The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  * * *

  —

  Weeks later, Alva had just left the stables out back and was still smelling of manure and the horses she’d been grooming when her butler announced she had a visitor.

  “You’ll have to forgive my appearance,” Alva said, dusting off her hands. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Oh, come now, it’s just me.”

  “Just me” was Lady Paget. “Haven’t seen much of you around lately,” she said, wrapping her arm about Alva’s waist, the two walking into the drawing room.

  “I’m afraid to step outside my house these days,” said Alva, taking the chair next to hers. “But please, please tell me everything I’m missing out on.”

  Lady Paget laughed and dropped into a golden velvet bergère armchair, her bracelets jangling like wind chimes. “I’m sure you heard all about the Horse Ball at Sherry’s.”

  Alva had indeed. Who would have thought one of New York’s finest restaurants would ever be inhabited by horses? “And how was it?”

  “They had a trough filled with caviar, and the horses had a bottle of champagne and crystal glasses in their saddlebags,” said Lady Paget. “It started out wonderfully but”—she raised her hands—“what a disaster. They couldn’t keep up with the manure, and then a horsetail cleared a table with one swish. The ball ended early. I was home by three.”

  Alva sighed, and pulled off a straw of hay clinging to her jodhpurs.

  “Now tell me how you’re getting on,” asked Lady Paget.

  “Honestly, I’ve been better. Everyone told me this would happen,” she said, twisting the piece of hay. “Willie is still the toast of the town and I’m a pariah. Why is it always the woman who’s to blame? I’m ruined. Frankly, I think you’re very brave to have come here—I hope no one saw you arriving.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Lady Paget. “You’re not done for yet. You’re forgetting you still have a secret weapon.”

  “Oh really,” she said. “And what might that be?”

  Lady Paget cocked her head and smiled. “Your daughter.”

  “Consuelo? No, no. I’m trying to keep my children out of this whole mess. I don’t want to involve them, especially not Consuelo.”

  “But she’s lovely and it is time to find her a husband.” Lady Paget prided herself in being something of a matchmaker and claimed to have a sixth sense about these things.

  “I don’t know what Consuelo finding a husband has to do with anything. Besides, I know she’s rather fond of Winthrop Rutherfurd. Unfortunately.”

  “Winthrop Rutherfurd?” Lady Paget laughed. “Winthrop Rutherfurd won’t get you back in society. But a duke will.”

  “A duke?” Alva scrutinized Lady Paget’s impish grin. “What are you up to?”

  “Supposing I were to tell you that my friend Charles Richard John Spencer-Churchill, the ninth Duke of Marlborough, is looking for a wife.”

  Alva inched forward. “Go on.”

  “Sunny—the duke—is looking to settle down. It’s time.”

  “And you think Consuelo would be a suitable match?”

  “Let me just put it this way: He inherited the family’s palace—it’s a behemoth—and it’s in dire need of money to keep it from utter ruin. He needs a bride—a bride with money.” She tilted her head. “And you, my dear, can offer him both.”

  Alva collapsed back in her chair. “You’re asking me to sell my daughter?”

  “Oh, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Sunny is a wonderful man. Very charming. Handsome, too. He’s a far better catch than that Winthrop Rutherfurd.”

  “That’s not saying much.” Alva didn’t care for Winthrop. He was much too old for Consuelo, thirty-three to her eighteen. He had a reputation of being a fortune hunter and courting lonely socialites whose husbands ignored them. On top of that, he was a gambler, and Alva had already seen what happened to Jeremiah. She didn’t want her daughter subjected to a life like that.

  “And you know Winthrop is sterile,” said Lady Paget.

  “No.” Alva was shocked.

  “Yes.” She nodded as if that were worse than all the rest. Alva didn’t bother to ask how she knew this intimate detail. “Think of it this way,” said Lady Paget, “you’d be rescuing your daughter from a far worse fate. And honestly, it’s the only way to get you back in society’s good graces. Look at what marrying a title did for me. And, of course, marrying a duke did more for you know who—we won’t even mention her name—but it did more for her than all her banjo playing ever could. And need I remind you how enraptured we Americans are when it comes to British nobility? If Consuelo becomes engaged to the duke, there won’t be a hostess in this city who wouldn’t welcome you. My God, they’ll be tripping over themselves just to get invited to the wedding . . .”

  Lady Paget kept talking about what the duke could do for her, but Alva was more interested in what the duke would do for Consuelo. Her daughter was so young, putting all her hopes on Winthrop. Alva wanted to open Consuelo’s eyes, show her that there were other men in the world, men that were far better suited for her. Maybe the duke could turn her head; maybe she’d actually like him. At the very least, Alva could get her daughter away from Winthrop, and there always was the possibility that she could marry a title—could have the ultimate status for a woman in society. Consuelo’s future would be secured. The idea filled Alva with a sense of duty and a great deal of trepidation. Alva knew that if Consuelo married the duke, she herself would forever be in the shadow of her daughter, the Duchess of Marlborough. She knew that her daughter would forevermore be the main attraction, and not Alva. The fact that Alva was willing to give that up, something that had once been her raison d’être, was a measure of how much she loved Consuelo. What had sounded absurd just moments before now made sense.

  “How would we even go about this union?” Alva asked.

  Lady Paget raised her bejeweled hand. “You leave that to me. It just so happens that Sunny will be here in New York on holiday. I’ll arrange a dinner and, in good time, a meeting with him so you can work out all the details. But whatever you do, don’t offer a penny over $2 million. That’s more than enough to save Blenheim Palace—and your reputation.”

  * * *

  —

  The dinner with the ninth Duke of Marlborough went better than expected. He was gracious and notably impressed by Petit Chateau, especially Alva’s Baccarat crystal chandelier and platinum-paneled walls in the dining room. The duke was quite handsome. A bit too serious in the beginning, though he relaxed as the evening progressed, even attempting a joke or two.

  “I heard a good one,” he said at dinner, between the bouillon d’huîtres and the terrapin. “Tell me,” he said, “why is a dog just like a tree?”

  They all looked at one another before Alva said, “I don’t know. Why is a dog like a tree?”

  “Because they both lose their bark after they’re dead.”

  Consuelo laughed so hard that Alva was momentarily appalled by her unladylike guffaw. But then His Grace told another joke, and Alva realized this was what he did at the supper table. Consuelo would have to get used to that and cache some jokes of her own so she could contribute.

  After dinner, when they retired to the music room, Consuelo had impressed him by playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata followed by pieces by Chopin and Strauss. Alva was pleased. Consuelo and Sunny seemed to be getting on very well.

  The next day, the duke joined them for tea, and two days after that, he accompanied Alva and Consuelo to the Metropolitan Opera House for the production of Fidelio. The following week, Alva invited him to a reception and another dinner. After each new encounter, Alva would huddle with Consuelo, the two of them crowded into her bed with the coverlet pulled up past their shoulders while they compared notes: He did bring me flowers. He clearly doesn’t like America. He has such a lovely smile. He was obviously bored at
the opera. The ladies at the reception all found him charming. Night after night they did this, and Consuelo hadn’t so much as mentioned Winthrop’s name.

  Six weeks later, just two days before the duke was set to return to England, Alva met with him in the office that had once belonged to Willie. After the duke expressed his interest in marrying Consuelo, Alva took over.

  Resting her hands on the desk, fingers laced together, she said, “Shall we discuss the dowry?”

  “As you know,” said the duke, “Blenheim Palace is facing some financial challenges.” He went on to list his needs including the staff and, of course, the palace itself, which was overdue for a complete renovation.

  Alva fluttered her eyelashes, and keeping Lady Paget’s advice in mind, she started low, offering $1.5 million.

  The duke sighed. “Actually, I was hoping to do a bit better.”

  Alva contemplated her options. She didn’t want this opportunity to get away—especially since Consuelo was growing more and more attached to the idea of marriage. “I suppose I could go a little higher.”

  The duke was a tough negotiator and, in the end, the day before he set sail for England, they agreed that Alva would pay him $2.5 million, plus 50,000 shares of Vanderbilt stock and an additional $200,000 a year for the rest of his life. Now that the finances had been settled, they were just waiting for the duke to propose.

  * * *

  —

  One morning, Alva was shuffling through the mail, which had increased significantly since her association with the duke. There were invitations and notes from Mamie, Tessie and several others.

  Alva set those aside and came upon an envelope addressed to Consuelo. Clearly the handwriting was a man’s, and Alva was hoping it was from Sunny. Without a thought for her daughter’s privacy, Alva sliced the envelope open only to find a lengthy letter from Winthrop Rutherfurd, who was abroad, visiting relatives in England. As Alva continued reading, she turned queasy when she reached the part about his undying love and affection for Consuelo. Alva was confused. Consuelo said she’d ended it with him right after meeting Sunny. She seemed in favor of marrying Sunny. Had she just been pacifying Alva? Playing her this whole time? Her daughter couldn’t be that cunning, could she? And then her eyes moved to the next paragraph, and the knot in her stomach pulled even tighter. Winthrop had detailed their plans to marry. Marry! Good lord! They were eloping, one month from the day.

  The letter slipped from Alva’s hands. The panic was rising inside her, and she thought she might get sick. There was no way her daughter was going to marry Winthrop Rutherfurd. He was a laughingstock. A philanderer, a fortune hunter, a compulsive gambler. She could see the headlines now: Vanderbilt Heiress Swindled . . . The room grew hot. Alva turned clammy and nauseated. A marriage to Winthrop would be a source of ridicule and scandal, and Alva had to spare her daughter from that. Consuelo wasn’t strong enough to withstand that kind of pressure. Winthrop would break her heart. Besides, Alva had already promised the duke that Consuelo would accept his proposal.

  Alva picked up Winthrop’s letter and stuffed it in her pocket, and later that day when Consuelo asked if she had received any mail, Alva looked into her daughter’s hopeful, doe-like eyes and she lied. She lied to her the next day, too, and the day after that. By the end of the week, Alva had five of Winthrop’s letters—each filled with romantic angst and longings—locked away in her desk drawer.

  The next day Alva got hold of an outgoing letter that Consuelo had written to Winthrop. Again, casting aside all privacy—a line she’d long since crossed—she tore the letter open and felt her legs turning weak as she read more about their plans to elope. I have my dress picked out . . . I cannot wait to get away from here . . . So excited to start my life with you . . . Alva was shaking by the time she finished. She had to do something—she couldn’t sit back and watch Consuelo throw her future away. She had to save her daughter from herself.

  After an hour of fretting, her panic had escalated and could no longer be contained. She rang for the butler, asking for the key to Consuelo’s bedroom.

  It wasn’t even noon yet and Consuelo was still asleep when Alva locked her daughter’s bedroom door. Wringing her hands, Alva paced up and down the hallway. She had no idea what she was doing—it sounded absurd even to her. She was about to reach for the skeleton key in her pocket and unlock the door, put everything back the way it was. Consuelo would be none the wiser. But just then she heard the doorknob turn once, twice, and all the fear came flooding back. Consuelo jiggled the knob harder on the third try before calling out. “Boya? Boya”—she called for her maid—“can you help me? My door seems to be stuck.”

  Alva’s heart was racing, her hand sweating as she worried the brass key in her pocket. She was light-headed and dizzy. It hurt to breathe. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was having a heart attack.

  “Boya?” The knob turned more violently. “Boya!”

  Alva dropped the key back into her pocket. “It’s not stuck,” she said. “It’s locked and you’re not going anywhere until you stop this foolishness with Winthrop Rutherfurd. I know all about your plans, and I’m putting an end to them right here and now, do you understand?”

  There was a beat of silence before Consuelo began desperately pounding on the door. “I love him. I love him, and I’m going to marry him.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Do you hear me? You’re going to marry the duke.”

  “I won’t marry Sunny. I won’t do it!”

  “Then you’ll just stay in your room until you come to your senses.”

  Alva walked away just as Consuelo began pounding on the door again, demanding to be let out.

  Later that afternoon all was quiet when Alva went to check on her. “Well,” she said from outside the door, “are you ready to do as you’re told?”

  “I’m going to marry Winthrop.”

  “I’m not playing games here, Consuelo. You are not going to marry that man.”

  “Oh, yes I am. He’ll come for me.”

  “If he does, I’ll have him arrested for trespassing.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Alva sighed, resting her head against the door. “Consuelo, I’m warning you—you do not want to push me on this.”

  She heard Consuelo’s footsteps coming closer, stomping across the floor, and watched the doorknob twisting. “Let me out!”

  “You know what you have to do if you want out.” She paused for a moment. “Well? Are you going to do as you’re told?”

  Through the sound of gritted teeth—a grimaced expression she could picture in her mind—Alva heard Consuelo say, “I am going to marry Winthrop.”

  “Fine. Then you have a good night, Consuelo.” She walked away while Consuelo screamed and pounded on the door.

  Alva hardly slept that night. Twice she got up to unlock the door and then changed her mind. The next day she wrestled with herself, trying to figure out what to do. Realizing she couldn’t keep her daughter locked up forever, Alva finally went to Consuelo’s room. She found her lying in bed, eyes barely blinking as she defiantly stared at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge Alva.

  “You have no idea what you’d be getting yourself into with that man. He’s no good. He’s no good for you—I won’t let you do it. You cannot marry Winthrop.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I know that he’s too old for you, he has a gambling problem, he’ll never be able to give you children, and he’ll—”

  “What?” said Consuelo, her eyes open wide.

  What did she mean, “what?” Had she never heard this before? Alva sensed the tiniest of cracks in her daughter’s resolve. Was it possible that Alva had finally raised an argument that was getting through?

  “It’s true,” said Alva. “He’s sterile. Didn’t you wonder why he’d never taken a wife? It’s because no other woman
would have him.”

  Consuelo blinked, her eyes welling up with tears.

  This was all it would have taken? Telling her he was sterile? Why didn’t I tell her this sooner? “I know what having a family means to you. If you marry this man, you’ll never have children of your own. Never.”

  “But—that can’t be true. It just can’t be.”

  Alva reached for Consuelo’s hand, bringing it to her cheek dampened by her own tears. “I wish it weren’t true. I don’t dislike Winthrop, truly I don’t,” she lied. “But he can never give you the life you deserve. Why do you think I want you to marry Sunny instead?”

  Consuelo sniffled and let loose a cascade of tears before she folded down into her mother’s arms. “It’s not fair. Why does it have to be true? It’s not fair . . .”

  * * *

  —

  Two months later, Consuelo’s engagement to the duke was announced in newspapers across the country. The date had been set for the sixth of November, and planning the nuptials had begun for what the New York Times predicted would be the Wedding of the Century.

  So Alva had gotten her way, but her victory was bittersweet. This was her daughter—her only daughter—who was getting married, and all the fantasies Alva had about one day designing her wedding gown and selecting the items for her trousseau and the flowers for her bouquet fell flat. Alva had never seen a more indifferent bride in all her life. And everyone seemed to notice.

  Willie begged Alva to call off the wedding. “Can’t you see the girl is miserable? Don’t force her, Alva. It isn’t fair. A title isn’t worth it.”

  “So easy for you to say. You’ve never been publicly shunned. No, you took a mistress and no one slammed their door in your face. Do you realize what it’s taken for me to pry that door back open? Even just a crack?”