That had been her mother’s sermon back in 1872, just before Ward McAllister had come to her to discuss a plan of his own for preserving society. “The women with their tiaras and coronets, the men with their fat cigars and bejeweled walking sticks,” he’d said in disgust. “They all reek of newly minted steel and railroad money. They’re trying to buy their way into society and it’s our duty to keep them out.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Caroline had asked, slightly bemused by his passionate stance.
Well, it just so happened he’d had a plan. Like British nobility, he explained how he wanted to hand-select members of their peerage. “And I’m going to need a hostess of the finest and highest caliber, like you, to assist me in organizing this new chapter in society.”
Caroline knew better than to have been flattered. “And why me?” she’d asked pointedly.
“The question is, why not you? I can think of no other society hostess who possesses your sense of taste and refinement.”
“I think what you really mean is that you can think of no other hostess who possesses her own money.”
He’d laughed, a bit contrite. “Well, perhaps that does give you an advantage.”
Unlike other hostesses, Caroline had inherited a fortune of her own after her father passed away. She didn’t have to ask her husband’s permission or present a weekly ledger of household and personal expenses for his approval. That level of independence for a woman was unheard of, and it distinguished Caroline from every other society hostess. It had helped make her society’s queen—that and Caroline’s desperate need to please her mother.
Since then Caroline and Ward had spent hours holed up in her parlor, scrutinizing guest lists and seating arrangements, discussing which china setting and sterling silver to use. A debate over what wine to serve could last an hour or more. Ward took society very seriously, and over time, Caroline came to believe that all this mattered. William, on the other hand, thought society was frivolous. It occurred to her, only much later, that perhaps her husband had hoped she might have taken an interest in one of his pastimes or hobbies—yachting, horse breeding . . . He always seemed to ask if she’d join him when she had something else scheduled; a luncheon or meeting, a ball or opera to attend. His timing was impeccably off, and she sometimes wondered if he’d asked knowing she wouldn’t be available.
It had never occurred to her that it stung her husband, her preferring the company of others, especially Ward McAllister. It also never occurred to her that her husband’s pride might have been hurt, knowing his wife’s appointment book was more full than his own. She hadn’t thought about those things because to Caroline, society was vital. For the first time in her life, she’d done something her mother could boast about. For the first time ever, Caroline was respected; she was important and valued for things separate from her role as wife and mother. By now this business of society was so deeply ingrained in her that she was certain that if it no longer existed, if it no longer mattered, she, too, would no longer matter.
“Well,” her mother said, “I can see this conversation is getting us nowhere. I’ll be downstairs in the parlor.”
Even after she left, the sound of her mother’s voice was still the loudest in Caroline’s head, and her poise slipped. She tugged off her earrings and tossed them on the dressing table, surprised her mother hadn’t said anything about them being too ostentatious for a woman in her position.
Another moment passed and she went to her closet, where a simple blue gown without a single ribbon or flounce was hanging.
She rang for her lady’s maid to help her change.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alva
While James Van Alen and everyone who was anyone were getting ready for Mrs. Astor’s clambake, Alva was steeling herself for dinner with Willie’s family at his parents’ cottage. As the newest member of the Vanderbilt family, she still felt like an outsider. She didn’t understand their ways. There was something uniquely Vanderbilt ingrained in them, a sensibility that she couldn’t define or grasp. She didn’t always get the jokes, nor was she able to follow the non sequiturs that had them shifting from topic to topic like trains switching tracks. At times it was as if they spoke a different language.
Standing in her dressing room, Alva was faced with a new dilemma—deciding what to wear. How was she to choose between the gowns with opals, gowns with pearls and diamonds, satin and silk ribbons, delicate lace fringe, gold and silver threading? She couldn’t imagine how she’d once managed with only a handful of dresses that she’d mended over and over again. Just remembering those days had planted a horrifying thought in the back of her mind: What if this all goes away?
Though Alva knew the Vanderbilts were one of the wealthiest families in the country, old fears persisted. Having seen a man’s fortune vanish once before, she didn’t trust that it wouldn’t happen again. For that reason, Alva always took a few greenbacks from her weekly allowance and placed them in a hatbox hidden in the back of her dressing room closet. Just in case.
This fear of it all going away might have explained why Alva never saved the best for last. She was afraid that any delay might cost her the very thing she’d been holding out for. She didn’t want to put off her happiness for even a second. She wanted the best and had no intention of suffering through something inferior or unsatisfying just to get to it. She’d always wanted her reward up front and couldn’t understand why her sisters would suffer through the tasteless vegetables, dried-out meat and pasty rice just to get to dessert. She’d sneak the cake, the pudding, the tarts despite the consequences for eating them before her supper.
“Alva?” She heard Willie K. calling to her from downstairs. “Hurry up now, darling. We mustn’t be late for dinner.”
“Just finishing up,” she said, still sorting through her closet, pausing over the dress she’d planned to wear to Mamie’s fish fry, the dress she would have worn to Mrs. Astor’s clambake had she been invited.
Alva pulled out the gown and held it up beneath her chin, wondering if the neckline was high enough and the sleeves long enough to cover the remnants of her scars and bruises. Thankfully the one on her face had faded from purple to jaundice, barely noticeable anymore especially if she wore a bit of powder. But her muscles and joints still protested each time she moved, and it had been a week.
But truly, what hurt even more—what refused to heal—was the way Mrs. Astor had treated her that day. Though, in her defense, Mrs. Astor hadn’t realized that Emily had been on Cliff Walk, a mere slip away from death had Alva not come along. Mrs. Astor didn’t know any of that but still, she had treated Alva as if she’d been a delivery boy dropping off a parcel. And of course Emily had been too afraid of her mother to speak up. Two days later James Van Alen had stopped by to convey a message from Emily. She’d wanted to thank Alva again and hoped to see her soon. Not a word about her mother, nothing about the clambake.