The Social Graces

by Renée Rosen

  When Caroline and Alva returned to the main room, she saw that the atmosphere had further deteriorated. Ladies who knew better were taking turns dancing with the hairy little prince while the men stood around clapping, cheering, clanking their glasses of wine and champagne. When the chimp escaped the clutches of Wilhelmina Browning, half the party took chase after him, sending china and chairs crashing to the floor.

  Caroline knew then that she’d stayed at the ball too long. While she adored Harry Lehr, she was too old and couldn’t keep up with him. She wanted no part of this tomfoolery and realized just how much she missed society as she knew it. And Thomas. She missed him and wished more than anything that she were back home, in her sitting room listening to him read to her.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Alva

  NEW YORK, 1897

  It had snowed for three days, and on Wednesday, the tenth of February, 1897, the storm let up but the temperatures had plummeted. As Alva and Oliver approached the Waldorf Hotel, where the Bradley Martin Ball was being held, Alva glanced out the back window of her carriage at a city blanketed in glistening white, sparkling in the moonlight. It was so cold that even her gloved hands inside her mink muff were stiff and chilled. Fifth Avenue was backed up with carriages, and Alva was surprised to see the street lined with men and women, standing knee-deep in snow, braving the bitter temperatures in threadbare coats and woolen hats. All of them protestors—members of the Populist Party—carrying signs: THE MOST GOOD FOR THE MOST PEOPLE. JUSTICE IS MODERATION. ROBBER BARONS GO HOME. Policemen were trying to contain them. The crowd was angry, shouting, chanting, “Shame on you,” as they threw snowballs and bottles at the elegant broughams pulling up to the hotel.

  At one point, Alva made eye contact with a woman standing on the curb. Eyes sunken, lips chapped and quivering from the cold, she held a sign, ROBBER BARONS ARE GLUTTONS, and raised an angry fist at Alva that sliced through her like a blade. She was suddenly very aware that her Duchess of Devonshire gown had cost $25,000 and that Oliver’s suit of arms, with its gold inlays, had cost $10,000. He’d been complaining how uncomfortable it was since they’d left their home and even had to temporarily remove his pauldrons, faulds and gauntlets just so he could sit in the carriage.

  After recently getting such harsh criticism in the news about the ball’s extravagance, Alva and others had opted to employ local dressmakers rather than going to Europe as a means of helping the workers in town. But clearly the protestors hadn’t seen it that way, and what would they think if they knew that neither Alva nor Oliver would ever wear these costumes again?

  The woman outside shook her fist again, and Alva had to look away, her pulse jumping, her heartbeat echoing inside her ears. Something hit the side of their brougham, and Alva jumped, reaching for Oliver. She was terrified as a pair of footmen—dressed in full sixteenth-century livery, powdered wigs and all—cut through the chaos and ushered them inside the Waldorf, shielding them from the flying debris with bumbershoots.

  Alva was not able to shake the protestors as she entered the hotel, taking in all the lavish decorations and costumes. It seemed like such a shameful display. She was flooded with guilt as another footman escorted them to the second floor. There Alva found a series of private dressing rooms along with a lady’s maid waiting to assist the guests with their costumes and hair, should either have been disturbed during the journey to the hotel. There was a time when she would have given anything to be invited to a ball like this, but just then, seated before the vanity, she found it hard to look at herself in the mirror.

  Part of her felt as though she belonged outside with the demonstrators. When she thought back now on Petit Chateau and Marble House, on all her balls and parties, all the clothing and jewelry, she had to admit that Julia had been right. None of it had made her happy. She’d once been as hungry as those people on the street.

  Despite Alva’s privileged upbringing, she’d been no better off than any of them, and yet, she’d married money, she’d used Willie’s wealth to elevate herself, and for what? Once upon a time she’d done it for her mother and then for her children, but any worthwhile sense of purpose had fallen by the wayside long ago. Advancing in society had become a game, a competition with Mrs. Astor, and the challenger in Alva had refused to lose.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Caroline

  Caroline hadn’t wanted to go to the Bradley Martin Ball. She’d been appalled by recent balls, especially Mamie’s chimpanzee ball, and wasn’t interested in any more shenanigans. Plus, she was still annoyed that the Martins had chosen the Waldorf over the Astoria Hotel for the location of their ball.

  The two hotels, butted up next door to each other, were in constant competition, vying for the same pool of patrons and social events. When Caroline learned that the Martins had selected the Waldorf over the Astoria, she’d been dreadfully disappointed and disgusted by Waldorf’s gloating.

  She said she wasn’t going to the ball, but then Harry offered to escort her, and much as she hated to admit it, Caroline still found Harry Lehr captivating. Besides, the Bradley Martin Ball had promised to be a good old-fashioned masquerade ball. Prior to the Vanderbilt ball nearly fifteen years before, Caroline would have found such a thing gimmicky and outrageous. But now, in lieu of the animal balls, a costume ball seemed quite tame and dignified to her.

  On the night of the ball, Caroline wore a full-length mink overtop of her Marie Antoinette costume. Wanting to look especially lovely for Harry, she had gone a bit overboard with her gown, even by her own standards. Her dress was heavily weighted down with diamonds, and after reading in the newspaper that Cornelia Martin’s Mary, Queen of Scots gown had cost $30,000, Caroline realized she had outspent the hostess by two. But the look on Harry Lehr’s face when he arrived at her home and saw her—that wide-eyed look of admiration and enchantment—told her it had been worth every penny.

  Of course she thought Harry was dazzling as ever that night, dressed as George Washington with a white powdered wig beneath his three-pointed hat. His waistcoat was fully embroidered; his sword peeked out from the bottom of his beaver coat. She had refused another ride in that mechanical contraption of his, and so their horse-drawn carriage proceeded toward the Waldorf Hotel.

  On the way, Harry told her everything he’d gleaned about the ball. “They sent out 1,000 invitations, and you won’t believe this—every couple will have their own private footman. And”—he leaned in conspiratorially, so close that she could smell his wonderfully aromatic shaving soap—“I have it on good authority that Bradley Martin has imported 4,000 bottles of Moët et Chandon. Each guest will have two bottles just to themselves. Can you imagine what that must have cost . . .”

  Coming from Harry, this didn’t seem like gossip, and he held her spellbound and oblivious to the biting cold, immune to the many changes in her old neighborhood. Her attention was so fixated on Harry that she was only vaguely aware of the crowds that had congregated along the snow-covered sidewalks.

  Once inside the Waldorf’s lobby, Caroline felt as though she had entered the Palace of Versailles. Everywhere she looked she saw women dressed as queens and princesses, the men as kings and dukes and former presidents. It was as if everyone had stepped out of the pages of history.

  Normally, Caroline stood with the hostess as she received her guests—a symbol of society’s approval—but given the outrageous balls and dinner parties recently held, Caroline had declined the honor, for fear she would have been endorsing another fiasco. But that didn’t appear to be the case at the Bradley Martin Ball. It was such a regal display, she was delighted and felt as if she were back in the arms of the society she’d known and trusted. After she and Harry Lehr were received by Cornelia Martin, they mingled among the other guests.

  Harry stayed close by her side, and at first all was fine, the two of them making polite conversation with the various other guests. But by one in the morning, Caroline began to tire
. Her bunions were acting up and her lower back ached from the weight of her gown, so she took refuge in a Louis XV chair that had been brought into the hotel as part of the decorations. Glancing about, admiring all the roses and floral arrangements, she spotted Jack, looking slender and fit in his Henry IV costume. Carrie was there as well, dressed as Elizabeth of York, and her husband, Orme, was Henry VII. Despite all the drama that had preceded their wedding, her daughter was happily married. They were talking with John Morgan, whom Caroline supposed was dressed as the Duke of Guise, but she couldn’t be sure. She recognized the architect Stanford White as one of the many court jesters, prancing about.

  Though she never thought she’d live to see the day, Caroline was beginning to accept that the distinctions between the Knickerbockers and the nouveau riche had all but vanished; the two sides had practically become one. Together, they represented the upper crust, high society—whatever they were called these days. It made her nostalgic, which always made her think about Ward McAllister.

  Other than her assigned footman, who had brought her a fresh glass of champagne, no one seemed to notice Caroline sitting off to the side, which was disturbingly odd. She was unaccustomed to being left unattended at a ball, even for a moment. She had assumed that people would come over, say their hellos, relishing an opportunity to speak with Caroline outside of a receiving line. She sipped her champagne, waiting, but everyone seemed caught up in conversations of their own. She opened her fan, moving it back and forth in slow, easy sweeps, perking up when she saw Penelope Easton coming her way. Caroline was about to say hello but Penelope walked right past her, joining a group of other women standing a few feet away. Caroline was embarrassed by her presumption. Puss Strong and Lady Paget—one dressed as Katherine of Aragon, the other as Anne Boleyn—were just across the way, and Caroline surprised herself by doing something she rarely did—she initiated the first gesture, a smile. A smile from Mrs. Astor was akin to being anointed, something that other women would have cherished and later boasted about to their friends. But Caroline was dumbfounded when they offered only a quick hello and drifted by. Was it possible that people hadn’t recognized Caroline in her costume? Nonsense, they had to have known it was her.

  What is happening here? She was invisible, and the longer she sat there by herself, the more distance she was able to put between herself and the scene playing out before her. The fact that no one was watching her, scrutinizing her every move, gave her an opportunity to relax and see society from a clear vantage point.

  For once she got to be the spectator rather than the spectacle. She found it all quite liberating and amusing—oh so amusing! She was positively tickled by all the pageantry, the frivolity. And in her newfound anonymity, she would have loved to get up to join in on the fun if only she could. The weight of her many diamonds and the gold sewn into her gown had anchored her into the chair, and she knew she would need help getting up when they called for supper.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Alva

  After Alva and Oliver were announced at the Bradley Martin Ball and received by their hostess, they entered the grand ballroom as the orchestra played Hungarian court music. The floor was practically covered in rose petals, the crimson juice seeping into the carpets and marble as people trampled over them.

  Alva was still thinking about the protestors outside when she overheard a group of women discussing the divine supper that awaited them: chaud-froid de pluviers, filet de boeuf jardinière, canard, terrine de foie gras, galantine à la Victoria, mayonnaise de volaille. Twenty-eight courses in all. Who could possibly eat that much? What about the people standing out in the cold who could barely afford to put food on their tables? She felt horrid being inside that glamorous hotel, watching people frolicking about with more money on their backs than those protestors made in a year or more. It wasn’t right. Nor was it right that Oliver was handed a Figurado cigar wrapped in a $100 bill and that Alva was presented with a diamond bracelet as a party favor. She tucked it inside her pocket, thinking she would give it to one of the women outside later when she left. Maybe they could sell it or exchange it for food or warm clothing.

  Even before she saw her, Alva heard Mamie Fish’s cackle. “Oh, forgive me,” said Mamie, holding up her gilded lorgnette, scrutinizing one of the many Madame Pompadours there that night. “I thought you were someone else. I don’t wish to speak with you at all.” There was more cackling as Mamie walked on, heading in Alva’s direction. Alva turned to avoid her, her eyes landing instead on Mrs. Astor, sitting off to the side, all alone.

  Alva hadn’t seen her since Mamie’s ball for the furry little Prince Del Drago. It was shocking and a bit heartbreaking to see the Grande Dame sitting by herself, so Alva excused herself and went over to say hello.

  Mrs. Astor lit up at the sight of Alva, gesturing for her to sit in the Louis XV armchair beside her as she held out a frail hand. “Would you like a champagne?” Caroline asked, signaling her assigned footman as if he truly were her personal servant.

  “Are you enjoying the ball?” Alva asked moments later, sipping her Moët et Chandon.

  “I’d enjoy it much more if it were held next door at the Astoria.”

  Alva smiled. “Well, at least there’s not an elephant or chimp in sight.”

  Caroline looked at her for a moment before offering a slight smile and an arched eyebrow. “You’re rather funny. I had no idea.”

  Alva laughed. “And I had no idea you knew how to smile.”

  “Shhh”—she scowled playfully—“don’t tell anyone.”

  At that they both laughed.

  “Oh, Alva, if only I were twenty years younger.”

  Alva? Mrs. Astor had never called her by her first name before.

  “Take care of your feet—wear more sensible shoes,” she said, pointing to Alva’s heels. “That’s something no one ever told me when I was your age.”

  Alva nodded and smiled. “I’ll remember that.”

  Caroline took another sip of champagne. “I never understood what Emily saw in you, you know.”

  “Oh yes, I was well aware of that,” Alva said, much more charmed than offended by Mrs. Astor’s candor. “And now?” asked Alva. “Have I changed your opinion of me?”

  “What do you think?”

  Mrs. Astor wouldn’t say it. She didn’t have to. Alva had already detected an infinitesimal wink.

  The tinny sound of the dinner bell rang, signifying that it was time to move into the grand dining room. Alva rose from her chair and extended her hand to Mrs. Astor. Normally a lady waited for a gentleman to accompany her into the dining room, but, in an unprecedented move, after Alva helped Mrs. Astor to her feet, Mrs. Astor placed her gloved hand on Alva’s arm, and the two women escorted each other into the dining hall and took their places at the head table.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Caroline

  NEW YORK, 1905

  Caroline awoke with her usual aches and pains, but on this morning, something else was off. She wasn’t feeling right. For a moment she thought she was at Beechwood in Newport and then remembered she was at her new home on Fifth Avenue. A beautiful mansion that she now shared with her son, Jack, and his family. She looked around her bedroom, wondering why everything seemed hazy, gauzy, more dreamlike than real.

  Unfortunately, this confusion was nothing new. Ever since she’d taken that fall, stumbling down her marble staircase, she’d felt a fog crowding in around her. It was Thomas who had found her that day, out cold at the foot of the stairs. He’d called for the doctor, and when she finally came to, she didn’t remember tripping, but her hands and gown were covered in blood. Her head was pounding, searing pain shooting from her skull down her spine each time she moved. They’d all said she could have broken her neck, but she hadn’t suffered even a single sprain or fractured bone, only a concussion that had left her nauseated and exhausted, her body craving sleep. It had taken h
er weeks to recover, and at times she questioned if she’d ever made a full recovery.

  While still in bed, she reached for the pull and rang for Thomas, anticipating her busy day ahead. There was so much left to do before her ball that evening. She would have to meet with her social secretary and Thomas so they could finalize the menu and confirm the flower arrangements, the orchestra and party favors. She was ticking off items in her head when the door opened and William stepped into her bedroom, carrying her breakfast tray.

  “What are you doing? Where’s Hade?”

  “I’m right here, Mrs. Astor. I’ve brought you tea and toast.” He set the tray down before her.

  She looked at him again, frustrated and embarrassed by her blunder. Of course this was Thomas. William was dead. “Did you remember to notify the orchestra?” she asked quickly, hoping to deflect her error.

  Thomas dragged a hand over his mouth, letting his fingers rest on his chin. He wasn’t looking at her.

  “Well? You did schedule them, didn’t you? They’ll need to arrive here no later than nine o’clock.”

  Thomas nodded, and when he did finally look up, she saw the hesitation in his eyes. Lately, he had been less than agreeable. She would have to have a word with him about his impertinence.

  After he excused himself, Caroline felt the haziness beginning to clear. The confusion tended to come and go, but she couldn’t distinguish which was which anymore. Before dismissing him, she had asked Thomas for her mail and the morning papers. Lately she had noticed a steady decline in the number of calling cards she received each day. She told herself it was because of the press and the brouhaha over the Bradley Martin Ball last season. No, wait—the Bradley Martin Ball was ages ago, wasn’t it?