“Tell me,” William interrupted, “how’s the general doing?”
“The general?” Van Alen’s eyes flashed so wide his monocle nearly slipped.
“Yes, yes,” said William. “Your father, the general. How is he?”
William despised General Van Alen.
“My father’s doing very well.” Van Alen tucked a couple of fingers inside his collar to loosen it as he took another long pull. Caroline observed that his whiskey appeared to be going down more smoothly now. “And I should make you aware that I’ll be inheriting a good sum of money. Upwards of one million, plus—” Van Alen stopped, as if he’d lost his train of thought. He pressed his glass, sweating with condensation, against his forehead. “It’s suddenly rather balmy in here, isn’t it?”
“Balmy?” William turned down his lower lip. “No, I don’t find it balmy at all. I’m actually quite comfortable. Dear?”—he turned to Caroline—“are you finding it balmy?”
Van Alen removed his gloves, using them to pat the perspiration from his brow. “I’m s-s-suddenly verry warm.”
“Perhaps we should table this conversation,” suggested William. “You seem to be in the cups at the moment.”
“Nooo, no, ssssir, not at all,” he slurred just before coming out with it: “By golly, it’s love. Forsooth there’s no one I love more than your daughter, sssssir, and I’ve come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“I beg your pardon.” William leaned forward, hand to ear. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”
“I s-said, sir, that I’ve come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
William sat back, cracking a sly smile. “I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”
“Nooo, noo, noooo.” Van Alen shook his head. “What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant, and not only can you not have my hand in marriage, but you cannot have my daughter’s, either.”
“But, good sir, I—”
“You, good sir, are an ass, or as you might put it, an arse. I don’t care about you inheriting your father’s millions. The Astors and the Van Alens shall not mix. I will never let my daughter marry into your moneygrubbing family.” William called for the butler. “Hade? Hade, get him out of here.”
Van Alen mumbled something as Hade got him to his feet and escorted him out. “Well now”—William dusted off his hands triumphantly—“that was jolly grand fun.”
“Good show, ole chap,” Caroline quipped. “But your work here isn’t done yet. Supper is about to be served. And you will be joining us.”
* * *
—
The orchestra continued to play as the guests took their seats. The candles on each table were lit as the sun began to set, flickering in the breeze, illuminating the yard.
Caroline’s family, along with Ward McAllister, were seated at the head table. She was aware of her mother watching her, just as she was watching her own children. Her daughters were lovely, with William’s beautiful eyes. The two oldest girls, Emily and Helen, were just a year apart and looked so much alike—the same dark hair, dramatic dark eyes, cherub-like faces—they were often mistaken for twins. Carrie, her youngest daughter, had worn her light brown hair pinned up that night, like her older sisters did, accentuating her long neck. It was the first time she’d styled her hair that way, and Caroline felt a tinge of sadness to see her growing up so fast.
There were several side conversations taking place all at once, and Caroline found herself dipping in and out of them, catching only fragments here and there: her husband laughing conspiratorially with Charlotte; Jack asking for the first course; her mother’s horror over Victoria Aarden, an unmarried woman, wearing a tiara. On the other side of the table she heard Helen saying something about Rosy.
“Oh, so it’s Rosy now, is it?” Caroline teased. “Mr. Roosevelt has certainly expressed a great deal of interest in you lately.”
“No more than usual.” Helen smiled, the color of her cheeks growing pink as she lowered her eyes.
It was just like Helen to downplay the romance, not wanting to upset Emily. Everyone approved of Rosy, whereas no one approved of James Van Alen. Of all of Caroline’s daughters, Helen was the most congenial, the family arbiter, the one most likely to have forfeited a wooden penny doll when they were younger or a piece of Turkish delight if it meant keeping the peace between Charlotte and Carrie. Or Charlotte and Emily. Even Charlotte and Jack. Charlotte was always in the middle of everything.
Caroline turned her focus toward Emily, who hadn’t said much about Rosy. Or anything else for that matter. She was jittery, looking around. Maybe she was adding up the number of pink plumes in the ladies’ hats or counting the straw boaters while no doubt searching for James Van Alen. Caroline wondered if Emily had any idea that he’d asked for her hand.
A footman, dressed in Astor livery, handed each of them a menu engraved with the eight courses. Caroline’s mother raised an eyebrow as if to say, Is this necessary? And her brow rose higher still when the footmen presented the first course of caviar and oysters on the half shell.
“Service à la russe is much more elegant than service à la française,” her mother said.
Caroline knew her too well to assume this was a compliment. She took a sip of champagne and braced herself.
“Serving each course one at a time rather than bringing the food out all at once is very European,” her mother added. “Of course, it’s also a much more dramatic presentation. Tell me, Lina, how many additional liveried footmen did you hire just for this?”
“I told you, Mother”—Caroline looked across the way at Mamie, her fish fork scooting an oyster about—“I did what I had to do.” Caroline set her glass down. “I don’t suppose you approve of the favors, either.”
“There was nothing wrong with the nosegays and handkerchiefs,” she said with a hand flourish, “but if you feel the need to impress your guests with expensive trinkets, far be it from me to say anything.”
Caroline pressed her lips tight, willing herself not to scowl. There were too many eyes on their table and on her.
The supper pressed on with one course followed by another. When the footmen served the Roman punch, William pushed his cup aside and Jack reached for it, plunging his spoon into the sweet meringue before Caroline could stop him. William dabbed his mouth and tossed his napkin onto the table before turning to Caroline and saying wryly, “May I be excused now?”
She wanted to say no, but he wasn’t asking her permission. In fact, he had already stood up and taken his first step away from the table, and there was no graceful way to counter. She had to let him go and without revealing even a hint of disappointment. He had barely made it inside when Caroline realized she had a far bigger problem to contend with.