“She’s just good and sore,” said the redhead, acting overly protective, almost possessive of Emily, who hadn’t yet said a word.
Caroline saw a raised bump on Emily’s forehead, already starting to purple, a thread of dried blood running to her brow. Caroline reached over and brushed the hair from Emily’s eyes with her fingertips. She looked frightened, shaken. “Charlotte,” Caroline called over her shoulder. Her other daughter was still in the carriage. “Go get Hade! Have him send for the doctor.”
“I think some bed rest is probably all she’ll need.”
Who asked you? Caroline wanted to say to the redhead, and then noticed that she also had scratches and bruises on her face, though not as severe as the ones on Emily’s. Otherwise, she seemed unharmed and was now saying something about soaking in Epsom salt. Caroline wished she’d stop inserting herself in the middle of this. She just wanted to take care of Emily. All this chattering—Caroline couldn’t hear herself think. “Charlotte,” she called out again. What was the matter with her—just sitting there talking to the coachman. “Charlotte, go get Hade. Have him send for the doctor. Now, Charlotte!”
“I’m Alva, by the way,” said the redhead, thrusting out her hand. “Alva Vanderbilt. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Astor.”
Caroline didn’t catch the first name, but Vanderbilt registered. Everything she knew about the Vanderbilt family, she didn’t like. The patriarch, Cornelius Vanderbilt, whom everyone called the Commodore, was notorious for his unethical business practices and deplorable manners: cheating his competitors, chewing with his mouth open, picking his teeth at the table. He’d made his fortune in railroads, and Caroline didn’t care for railroad money. She believed one’s wealth should be inherited, not earned, as she herself had inherited a good sum in addition to marrying yet more money. Caroline never acknowledged William’s grandfather, the late John Jacob Astor, who had indeed earned his fortune—as a fur trapper, no less—and whose ruthless business practices and despicable table manners rivaled the Commodore’s. She knew the only difference between Astor and Vanderbilt was that John Jacob Astor had gotten a head start, some twenty years before Cornelius Vanderbilt began his business. Caroline didn’t address this parallel and made it a point to never speak of the Astors’ humble beginnings.
The Vanderbilt woman was still talking. “. . . You’ll have to forgive my appearance”—she tugged on her flannel top—“I was on my way to the beach and—”
“If you’ll excuse me, I want to get Emily inside.”
“Of course. Of course,” she said, stepping in, taking hold of Emily’s other side. “I’ll just help you get—”
“That won’t be necessary, I assure you.”
The Vanderbilt woman backed off but only after Hade appeared with Charlotte trailing behind him.
“Lovely to meet you,” Alva called out as Hade carried Emily inside.
Caroline reached the doorway and looked back over her shoulder. “Charlotte, are you coming?” But Charlotte had drifted back over to the carriage, to the coachman.
* * *
—
On the day of the clambake, Caroline took extra care with her toilette, knowing that all eyes would be on her. And her family. Though Emily had covered those mysterious scratches along her brow with face powder, the sunlight was unforgiving, making her attempt at camouflage obvious. And oh, what fodder that will be for the gossips. Thank goodness they didn’t know about Charlotte pining away for that coachman. My lord, they’d have a field day with that! Sure, the other matrons would smile and fawn over Caroline, but as soon as she turned her back, they’d start chattering about her daughters, speculating about her marriage.
How odd, she thought, that no one ever questioned her relationship with Ward McAllister, who had escorted her to countless social engagements. No one said a word about that. But if William was seen speaking to a woman at the polo field, or down by the yacht club, it was scandalous.
Oh, let them talk. Caroline knew she couldn’t stop them, and though her pride was wounded, her core was stronger than ever. She could take it, and later, after she received her two-faced guests, she would walk the grounds with William at her side and put that rumor to rest. Now she just needed an explanation should anyone ask what happened to Emily’s face.
Caroline heard the thump-shuffle-shuffle, thump-shuffle-shuffle, thump of her mother approaching moments before she appeared, her cane pushing open the dressing room door. “That’s what you’re wearing tonight?” she asked.
Caroline studied her choice in the mirror, the neckline enhanced with a silk ribbon, the satin bows along the bodice, the deep purple polonaise bustle.
“Need I remind you, Lina, that a lady of true gentility never dresses in the height of fashion.”
“It’s not as if I’m wearing Worth, Mother.”
“Thank heavens for that. His designs are positively gauche.” She switched her cane from her left hand to the right. Caroline’s mother—Helen Van Courtlandt White Schermerhorn—was still a regal-looking woman, even at eighty-three. Her once glossy black hair was now white, and the face may have been well creased, but the eyes—the eyes remained icy blue and didn’t miss a thing.
“You mustn’t feel you need to compete with the new money, Lina. It’s beneath you,” her mother said, reaching for a bar of soap, wrapped in lavender paper. “I do so hate the way our people are being influenced by the nouveau riche.” She smelled the soap, made a face and set it back down. “I thought you and Mr. McAllister were supposed to guard against that sort of thing.”
“We’re doing our best, Mother, but times are changing and—”
Caroline was silenced by her mother’s exasperated sigh, which led to a maddening standoff, one that Caroline knew she’d never win. She never had before. She turned away and busied herself with her earrings.
As tough as Caroline was, she was no match for her mother, whose strength had been forged in tragedy. Here was a woman who had buried six of her nine children. Two of the three remaining daughters were sickly and for the most part bedridden. That left Caroline—Lina, as they called her. It wasn’t enough to survive; Lina had always been expected to thrive. She was the one her mother had pinned her hopes on, and when the opportunity came for Caroline to take over society, it was her mother who had urged her to do so. “You must protect our people from this assault by the nouveau riche,” she’d said to Caroline one day, while tapping her cane to the floor. “You have the breeding and lineage—and the means.” Tap, tap, tap. “You must take the reins and put an end to these interlopers.” Tap, tap, tap. “Our way of life is meant to inspire refinement and decency, and there is absolutely nothing inspirational about that lot . . .”