Alva’s grip tightened on her umbrella as her heart pounded. She knew she’d just ruined her chances of ever getting a box at the opera.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Society
So Alva Vanderbilt came to us. By default. Actually, it was Lady Paget—formerly Minnie Stevens, who has taken to wearing twenty pounds of jewelry along with her title—who first brought Alva into our circle. Most popular among us is Kate Strong, nicknamed Puss on account of her affinity for felines. She has blond Little Bo-Peep curls, and always wears a diamond brooch shaped like a cat. Also in our set is Mrs. George Cavendish—Peggy to us—a gracious hostess with a pronounced stutter that makes her try all the harder. Peggy’s oldest and dearest friend is Lydia, the romantic among us, who adores the books of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. There’s also Tessie Oelrichs and of course Mamie, as well as Penelope, Ophelia, Fanny and Cettie. Together, we’re the lower-ranking class of society ladies. The whole lot of us have been lumped together and labeled the robber barons’ wives, married to men like John Pierpont Morgan, Jay Gould and John Rockefeller.
Alva should be grateful that we’ve welcomed her in, but we can tell our friendship feels like a consolation prize. While we invite her to our dinner parties and luncheons, she rarely reciprocates. Lady Paget insists it’s because Alva thinks her home is too modest. We aren’t convinced that’s the reason, and yet we understand Alva’s ambivalence about being one of us. Some of us don’t even want to be one of us, either.
This afternoon, we’re gathered in Cettie Rockefeller’s drawing room, sitting in a semicircle, our spines uniformly eight inches from the backs of the caned Louis XV chairs, while we balance Coalport china plates of finger sandwiches on our laps. The only exception is Puss, who has traded in her plate for Mr. Fritzy, a rather well-behaved Persian lounging peacefully while she strokes his ears.
The conversation today, like most days, begins with a recap of last night’s dinner parties, balls, the ballet. It’s agreed that so-and-so’s dress was too tight, too embellished, too bland, too something. We share snippets of gossip about so-and-so’s daughter, husband, mistress, and it doesn’t take long before we find ourselves talking about Ward McAllister and Mrs. Astor.
The mere mention of Mrs. Astor’s name piques Alva’s ire. While we’re talking about ways to impress her, Alva is talking about ways to bring the Grande Dame down.
She suggests throwing a lavish ball and inviting everyone but Mrs. Astor. Penelope insists this will never work. If people knew she was trying to exclude Mrs. Astor, no one would come for fear they’d be cut from her guest list forever. We all saw what happened when Mamie tried hosting a fish fry on the same night as her clambake. Though Tessie is quick to point out that Mamie’s attempt did get her into society.
“Well, I don’t want in through the back door,” says Alva. “When I enter society, it will be through the front door.”
Alva is certainly a bit more haughty than usual. We suspect this has something to do with the inheritance. At the start of the new year, on the fourth of January, the Commodore passed away. Eighty-two years old and worth $100 million. The day after his funeral, they did the reading of the will, as if they couldn’t wait another second to see what he’d left them. They say the bulk of his estate, some $75 million, went to Alva’s father-in-law, Billy, and the rest was divided among the male heirs.
It hasn’t been that long—just a few weeks—but already we can see the change in Alva. She’s always dressed with a flair, but even more so now, despite her being pregnant. Even with her belly showing, she isn’t afraid to wear bright reds or oranges regardless of their clashing with her hair color. And yet, she knows—or at least she should know—that even her husband’s newly acquired millions won’t make a difference as far as Mrs. Astor is concerned.
So like it or not, she’s stuck with us, and us with her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alva
$2 million changed everything. Alva had always known her husband was wealthy, but now he was wealthy beyond anything she could have imagined. This wasn’t just money, this was a fortune. She couldn’t get that glorious dollar amount out of her mind. Knowing she could afford anything her heart desired was a heady thing. No price tag was beyond her reach.
Though she’d done absolutely nothing to contribute to her husband’s vast wealth, she felt it belonged to her as if she’d earned it herself. And in truth, Willie hadn’t earned it, either. She told herself she’d be generous, that she’d be charitable, but still she was reluctant to part with too much just yet—even to the worthiest of causes. There was the fear there wouldn’t be enough left for Alva and Willie. And there were so many things they needed, wanted, or simply had to have.
As much as she tried to conceal it, Alva felt a bit smug. She now had an edge over Mamie, Tessie, Penelope, Puss and the rest of her peers. She felt almost sorry for them. Almost. The one she truly did feel sorry for, though, was Jeremiah, who’d received only $200,000. Only $200,000—do you hear yourself, Alva? She knew plenty of people who could have lived comfortably off that amount for the rest of their years. But not a Vanderbilt, definitely not a Vanderbilt—not even Jeremiah Vanderbilt.
She tried not to dwell on that and instead focused on the fact that she and Willie K. were moving up. Alva had been seven months pregnant at the reading of the will, and she and Willie had immediately begun talking about building a new house, a bigger house, a house that she could decorate as she saw fit. It was time.
Nearly two months to the day of the Commodore’s passing, on the second of March, 1877, Alva gave birth to their first child. When the midwife placed the baby in Alva’s arms, she was speechless. The little girl was a sheer delight, beautiful with Willie K.’s dark hair and Alva’s blue eyes. With tears running down her face, Alva was stunned by the wonderment of it all, that this child had come from her. She had created this little girl and now she belonged to Alva. Forever.
Just then that tiny face scrunched up red and began sputtering, tears flowing, chest heaving. Alva froze. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong. She’s just hungry is all,” said the midwife, who had been in favor of bringing in a wet nurse. But Alva had objected, insisting on feeding her baby herself, just as her own mother had done.
The midwife positioned the baby on Alva’s chest, but when the infant’s mouth clamped down on Alva’s breast, her suckling wasn’t strong enough. Nothing happened. Her milk wouldn’t flow. She had nothing to give her. It was then that she realized this new life was so fully dependent on her and already she was failing her. Unable to feed her—the most basic thing a mother could do—Alva was flooded with fear. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t do this on her own. She panicked and began to sob until the midwife stepped in and took the baby from her.