THE SEASONS
1876–1878
CHAPTER ONE
Caroline
NEWPORT
Caroline let the news sink in, though it didn’t have far to travel. A headache was already forming behind her left eye, gathering strength as the pain spread to her chest. Or, more accurately, her heart. She looked at Augusta’s handwriting again: Your husband was seen with . . . Her sister-in-law probably thought she was doing the Christian thing. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. And truly it didn’t. Caroline’s husband did as he pleased, with whom he pleased, while she went mute, tolerating, enduring. What other choice was there? Caroline tore the letter in half and then quarters and eighths and so on until she had reduced William’s infidelity to confetti.
Abandoning the scraps, she went out on her bedroom terrace overlooking the cliffs and the Atlantic. Fingers resting atop the marble balustrade, she was bathed in sunlight. Giant swells from the ocean rushed the beach, breaking against the cliffs as blankets of sea foam, left in their wake, were dragged back to the surf. High tide was approaching, and just as the waves gained momentum, rising to full strength, Caroline, too, felt a surge within herself. Not that long ago, William’s dalliances had crushed her, sending her into a spiral of self-pity, unable to leave her bed for days on end. But here she was, still standing. Yes, her head throbbed, and her heart ached, but she wasn’t crumbling. She’d been here before with him. She’d be here again.
Wisdom was the only benefit of growing older, the trade-off for the faint lines around her eyes and mouth. Like a wave that rises, peaks and breaks, at forty-five Caroline Astor was at the midpoint of her life, having spent all those years harnessing her energy until now, at last, her boldness was cresting. How long could she sustain this before it all collapsed? She couldn’t say. She didn’t want to think about that, about what came next, when she was no longer vital, no longer so important. It was inevitable. It happened to everyone, sooner or later. The elders, who should have been revered, sought out for their knowledge and experience, instead were pushed into corners, forgotten and invisible to those whose time had come. But for now, surely Caroline was at her peak. No longer riddled with self-doubt, apologizing for who and what she was. She wished she could stop time, stay in this spot forever.
Yes, William had a reputation, and if Augusta knew about his latest lapse, others were already talking. If there was one thing Caroline detested, it was gossip. She imagined the matrons strolling down Bellevue Avenue saying, If it weren’t for her pedigree, he never would have married her.
William Backhouse Astor Jr. was still a handsome man. Though slightly balding now, he had large brown eyes and that lovely horseshoe mustache that called attention to his cleft chin. Caroline knew she was no beauty, having inherited her grandfather’s square jaw and prominent nose, but what those society ladies didn’t know was that no matter how many women caught William’s eye, no matter how many he’d take up with, she would be the one he’d come back to. Every time. Always.
She heard footsteps and turned to see Emily standing in her bedroom. She seemed tentative, even skittish. A random noise in the hallway had just made her jump, and that made Caroline forget about her headache and all that had caused it.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Emily, her fingers reaching for her necklace, touching each peridot, every emerald. Knowing Emily, she was adding up the number of gemstones in her head. Some people related to the world in terms of words or colors, maybe sounds or music. For Emily it was math. She’d look at a wheel and focus on the number of spokes. A bouquet translated into the number of flowers, sometimes down to the number of petals. Before her second birthday she had learned to count to five—holding up one finger at a time. Numbers never lied, never changed. Their absoluteness had always reassured her.
“I’d like to talk to you about the clambake,” Emily said, her shoulders rising with a deep inhale as if conjuring some inner courage. “I would very much like to extend an invitation to Mr. James Van Alen.”
“I see.” The headache was back. Caroline paused before a curio cabinet and rearranged her bronze garnitures while considering her response. Emily, now twenty-two, was her eldest, and Caroline was eager for her to marry, just so long as she didn’t marry James Van Alen.
“I’d like to invite him,” Emily repeated.
“Well.” Caroline set the figurine down. If she said no, she feared she’d only drive Emily further into Van Alen’s arms. “I suppose we could have one more guest.”
“And—”
“And?”
“I—I would like Mr. James Van Alen to be seated at our table.” She nodded—There, I said it—and reached down, touching her necklace once again.
Caroline laughed though she didn’t find it funny. “Oh, I’m afraid that would be most inappropriate. Seating Mr. Van Alen at our table would send the wrong message. Everyone will assume you’re already spoken for.”
“But I am spoken for, Mother. I am.”
“Oh, please don’t let your grandmother hear you say that. You’ll give her heart failure.” Caroline’s own heart clenched at the thought. James Van Alen was altogether wrong for Emily just as Horace Wellsby had been wrong for Caroline when she was a young girl. Back then, Caroline’s mother had forbidden her to see him, and that was that. No protest, no questions asked. Going against her mother’s wishes would have been akin to breaking the law. But Emily wasn’t quite as dutiful, and Caroline could picture her sneaking off to meet Van Alen, secretly writing him love letters. Caroline didn’t want to put Emily in a position to have to lie. She didn’t want Emily tempted by Van Alen in the first place.
“Oh, Emily,” Caroline sighed. James Van Alen was a widower. He should have been mourning his wife, who had passed less than a year ago, rather than courting another woman. She wanted to say that James Van Alen did not come from good stock. That despite his father being a brigadier general, James Van Alen Sr. had invested heavily in the Illinois Central Railroad and had taken advantage of his workers. She wanted to say that James Van Alen Jr. was a laughingstock, that after attending Oxford for a year, he had returned to the States with a phony British accent and a fake monocle.
She wanted to say all that and more, but instead she took Emily’s hand and coaxed her to the side of the bed and sat beside her. “My darling girl, don’t be in such a rush. James Van Alen is only one man. There are others, I assure you.”
“Oh, but he’s wonderful. He’s handsome and intelligent and kind.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Emily. You have beauty and breeding. You can have your pick of eligible gentlemen.”
“But he’s the one I want.”