Her mother had seemed pleased, as if to say, It’s about time. Resting her embroidery hoop in her lap, she wanted to know more. “Who is he? Do we know the family? Who are his people?”
“Actually, I’ve known him quite some time. It’s Horace. Horace Wellsby, Mr. Wellsby’s son.”
Her mother’s expression sagged, changing entirely. “Oh, Lina.” She shook her head. “The lawyer’s son? No, no, no.” She placed the embroidery hoop on the side table. “You must put an end to this. Now. You are not to see that boy again. Do you understand?”
Caroline did understand. She understood because Caroline had never once defied her mother, had never challenged her on anything. So she never saw Horace again because going against her mother’s wishes would have been blasphemous.
Two years had passed since her first and only kiss. Caroline was beginning to fear it might be her last and that she’d end up a spinster, when suddenly William Backhouse Astor Jr. came into her life.
Her mother had arranged it, inviting William and his parents for dinner. Though William was only two years older than her, he seemed so much more mature. One look at his whiskers, his broad shoulders, and Caroline was terrified. He was a man whereas Horace had still been a boy. What is Mother thinking? He would never be interested in someone like her. William had recently returned after living abroad for two years and regaled them with stories of his travels. Caroline hardly said two words throughout the meal.
After dinner, the two of them sat in the parlor. Caroline was afraid of being alone with him and couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.
“Our mothers cooked this whole thing up, you know,” he said conspiratorially.
Caroline kept her eyes trained on her hands. “I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry?” He rocked back and laughed. “I’m not.”
Speaking into her hands she said, “Please, don’t make fun of me.”
“You know what your problem is? You don’t see yourself the way others see you.”
That was just the thing. She was afraid she did. She was certain that her most appealing attribute was her Dutch ancestry.
“You’re an interesting girl, Caroline Webster Schermerhorn. You’re very different from the other girls—I’ll give you that. But you’ve got something”—he reached over for her hand—“something special.”
She looked at him, still not sure of what to say. She knew by the heat rising on her face that her cheeks were turning red.
He suggested they spend more time together, get to know each other better. If they’d had a chaperone with them, Caroline couldn’t recall it. All she remembered was him—William Backhouse Astor Jr. The first time he kissed her, well, she realized her kiss with Horace hadn’t counted. William had melted her on the spot.
They were married, and nine months later, Caroline gave birth to Emily. William’s disappointment at having produced a daughter was not lost on anyone. Especially Caroline, who felt she’d failed him. One year later, Helen was born, and over the next six years, two more daughters arrived, Charlotte followed by Carrie. The girls were each so different, as if they’d come into this world with their personalities already intact, just waiting to open and blossom.
William had all but given up on a male heir. Perhaps that was why he’d gravitated to Charlotte. His Charlie wasn’t like the others. She didn’t cry, wanting to be picked up and coddled. No, she’d fall and get right back up, ever more determined.
As the girls grew older and no longer needed Caroline as much, she found herself becoming more involved in society, hosting dinner parties and balls. She was busy, almost too busy to realize what was happening to her marriage.
That was when William began spending more time on his yacht or out with his horses. She suspected there was another woman—or women—but pushed the thought from her mind until her suspicions were proven true. The perfume and rouge she’d discovered on his handkerchief could only mean one thing. Caroline was crushed, certain it was the baby weight she’d failed to shed that had driven him away. Over the next three months, she’d starved herself back to a twenty-two-inch waist. Still William kept his distance. She was furious but also heartbroken. Each time he was out late, or didn’t come home till dawn, Caroline sat up, waiting, going to the window, looking, watching, hoping he’d appear. And when he did finally show up, drunk and unapologetic, Caroline did what she’d seen her mother do when her husband strayed: she looked the other way.
Just when she was sure she’d lost William’s affections forever, one night, he decided not to go out after dinner and instead, later that evening, he came to her room. That was the night that John “Jack” Jacob Astor IV was conceived. At last, a son.
It was also the last time William had stepped foot inside her bedroom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alva
It was November and a new season was already underway. Any hope Alva had about her Cliff Walk rescue ingratiating her with Mrs. Astor had been dashed when she and Willie K. were not invited to Emily’s wedding. Alva had even had a special dress made, had bought their wedding gift—a pair of Venetian enamel vases once owned by an eighteenth-century viscount. She’d boasted to Alice and the rest of the Vanderbilts that she would be attending the wedding, hobnobbing with Mrs. Astor’s smart set. Alva had been mortified by the rejection.
And then, as luck would have it, luck that turned to misfortune, Alva had spotted Mrs. Astor one day at Tiffany & Company on Union Square. The Grande Dame was at the counter, looking at an array of diamond brooches the clerk had set before her on a black velvet tray. Alva inched closer while they pared down the selection.
“I’m torn between these two,” Alva overheard Mrs. Astor saying.
Alva peered in closer. One was a lovely oval amethyst stone set in an elaborate laurel wreath of rose-cut yellow diamonds. The challenger was a cluster of deep blue sapphires set in a flower head pattern of diamonds.
“They’re both lovely,” said the clerk. “I’m certain that Mrs. Van Alen will be delighted with either one.”
Mrs. Van Alen? Emily? This is for Emily?
“I just can’t decide which one would suit her best,” Mrs. Astor lamented.
That’s when Alva spoke up. “Pardon me—I couldn’t help but overhear.” She felt Mrs. Astor tense up beside her. Keep your mouth shut, Alva. Don’t say another word. Don’t, don’t, do not— “With Mrs. Van Alen’s coloring,” she said, “I think the amethyst would be better.”
“Very well then,” said Mrs. Astor to the clerk. “I’ll take the sapphires.”