Mrs. Pendleton offered Caroline her chair, a throne-like Henry Williams with gilt trim, velvet upholstery and lovely roundels. Ward McAllister was seated next to her on a walnut hardback. It was only Wednesday and she’d already seen Ward three times that week. They’d met on Monday to schedule next year’s operas for the Academy, on Tuesday afternoon he’d assisted with the seating arrangements for an upcoming dinner honoring the visiting Alexander II, and Tuesday night the two had dined lavishly at the home of a mutual friend, Mr. Frank Gray Griswold. You’d think they’d have nothing left to say to each other, but Ward had already informed her that Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt had been overheard saying some rather unflattering things about Caroline.
“The nerve of her,” he said. “Calling you snobbish and rude. Why, I’ve never known you to be rude unless provoked.”
“Well, Mrs. Vanderbilt has certainly provoked me,” Caroline said while keeping an eye on her daughters, watching them move through the various figures and the complicated windmill steps. Of course, she knew her girls weren’t merely interested in learning those cotillion routines. The real reason they were there, the reason they had both taken such extra care with their morning toilette, was because of the young men at the rehearsal that day.
“Well, well, well,” Ward said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “would you look at that.” He motioned with a tilt of his head toward Charlotte, who had just dropped her glove while looking into Peter Marié’s eyes.
Caroline was stunned. Charlotte was never clumsy, and dropping her glove was no accident but rather a coded declaration of love. Her girls probably couldn’t have imagined that she, too, had once been a debutante, sending secret messages to William Backhouse Astor Jr. across the room by dropping her glove, or holding her fan in a particular way, or twisting her kerchief, certain that she’d fooled her chaperones, too. But Caroline knew all those tricks, all those hidden signals. Times may have changed, but that secret language of love hadn’t.
“Very good,” said Peter Marié with a single clap of his hands. “That was excellent. Excellent. Let’s do it again. Places, everyone! Places.” He walked over, letting his hand rest on the small of Charlotte’s back, whispering something in her ear that made her smile.
Was Peter Marié flirting back with her? Caroline observed that the entire time Charlotte was dancing with other men, she had not been able to take her eyes off Peter Marié. Mr. Marié was tall and fit, with dark hair, beautiful dark eyes and a face to be admired. But he was too old, had already declared himself a chronic tease and a confirmed bachelor.
Meanwhile, Caroline’s youngest, Carrie, who was just sixteen and had only recently been introduced to society, flitted and twirled from one dance partner to the next. So bold, so self-possessed her youngest was. She was nothing like her eldest. When Emily was a debutante, she’d been all hesitation and self-consciousness. While the other girls danced about, her precious Emily had kept herself small, those delicate shoulders rounded, her big brown eyes trained on her feet, her lips moving, counting her steps. Caroline had felt a special tenderness toward Emily then, recalling how she herself had been timid and awkward at her first dances. All this was floating through her mind when she saw Carrie stealing lovesick glances at the Reinhardt boy across the room and while exposing her ankles!
Caroline was appalled. When had her daughters developed such passions? The other young ladies managed to control themselves. But not her girls. They let their hearts lead them about, rather than their good sense.
* * *
—
When they arrived home, Caroline marched her daughters into the drawing room. They were seated side by side on the satin settee, backs straight, hands in their laps. Hade appeared just in time to bring Caroline a much-needed cup of tea and to stoke the fire. The room was quiet, the girls were waiting for her to speak, but Caroline wasn’t ready, though she understood her silence was torturing them. Of course, she knew her daughters were burdened by her position, that they were scrutinized more closely, held to a higher standard than other girls. But that was all the more reason why they had to be careful about their behavior. Especially Charlotte. Caroline always knew she was precocious, just like her father. No wonder the two were thick as thieves. Caroline was tired of watching her make a spectacle of herself, first with that coachman, now today with the cotillion leader, flitting from one inappropriate man to another like a bee going from flower to flower.
While watching Hade tend to the fire, Caroline took a sip of tea and finally said, “You must remember that you are not just ordinary girls. You are the Astor girls, and you must conduct yourselves accordingly.”
Charlotte exploded. “Why were you even there today? We’re not babies, you know. And plenty of other chaperones were there.”
“Excuse me, young lady,” said Caroline. “Those other chaperones are not your mother, and none of them would tell you what your behavior looks like to the outside world.”
“What it looks like.” Charlotte stood up and slapped her hands to her thighs. “Is that all you care about?”
“Come now, Charlotte,” said Carrie, yanking her back down on the settee.
“Peter Marié is far too old for you—besides, you know his reputation. He’ll never marry you.”
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want to get married.”
“Nonsense. And you should know, young lady, that people are starting to talk.”
“So what?” said Charlotte. “Let them talk. I don’t care.”
“Well, I do care.” A flash of anger rose up inside Caroline. She was shaking and handed off her cup to Hade, fearing she might spill her tea.
“Don’t you see?” said Charlotte, not backing down in the least. “I don’t care what society thinks. All those matrons are wasting their lives. What do they do all day other than make social calls, throw parties and wait on tenterhooks for their precious invitations to arrive from Mrs. Astor?”
“Honestly, where is this indignant behavior coming from?” Caroline stared at her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mother.” Charlotte gave off a mean-spirited laugh. “Are we expected to bow down to you, too? We’re your daughters, not your loyal subjects. And I’m not afraid of you. My goodness, even Father is terrified of you. Everyone’s terrified of you.”
Caroline was silenced, at a loss. She closed her eyes and waved her hands. “Go, go,” she said. “Leave me be.” The knot in her stomach coiled tighter.
Once again, she felt trapped between her mother’s world and the here and now. Were her daughters really so out of line? Were their actions the catastrophe she was making them out to be? Honestly, she didn’t know anymore. So her girls were flirtatious—maybe Caroline would have behaved the same way if she’d had their beauty, their confidence instead of being shy and too insecure to have even tried. She had modern girls, forward thinking, perplexing. Lately Charlotte had been talking about wanting to feed the poor, and Carrie wanted to study the artwork of great masters. But whatever for? Caroline wanted to say. The poor would only be hungry again, and it wasn’t as if Carrie was going to become an artist herself.