” Caroline asked, thinking of her grandchildren. Charlotte had three children, ages four to twelve. “Think of those who will suffer over your pursuit of this selfish love.”

  “Charlie, I’m not going to say this again. This affair with Borrowe will come to an end, and it will come to an end right this minute.”

  Charlotte looked at her father, and in an act of sheer defiance, she said, “I’ll end my affair, Father, if you’ll end yours.”

  “That’s it.” William threw his arms up, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “You shan’t receive another penny from me. Do you hear me? Not one penny.”

  “I don’t care. Go ahead, disinherit me.”

  “Oh, you don’t mean that,” Caroline said. She couldn’t possibly mean that. The threat of losing her inheritance had always been their ultimate point of leverage. Caroline couldn’t think of anything to counter with as Charlotte stormed out of the library. Watching her leave, Caroline felt another part of her soul break away. The money—Charlotte’s inheritance—was the last tether they had to her. Caroline simply couldn’t bear the thought of losing another daughter, and all because of a man.

  One week later, Caroline opened her newspaper and there it was: Mrs. Astor Paid Mr. J. Coleman Drayton $7000 to Halt Divorce Proceedings. Caroline was horrified. She reached for the New York Sun only to see Astor Girl Disowned Over Illicit Affair.

  * * *

  —

  The following day, after William escaped it all and had left for the Everglades, Coleman came to see Caroline. As soon as Thomas showed him into her sitting room, she could tell that something new had developed.

  “That good-for-nothing coward, Borrowe, left town,” he said, handing her a newspaper he’d been angrily rolling and twisting into a cylinder.

  She let the paper flop open and saw another headline: Cowardly Borrowe Backs Out of Duel and Flees for Europe.

  “He’s gone abroad,” said Coleman. “They say he’s gone to Europe just to dodge my challenge to a duel.”

  Caroline couldn’t say she was surprised by this and wondered why Coleman was. His vigorous pacing was making her anxious. “Would you like some tea?”

  “And that’s not the half of it,” said Coleman, ignoring her.

  “Why don’t you have a seat? Let me ask Thomas to bring you some tea. Or perhaps coffee?”

  But Coleman continued to babble, explaining that he’d attended a Giants game at the Polo Grounds earlier that day, and when he’d returned home Charlotte was gone.

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “Gone—gone! She’s run away.”

  “Run away?” Caroline nearly dropped her teacup.

  “She’s gone. She’s left me.” He shook his head as if he himself could not believe it. “And she’s left her children, too.”

  This time Caroline used both hands to set her cup aside. It was impossible to fathom. Her daughter wouldn’t do that—a wife and mother simply did not do such a thing. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “I know my daughter isn’t perfect, but Charlotte would never leave you and her children. This is beyond—”

  “I tell you she’s gone to chase after her lover, that coward.”

  “No, no, you must be mistaken. Perhaps she’s gone to Newport early.” Yes, that was it. “Charlotte’s always enjoyed the peace and quiet up—”

  “I have proof.” He grimly reached inside his pocket and handed Caroline a letter.

  Caroline looked at it, which was really more of a note. Just a few words in her daughter’s hand:

  Dear Coleman,

  I’ve gone to find Hallett. Do not follow me.

  Charlotte

  “As if that weren’t enough—”

  “Oh, dear lord, there’s more?” Caroline felt her heart seize up.

  “You might want to take a look at today’s edition of the New York Sun.”

  Caroline’s stomach dropped as she clutched Charlotte’s note. No more press. Please, let there be nothing more in the press.

  “I’ve been alerted that the Sun obtained Charlotte’s love letters—”

  “Love letters?”

  “Apparently, Hallett Borrowe’s valet found love letters that Charlotte wrote to Borrowe, and he sold them to the New York Sun. They’ve already published one of them in today’s paper.” He winced. “It’s a good thing Charlotte’s run off. What she’s written to that philanderer is disgusting. Disgraceful. No lady of her upbringing should ever embrace such salacious thoughts.”

  Caroline wasn’t a fainter, but the last thing she remembered before the world went blank was Charlotte’s note to Coleman slipping from her fingers.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Society

  Every newspaper in town has published Charlotte Astor Drayton’s love letters—word for titillating word. The intimacies described make us blush as we read them again and again. How Charlotte aches for the feel of him, how she craves the taste of him, how he makes her body do and feel things she didn’t know were possible. She claims her entire body purrs for hours after he’s left her bed.

  Purrs? Our bodies most definitely do not purr. In fact, we didn’t know our bodies could purr. We are on tenterhooks to see what happens next in The Astor Girl Scandal. Lydia gobbles it up just like she would one of her romance novels. To be honest, we all do, though admittedly, we have no idea what Charlotte Astor Drayton is referring to—this aching for the feel of a man? Craving his taste?

  We don’t dare speak of the specifics, oh heavens no, but our curiosities are working overtime. It is beginning to dawn on us that we are missing out on something. That there is more to the marital act than we’ve been led to believe.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Alva

  While all of New York was still gossiping about the Astor girl’s love letters, Alva’s dearest friend, Duchy, who by now was a genuine duchess—the Duchess of Manchester—came for a visit with her son and twin girls. Her husband, George Victor Drogo Montagu, the eighth Duke of Manchester, had recently passed away unexpectedly. He was only thirty-nine and was now succeeded by his fifteen-year-old heir.

  Duchy was understandably down and irritable, snapping at her girls to sit up straight, stop fidgeting. She’d swatted her son’s hand away from his mouth each time he habitually chewed his cuticles. She’d been especially curt with Willie, and Alva noticed how she pulled away when he’d first greeted her with a familiar kiss on her cheek. Normally the two of them would stay up half the night, drinking whiskey, smoking cigars and singing while she played the banjo. But not this visit. Her banjo had stayed in its case even after Alva had begged her to play a song or two for everyone. Duchy had only shaken her head and said, “Maybe later.”

  On the last morning of her stay, Duchy turned to Alva and said, “I didn’t love him, you know.” The two were having their coffees when she declared this, out of the blue. “His Grace was graceless,” she said with a sad laugh. “It probably sounds horrible to say this—and you mustn’t repeat it—but I’m not grieving his death. Really, I’m not. Sometimes I think I’m a little relieved.”

  Alva’s eyes opened wider. “That is horrible and luckily for you, I won’t repeat it.”

  “I’ve taken lovers—you should know that, too,” she said, puckering her lips in a way that showed every line around her mouth.

  “I suspected as much,” said Alva.

  “Everyone’s making such a big fuss over the Astor girl. Honestly, don’t they realize that this sort of thing happens every day?”

  “Not with the Grande Dame’s daughter it doesn’t,” Alva said, reaching for her coffee cup. She was about to take a sip when she saw a storm gathering in her friend’s face, the eyelids hooded, her jaw clenched. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Duchy took a lingering moment before setting her coffee aside. “I’m going to tell you
something. And I want you to stay calm.”

  Alva’s heart pumped a beat faster. Her thoughts were racing—Is Duchy sick? Is it one of the children?

  Duchy reached for Alva’s hand, which made whatever she was about to say seem even worse. “I didn’t want you to hear about it from anyone else.”

  “Good God, what is it?”

  “It’s about Willie.” She paused. “Alva, he’s been seeing another woman.”

  A tiny tremor rippled through Alva. She tried to pull her hand away, but Duchy held it even tighter in place.

  “She lives in Paris.”

  The tremor intensified. Willie had just returned from Paris the month before. He’d said he’d been sailing.

  “Her name is Nellie Neustratter.”

  Alva freed her hand from Duchy’s. She was shaking now and gripped the arm of her chair.

  “He’s got her set up in a home in Paris. A magnificent château. I hear it’s huge. And she’s got servants. The whole bit.”

  Alva stood up and went to the window, pressing her forehead against the glass. She had suspected other women, sometimes swore she smelled perfume on him. He’d always denied it and she’d managed to brush it aside. But this was different. A mistress. With a home in Paris. Servants and God knows what else. This explained why Duchy had been so cold to Willie.

  “And everyone knows?” asked Alva, the humiliation beginning to dawn on her.

  “Enough people know.”

  Alva thumped her forehead on the windowpane. She turned and faced Duchy. “How long have you known?”

  Duchy shrugged, cocked her head to the side. “He’s a rat. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “And you waited until now, until your last day, to tell me?”

  “I wanted to be long gone by the time you confronted him.”

  “And what makes you so sure I’ll confront him? Most women just look the other way. They don’t say a word about this sort of thing.”

  “But you’re not like most women, Alva.”

  * * *

  —

  Duchy was barely out the door when Alva did confront Willie. She found him in his library, on a rolling ladder, getting a novel off a top shelf. She waited until he climbed down, and grabbed the book, ripping it from his hands.

  “Hey,” he said with a start, giving her an indignant look. “I was—”

  “Nellie Neustratter,” she said, casting the book aside. It clattered, sounding like it might have broken something. She kept her eyes on him, watching his face turn ashen.

  “Alva, I—I—”

  “Don’t try denying it.”

  He hung his head, leaning up against a bookcase for support.

  “Well?”

  There was a long silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “How long has it been going on?”

  He shook his head, ran his foot over the carpet and mumbled again, “I don’t know—a year, maybe longer.”

  Alva thought she might be sick on the spot. “And you love her?”

  He looked up, as if shocked, as if her question were absurd. “No. No, I don’t love her. I love you.”

  Alva laughed bitterly. “You buy her a house and servants—and that’s not love?”

  “That’s just money, Alva. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “How can you possibly expect me to believe that?”

  “Alva, c’mon now.” He stepped forward and reached for her shoulders. “I do love you. I do.”

  “Then why?”

  His eyes glassed up. “You kept pushing me away. You’ve made everything so hard. I felt like I was always letting you down. I couldn’t build you a big enough house or buy a big enough yacht. I couldn’t please you no matter how I tried. And she—well, Nellie was just someone to turn to. But that’s all. I swear—I never once stopped loving you.”

  They stayed in the library and talked until the light outside the window had changed, the setting sun casting longer and longer shadows across the room. Alva knew she was difficult, demanding, but she hated playing the fool.

  They continued to talk, their voices sometimes spiking into shouting matches, sometimes reduced to whispers. It was late. They were exhausted. They found themselves sitting in the dark. The thought of her husband kissing another woman, touching another woman, brought on waves of nausea. She’d once loved this man with everything she had. And because of this Nellie Neustratter, she didn’t know if she could ever feel that way about him again.

  She’d made a promise before God to love, honor and obey, and that wasn’t a promise she could easily forsake. But how could she tolerate this? “I want you out—I want you out of this house and out of my life. I’m getting a lawyer. I’m getting a divorce—”

  “Now, Alva. Be reasonable. I don’t want to lose you,” he said, grabbing hold of her hands. “I’ll end it with her—get rid of that house—of everything. I promise I’ll never go to Paris again without you.”

  Alva didn’t know of a single wife who had ever divorced her husband. A divorce. A public scandal. Could she do it? She was a proud woman but realized her pride would only make matters worse. It was bad enough that half of Paris was talking about her husband’s affair; soon news of it would find its way to the States and probably into the press. The society pages loved writing about wealthy men and their mistresses. That would be bad enough. But divorce—well, divorce, especially one that she instigated—was a far greater scandal.

  In the end, Alva’s decision to stay with Willie was more about saving face than saving her marriage.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Caroline

  NEWPORT AND LONDON

  The hammering outside her window woke Caroline with a start. She had dozed off in the solarium and, for a moment, thought she was back in Manhattan. But it was July now and she was at Beechwood, her cottage in Newport, only to find herself surrounded by more construction. Thanks to Alva Vanderbilt’s new cottage going up, the dust and noise had followed Caroline from the city to Rhode Island.

  Caroline did her best to ignore the noise, sipping the tea that Thomas had just brought her while she leafed through her engagement book. She turned to a page and drew a diagonal line through the four previous lines and tallied them up: 145. It had been 145 days since Charlotte disappeared. In some ways she found it hard to believe it had been that long—the trauma still stinging fresh as a paper cut. In other ways it seemed as though Charlotte had been gone forever, time stretching out in slow motion, dragged down with fits of worry.

  She was just thankful that the gossip surrounding her daughter’s affair had all but vanished along with her. Society was fickle, and after Charlotte’s love letters had been published, a new scandal emerged. Now everyone was chattering about Mr. Gordon Bennett, who had arrived at a party so inebriated that he mistook the fireplace for a latrine, thereby extinguishing the roaring flames while guests looked on, horrified. And of course, there had also been all that talk about Willie Vanderbilt and his mistress, Nellie Neustratter.

  Shortly after Charlotte had left town, Caroline and William met with Coleman, offering him $20,000 this time not to file for divorce, lest another scandal turn up in the newspapers. He had reluctantly agreed. “But only for the sake of my children.”

  Caroline pressed her fingertips to her temples. Now if only someone knew where Borrowe had gone, they could find Charlotte and bring her home. He was somewhere in Europe—that was all they knew. Could have been France or England. Possibly Italy. It was impossible for Caroline to sit back and do nothing. She had already canceled her trip to Paris but was reconsidering it. Maybe she could go and look for her? Although, if the Pinkerton detective couldn’t locate Charlotte, what chance did she have of finding her?

  Caroline closed her engagement book and chucked it aside. She missed Charlotte but she was angry with her, too. How
could she have done this to her family and especially to her children? But still, Charlotte was her daughter, and there was no amount of wrongdoing that would ever change that. Caroline had always thought there was no greater force on earth than a mother’s love. She’d experienced it, going days without sleep when her children were sick, never leaving their bedside, finding energy for one more bedtime story, patience for one more tantrum. How was it that Charlotte didn’t feel that bond with her own children? How could she bear being away from them? And how could it possibly be that Caroline now had six motherless grandchildren? Each time she thought about those poor children, she nearly broke in two.

  A loud banging started up next door, assaulting Caroline’s sensibilities. While Bellevue Avenue was the most fashionable street in Newport, Caroline deeply resented that Alva had felt the need to build right next door to her. The disruption was atrocious, the clangor and dust relentless. Thomas had already informed her that a slab of the Vanderbilts’ marble had landed in her rosebushes.

  Caroline had no doubt that her rival’s cottage would be extraordinary, and there was no escaping the anticipation mounting around Newport. Even at Bailey’s Beach people were talking about Alva’s new cottage and the ball she was going to throw upon its completion that August. Normally Caroline would have hosted her clambake in August, but given everything with Charlotte, not to mention Ward McAllister, she couldn’t bring herself to do it this year.

  Thomas entered the room just then with the day’s delivery of calling cards and mail. The first envelope she reached for was from Ward McAllister, which she set aside, unopened, along with his previous letters. Honestly, it didn’t matter if she answered him or not, because the man continued to appear on Caroline’s doorstep even after she’d instructed Thomas to turn him away. Maybe if Ward backed off, she would have found it in her heart to forgive him, but his constant pestering and begging had made him a pathetic, groveling annoyance. They both knew she was the only one with enough clout to do it, but restoring Ward McAllister in society’s good graces was not her responsibility.