by Renée Rosen
In truth, it was more than just a crack. As Lady Paget had predicted, invitations to balls and luncheons, to dinner parties and teas came flooding back to Alva. Even the published details of her pending divorce—her suing for custody of the children, her anticipated settlement of at least $200,000 per year along with Marble House—no longer fazed her former critics.
Off the record, Willie had offered her Petit Chateau, but she no longer wanted it. She didn’t want anything of his other than his best friend. Oliver Belmont she did want. Badly. She would have him, too. And she didn’t care that he was a Jew. He loved her and wanted to marry her just as soon as her divorce was finalized.
When he’d first raised the subject of marriage, Alva had laughed and nearly shoved him out of bed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We each have one failed marriage behind us.”
“All the more reason why we should do it again. We already know what not to do.”
Alva propped herself up on her elbow. “You’re the last person in the world I’d marry. You’ll never be ready to settle down with anyone.”
“I am with you.”
She had been ready to make another joke, when she saw the look in his eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you see? I finally understand why I couldn’t settle down before. Nothing—no one—ever felt right. I was always looking for what’s next—who’s next—because what I had wasn’t right. This is the first time in my life that I don’t want to run. When I’m with you, I’m exactly where I want to be, where I’m meant to be. When we’re together, I’m not thinking about the past, I’m not worrying about the future. I’m not thinking about anything but you and what we have right here, right now in this very moment. And I want a lifetime of moments with you.”
That was when she realized that he had articulated how she felt, too. Exactly.
The two planned to marry the following year, and then she would be able to rest easy. She would be Oliver’s wife, her daughter would be a duchess, and Alva would have survived the ultimate taboo.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Caroline
NEW YORK, 1895
After more than two years, Caroline was out of mourning for William and Helen, and her upcoming annual ball would be her first social engagement and her first opportunity to reinstate Charlotte’s good name. In fact, her ball was going to be in Charlotte’s honor. Caroline would show everyone that, despite the rumors, despite what may have been true in the past, it was a new day now, a new era for women. She needed everyone to understand that she stood by her daughter.
This, of course, was an easier stance for her to take given Alva Vanderbilt’s upcoming divorce. Although Alva was expected to retain custody of her children, whereas poor Charlotte had lost that battle. Caroline had certainly taken that loss harder than Charlotte, which left her baffled. Charlotte’s detachment from those children was nearly impossible for her to defend, but still Caroline had to try.
She moved forward with her party planning, disgusted by how ridiculous and extravagant balls had become in recent years. It was as if jeweled favors and zoo animals could compensate for a weak hostess. Caroline’s ball would be dignified, and she would show society what it truly meant to be a New York hostess.
Two days before the big event, while she was reviewing the orchestra’s song list, Charlotte and Carrie came to her with that doleful look in their eyes.
“Mother,” said Charlotte, stepping into the sitting room, Carrie close behind. “Oh, Mother, have you heard about Mr. McAllister?”
What now? “What has he gone and done this time?” she asked, returning to her list.
“He died,” said Charlotte bluntly.
“What?” Caroline dropped the orchestra list.
“He was at the Union Club last night,” said Carrie. “It happened right in the dining room. He was having dinner by himself and suddenly collapsed at his table. They said he died instantly.”
Caroline brought a hand to her chest. For a moment she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Oh, Mother,” said Carrie. “I’m so sorry. How much more can you take?”
Caroline was stunned but composed—perhaps because she’d already been through far greater losses. But both her girls had gone glassy-eyed, refusing to outright cry, knowing that such a display would have only disappointed Caroline.
“Shall we cancel the ball?” asked Carrie, looking at her sister, who was readily nodding.
“I’ll understand if you wish to, Mother,” said Charlotte. “We’ll wait and have the ball after his funeral. Or maybe wait until spring.”
Caroline shook her head. She didn’t even have to consider it. “That won’t be necessary.” It was more important, now more than ever, that she host her ball. There was too much riding on this event—mainly, Charlotte’s reputation.
After her daughters left, Caroline sat by herself for a good long while, until the sun began to set. She hadn’t seen Ward McAllister in months, and their friendship, if she could have called it that, had been fractured by his memoir and then destroyed by the Four Hundred. She thought any affection she’d once had for him would have drained out of her long ago, but in the quiet of that room, she felt a tear in her heart.
There was a time when he’d been her only confidant and she, his Mystic Rose. He’d been the first one—even if it was because of her inheritance—to recognize that she could lead society. In a sense he’d been as much a part of her family as her husband and children. He’d been the one who crowned her queen of New York society, and together they had designed a world that served them, delighted them, empowered them.
A lump gathered in her throat as she thought about her losses, first Emily and then William and Helen, and now Ward. It made her think about what lay ahead after this world. Caroline did believe in heaven and hell, and she wondered about God’s judgment. Was he as strict as Caroline and Ward had been when it came to society and determining who was acceptable and who wasn’t? It occurred to her that by establishing the Patriarch Ball, her own annual ball and especially the Four Hundred, they had excluded many, based on their own criteria, on the randomness of birthright and bloodlines. It all seemed so insignificant now, and she realized, to her horror, that she and Ward had been playing God. And a vengeful God at that.
* * *
—
Two days after Ward McAllister died, Caroline held her annual ball as planned where she honored her disgraced daughter in a public and purposeful way. With Charlotte at her side, Caroline received her guests, the two of them seated next to each other beneath Caroline’s regal portrait.
When it was time to receive Mamie Fish, Mamie shook Charlotte’s hand and said, “I’m sure you’ll go places, my dear. And may those places be far, far away from here.” She walked away, laughter trailing behind her, thinking she was merely being clever, but Caroline found it rude, even by Mamie’s standards.
There was a time when Mamie never would have dared to say such a thing for fear of being banished from society, but it was clear now that Charlotte’s sullied reputation had diminished Caroline’s authority as well. Charlotte’s face flushed, and for the first time Caroline questioned whether her social clout was still strong enough to save her daughter’s reputation. Charlotte was on the dais, on display, and might as well have had a scarlet A on her chest.
Charlotte wanted to leave, and Caroline was about to let her go, when Alva Vanderbilt arrived. Caroline had invited Alva for a myriad of reasons, but mostly for Charlotte’s sake. At least now there were two divorced—or soon to be divorced—women at the ball. In a sense she was using Alva just as Alva had used Caroline to make a statement at her masquerade party all those years ago. It was clear by the way people stopped to greet Alva that society had not only accepted her imminent divorce, but now wholeheartedly embraced the future mother-in-law of the ninth Duke of Marlborough. Caroline’s guests even parted the wal
kway for Alva, just as they’d once done for her. She was mystified and a bit envious of Alva’s charisma.
When it was time to receive Alva, Caroline extended her hand, welcoming her.
“Mrs. Astor.” Alva smiled graciously, shaking her hand. “It’s so very good to see you again.”
“You remember my daughter, Charlotte?”
Alva took Charlotte’s hands in hers. “Why of course. Charlotte, how lovely you look, my dear.” She leaned in and said in a soft voice, “You stay strong, you hear me? Divorce is not the end, it’s a new beginning.” Then she turned to Caroline. “May I borrow your daughter for a moment?” Before Caroline answered, Alva had turned back to Charlotte. “Let’s you and I take a little stroll, shall we?”
Caroline watched Alva help Charlotte down from the dais, the sea of guests parting as the two walked along. Alva was all smiles, stopping every few feet to say hello to this one and that, gesturing toward Charlotte as if making an introduction. Alva never left Charlotte’s side, and those matrons who had just openly rejected Charlotte were now waiting their turn to speak with her. Soon it was almost as if a second receiving line had formed, people lining up to say hello to Alva. And Charlotte.
Caroline remained on the dais, still greeting her guests, but she was very much aware of how Alva’s gesture had changed the course of the evening in Charlotte’s favor. Standing next to Alva, Charlotte held her shoulders back and her head high, and the hint of that sparkle she’d lost years ago was back in her smile. It was as if the spell had been broken, a dark cloud lifted. There was a time when Caroline was the only one powerful enough to have done such a thing. But that night, her own efforts had paled in comparison to Alva Vanderbilt’s.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Society
It’s nearly dawn by the time we return home from Mrs. Astor’s ball. After our lady’s maids help us out of our gowns, return our jewels to our safes, take down our hair and braid our locks, we lie in our feather beds able to breathe deeply for the first time all day, our angry rib cages puckered and dimpled by the boning of our corsets. We take in the air, letting it fill our lungs and expand our abdomens, thinking about Alva’s triumph tonight.
It’s hard to believe this is the same Alva Vanderbilt who was cast out because of her own divorce scandal. She has clearly redeemed herself, and in the process, she’s paved the way for us, too. The only question now is, What will we do with our newfound freedom?
Choice is something we’re unaccustomed to; it’s almost too much, and at first it makes us freeze up. But another deep breath and we begin to relax, to let our minds dare to wander . . .
Penelope thinks boldly about divorcing her husband, about starting over. Ophelia wonders what it would be like to make a simple purchase without her husband’s permission. What a relief it would be to no longer produce a weekly ledger of expenses for his approval. Lydia imagines what it would be like to live the life of one of those heroines she reads about. Peggy feels that winning the vote is too lofty and instead thinks how lovely it would be to smoke a cigarette in public, or even a pipe if she so pleased, letting the aromatic tobacco swirl about her head as the brandy swirls in her snifter. We’d all love to have our own ladies’ clubs where we can go to luncheon, play poker, talk politics and gossip. We want all this and more, and we drift off to sleep now, counting possibilities like others count sheep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Caroline
The morning after her ball, Caroline awoke at her usual time, half past eight. After her maid brought in her breakfast tray along with the morning newspapers and Caroline had completed her morning toilette, Thomas, looking a bit flustered, came to speak with her.
“Is something wrong?”
“Ah, well . . .” He was stammering, and Thomas, an elegant man, never stammered. “I’m afraid there’s been some more trouble next door.”
Caroline waited, somewhat annoyed. She had been in such a fog, so lost in mourning, that she’d hardly noticed when her nephew finally opened the Waldorf Hotel. But now she was all too aware of the strange carriages pulling up in front of her house, people of all walks of life traipsing across her lawn.
Thomas cleared his throat. She sensed he was stalling.
“Well? What is it this time?”
“I regret to inform you that apparently some of the Waldorf Hotel’s patrons relieved themselves on the front lawn last night.”
She was aghast. Civilized people didn’t do such a thing.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Astor, but I thought you would want to know.” He paused to clear his throat. “And I’m afraid there’s more.”
“More?” She crossed her arms, bracing herself.
“One of the footmen discovered that another Waldorf patron—a perfect stranger—wandered in last night during the ball along with some of your guests. I’m sorry to report that he passed out in one of your guest rooms. And apparently, he misplaced his clothing along the way.”
Caroline winced. This was unacceptable. She told Thomas to have her driver bring the carriage around and dashed off to see her nephew, demanding that Waldorf shut down his hotel.
“Well, I’m not about to do that, Aunt Lina.” The two of them were in his game room. Waldorf was shooting pool, concentrating on each shot, scarcely bothering to look up when he spoke. “The hotel is extremely profitable. Besides,” he said as he made a complicated bank shot, “your old townhouse is a bit of an eyesore. You could do us all a favor and move. I do wish you would tear the old place down and make room for something worthy of this block.”
“Beware of what you wish for, Waldorf.” Though she remained calm and moved with her regular slow grace, she was fuming. She left the game room, got back into her carriage and rode off, thinking of ways to retaliate.
When she returned home, she told Thomas she was thinking of moving and turning her townhouse into a horse stable. “That would show him,” she said. “Can’t you just imagine the stench of manure infiltrating every room of Waldorf’s hotel?”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Astor, what I cannot imagine is a horse stable with your name on it.”
She smiled.
“Have you been to the Waldorf?” he asked tentatively.
“Most certainly not.” She looked at him as if to say, How dare you ask such a thing. Then she thought for a moment. “Why? Have you?”
He shrugged apologetically. “Only once. It’s quite nice but I think you could do better.”
“Better how?”
“Well, if Mr. Waldorf Astor wishes to see something more laudable next to his hotel, I say give it to him.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Build another hotel. A bigger hotel. A better one.” He smiled and tweaked his mustache.
“Thomas!” Caroline’s eyes flashed wide. “You never cease to amaze me.”
The next day Caroline enlisted the help of Jack, and together they engaged the services of Richard Morris Hunt to build a new home at Sixty-Fifth Street and Fifth Avenue that Caroline would share with her son and his family.
And starting in the spring, they would demolish her townhouse and begin building a new hotel at Thirty-Fourth Street, right next door to the Waldorf. Caroline’s hotel would be larger, seventeen stories compared to Waldorf’s thirteen. It would have a bigger, grander ballroom large enough for 1,600 guests, and a rooftop garden, too. Richard Hunt told her it would take two years to complete but Caroline didn’t care, as long as its every detail was designed to upstage and dwarf the Waldorf. She was going to name it the Astoria Hotel.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Alva
“Take them,” Alva said to Consuelo the day before her wedding, closing her daughter’s hands about the strand of pearls.
“But Mamma, not these, too. These were the first jewels Father ever gave you.”
Alva had already given Consuelo all the ot
her jewelry from Willie. Those pearls, once belonging to Catherine the Great, were the last of it.
“I can’t accept these,” Consuelo said, handing them back to Alva.
“Of course you can. You’ll need those pearls after you’re married. Don’t forget, you’re going to be a duchess.”
“A duchess.” She said it as if the word weighed fifty pounds.
“Ah, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, Mamma. I’m just—well, I’m just having second thoughts about everything.”
“Perfectly normal,” she said rather dismissively, busying herself with the pearls.
“But I can’t stop thinking about Winthrop—I hurt him so.”
Alva froze in place.
“And, well . . . I still love him, Mamma. I do.”
Alva dropped the pearls.
“I know we couldn’t have children of our own,” said Consuelo, “but there’s all those orphanages. So many children without homes . . .”
“Adoption?”
“I know it’s not the same but—”
“Your children will have Vanderbilt blood, and that’s all there is to it.”
Consuelo went silent for a moment, summoning the courage to say, “But you divorced Father because you didn’t love him anymore.”
Alva toyed with a pair of emerald earrings. There was gnawing in the pit of her stomach. All this had run in the back of her mind, that nagging truth that she was a hypocrite. Up until now she’d found ways to justify it: Consuelo didn’t understand. She was young, only eighteen. She didn’t know what real love was . . .
“I don’t love Sunny,” said Consuelo. “And I know he doesn’t love me.”
Alva turned very still and set the earrings back down. It finally hit her. The evidence had been mounting even as she tried ignoring the signs, pretending not to see the sadness in her daughter’s eyes. The criticisms had been coming from Willie, from his family, her sisters—even from Oliver. For weeks and months, everyone had been begging her to call it off. And now Alva could no longer escape the fact that no one—other than herself—wanted this wedding. She had orchestrated this whole union against everyone’s wills. Yes, the groom wanted the money, but any bride with the right financing could have become the duchess. This was a business transaction, not a marriage.