“Did you hear what I said, William? You cannot go through with this duel.”
“I have to.” Still turned away from her, he added, “Would you prefer I apologize, give my blessings to this preposterous marriage and let my daughter marry a man who would be an utter embarrassment to this family? Is that what you want me to do?”
Caroline got up from her chair, went to her husband’s side, placed her hand on his and simply said, “Yes.”
And that was how her daughter Miss Emily Astor became engaged to Mr. James Van Alen Jr.
CHAPTER NINE
Society
NEW YORK
From drawing room to drawing room, there is only one thing we talk about these days: the Astor wedding. Or more specifically: Why on earth is Emily Astor marrying James Van Alen? These days fashionable ladies—debutantes without half the pedigree of Emily Astor—marry dukes, earls, viscounts, barons—men with real British accents!
Alice Heine is now Duchess de Richelieu; Jennie Jerome is Lady Randolph Churchill. Consuelo Yznaga has recently become engaged to Viscount Mandeville, and just last week we learned that Minnie Stevens has become affianced to Captain Arthur Paget, whose grandfather is the first Marquess of Anglesey. Soon enough we’ll be calling her Lady Paget. How is it possible, then, with all the world marrying into nobility, that Mrs. Astor’s eldest daughter would marry someone who not only isn’t a Knickerbocker but is a Van Alen? Simply unheard of.
Already so many details of the wedding have begun to surface. Ophelia heard the guest list includes President Grant and the British prime minister. The menu is rumored to have grown from six to nine courses. The flower arrangements are expected to be so elaborate that one florist can’t possibly handle the order, so Mrs. Astor has employed both Howard Fleishman and Klunder, Hodgson, Wadley & Smythe. It’s obvious that Mrs. Astor is determined to surpass even her own superlative standards for entertaining, and for the next two weeks, each of us frantically checks our mail, hoping to receive a coveted invitation to what is being hailed the wedding of the decade.
CHAPTER TEN
Caroline
If William looked at his timepiece once more, if he clacked it open and snapped it shut again, Caroline was going to scream. And she never screamed. Instead, she waited, counted to ten. In less than twenty-four hours, their daughter was getting married, and William had just announced that he was not going to walk Emily down the aisle. Caroline knew he didn’t mean it, that he simply liked the sound of it, that it gave him some false sense of control over the situation.
“Why not just have Waldorf give her away?” he said. Clack. Snap. “He’s running for the senate. Surely that should impress everyone.”
“Waldorf is not her father.”
“Oh, come now, Lina. You’re not fooling anyone.” He set the timepiece down. “You can invite as many presidents, as many dukes and duchesses—invite the goddamn queen of England—it won’t change a thing.”
Maybe it wouldn’t change the situation, but it was certainly providing enough dazzling distractions to give the gossips something else to focus on. She had painstakingly curated the guest list, one that was so ultra-exclusive she’d even crossed off several of the bride and groom’s requests. As she explained to Emily, there simply wouldn’t be room for several of James’s friends such as that young Vanderbilt and his brash wife.
“I tell you, Lina,” William said, reaching for his timepiece again, “everyone knows this wedding is a farce.”
“This marriage may be a farce, but it saved your life, and now I’m going to save Emily’s reputation. And I don’t care how many dignitaries it takes to do it.”
“But you—”
“You are going to walk your daughter down the aisle tomorrow, and you will play the part of the proud father. Because if you don’t, you’ll only fuel more talk.”
“But you can’t stop them from talking,” William said, flailing his arms until a streak of pain crossed his face, his thrashing about becoming less vigorous. She knew his shoulder was bothering him. A remnant from a riding accident when he was eighteen. Thrown from a horse, he’d dislocated it. It had started bothering him in recent years, on damp days, cold days, nights when he’d slept wrong.
She went over to massage the spot she knew so well, the spot she’d rubbed many a time with liniment oil. He allowed himself to sink into her touch for a moment before shaking it off.
Changing his tone, he took on a British accent. “Van Alen’s probably spit shining his monocle right now—egads!” He laughed.
She didn’t.
“Oh, come on now, Lina. You used to find it funny whenever I imitated that buffoon.”
“That buffoon is about to become a member of our family.”
“This wedding is a sham,” he said, returning to his earlier argument, picking up the timepiece again. He muttered something else under his breath and sighed. “Well, I’m not staying for the reception, I can tell you that right now . . .” Clack. Snap. “I’m getting on my yacht and . . .”
She had allowed him to sound off, much in the same way that she tolerated little Jack’s tantrums when denied a second fruit tart or chocolate biscuit. She half expected William to stomp his foot. “Well,” she said, picking a piece of lint off his lapel, “unless you have anything more to say, I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
She turned toward the door. Their argument was over. She had conceded on his behalf. He was going to give his daughter away the next day and he would attend the reception, too. There wasn’t a thing he could do about it, either. She was the queen of New York society, but that didn’t make him the king. And he knew it. As a mere wife, she might not have any legal rights, but she had other means available to her. If she’d wanted, Caroline could have had William banished from every men’s club including his precious yachting club. She could have seen to it that he would never again be welcome at another poker table or invited on another fox hunt or coaching party. Of course, she never would have done any of those things because, heaven help her, she still loved him.
* * *
—
Caroline hadn’t been a young bride when she married William. Until she met him, her heart had belonged to Horace Wellsby, the son of her father’s lawyer. One day while Mr. Wellsby was behind closed doors with her father, Horace had smiled at her, and she lived on that for a week. After a month of secretive courting, he worked up the nerve to kiss her. She was twenty years old. It was her first kiss.
Caroline couldn’t contain her excitement, and when she returned home that day, she blurted out, “Oh, Mother—I think I’m in love.”