“I know you think that now, but there are several fine bachelors coming to the clambake. I invited them specifically for you.”
“Can’t you introduce them to Helen and Charlotte instead?”
“I’ve invited other gentlemen for your sisters.”
“What about Carrie? She’s fifteen. She’s old enough for a beau.”
Caroline stood up and reached for Emily’s chin, tilting her face until their eyes met. “Right now, I’m more concerned about you. Now I’ll agree to invite your Mr. Van Alen to the clambake, provided you don’t allow him to monopolize all your time.”
Emily was about to say something else when Caroline’s butler, Hade, interrupted, announcing that Mr. Ward McAllister was there to see her.
“Mother, can we finish talking about this after you meet with Mr. McAllister?”
“I’m sorry, Emily, but having James Van Alen at our table is out of the question.”
Emily’s brow crinkled; her lips trembled ever so slightly. She was on the verge of tears, which she knew better than to shed in front of Caroline. Just as her own mother had done, Caroline raised her daughters to be strong, disapproving of any show of weakness. Emily brushed past Caroline, muttering, “You don’t understand . . .”
Caroline smoothed the front of her gown. She would deal with her own heartache and her daughter’s disappointment later. She could do that—push unpleasantness aside whenever needed. Some mistook that trait of hers for being cold and callous when really it was all about efficiency and the ordering of one’s thoughts. And so, for now, she was Mrs. Astor and society awaited. She followed Hade down the grand staircase, moving in her usual slow manner, as if she carried the weight of her Dutch ancestors on her back.
Ward McAllister was in the sitting room, a short and stout man with a noticeable paunch and a slightly unkempt goatee. Despite his elfin appearance, he had somehow become the leading authority on style and etiquette, the expert on wine, food and entertaining. Together, Ward and Caroline had organized society and ran it in much the same way the Astor men ran their real estate empire.
Caroline had met Ward years ago when he was a lawyer. And not a particularly successful one. He had recently returned from England and France, eager to put what he’d learned about etiquette and all things fashionable to work in America. Caroline had been at a lawn party in Newport when she’d spotted a young Ward pouring his drink into the hostess’s flower bed.
“Do you disapprove of the champagne, or are you merely assisting the gardener?” she’d asked.
“Actually, the former. One should never scrimp when it comes to champagne,” he said with mock horror that had made her laugh.
“Might I remind you,” she said, knowing that he himself could not have afforded much better, “not everyone has the means not to scrimp.”
“Then one should acquire the means.” His eyes widened as he playfully twisted the tip of his mustache.
Years later, he had done just that—acquired the means—by marrying a wealthy woman. Unfortunately, soon after, an illness left her bedridden, which meant Ward was on his own to navigate society’s amusements. William had never cared for Ward and used to joke, calling him an invert. The man sits around with you hens all day discussing centerpieces and dance steps.
“Apologies for the intrusion,” Ward said, rising with his walking stick in hand, “but we are in the midst of a crisis.”
“Oh?” Caroline detected a slight thrill beneath his alarm, knowing that her friend liked nothing more than to be in the center of a societal storm.
“Mamie Fish is hosting a fish fry.”
“Well, that’s certainly one fish too many for me.” Caroline waved her hand, brushing it aside. Mamie Fish was new money, and Caroline had no use for her or the other members of the nouveau riche.
“But don’t you know,” said Ward, the buttons on his vest straining as he breathed heavily, “she’s deliberately having it on the same night as your clambake.”
“Is that so?” Caroline actually welcomed this minor hitch. It gave her something to work on, and correcting anything always restored her sense of control. She might not have been able to do a thing about her husband’s most recent affair, or Emily’s poor taste in men, but society still looked to her, and Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish was not about to challenge that.
“Mamie’s fish fry is all people are talking about, don’t you know,” Ward said, repeating his favorite catchphrase.
“Really?” Caroline crossed the room to straighten a calla lily leaning too far left in its delft blue vase. It had been bothering her since she’d entered the room.
“They say she’s having a chamber orchestra!”
“Hmmm.” Caroline paused, her hand on the stem. “Only a chamber?” She positioned the lily back in the vase. “We’re having a symphony.”
“A symphony orchestra?” His left eyebrow arched.
Reaching for the pull cord, Caroline rang for Maria de Baril, her social secretary, who immediately appeared, as if she’d been perched outside the door, waiting. She was a petite woman with very dark hair and an olive complexion. She always wore a fanciful array of beads about her neck.
“Maria, we’re going to be making some changes to our clambake.”
“Very well, madam.” She produced a pen and small leather-bound tablet, her hands poised for dictation.
“Send word to the Academy of Music. Tell them I’m requesting that their orchestra perform for my guests along with Christine Nilsson.”
Ward gave her an admiring nod, which she returned with a look—What did you expect? She was on the opera’s board—as was Ward—and was well acquainted with Miss Nilsson, the star Swedish soprano.
“Also,” she said to Maria, “inform the chef that we’ll be adding a few more courses to our menu.” She began ticking items off on her fingers. “Lobster croquettes, truite à la meunière and crevettes au beurre blanc. Instead of the Riesling, we’ll be serving Chassagne-Montrachet, and see to it that an additional case of the 1860 Moët et Chandon is chilled.”
This time, Ward gave her a conspiratorial yet all-impressed look, as if he hadn’t anticipated her going to such lengths, sparing no expense. This was what she did. It was what made her Mrs. Astor. Not just any hostess, and certainly not Mamie Fish, could entertain the way Caroline did. She had it down to a science. Off the top of her head she was able to put together an exquisite French menu, paired with the perfect wines. She could envision the table settings down to the centerpieces.
“Will there be anything else?” asked Maria, still taking notes.