After luncheon, as Alva’s carriage made its way down Fifth Avenue, she couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling creeping up on her. By the time she returned home, she was clobbered by the horrible realization that all her husband could give her—even with his inheritance—was never going to be enough. True to form, just as she’d once envied anyone with a prettier rag doll, a faster wagon, a fancier dress, Alva wanted to have the best, to be the best. So Alva didn’t just want a house like the Stewarts’. No, she wanted one that was even bigger, even better.
She feared she’d never be fulfilled. It happened every time. Just when she thought she had all that she wanted, that her cup had indeed runneth over, some trapdoor inside her would open and let everything drain out, leaving her empty once again. And that’s when she would up the ante. No sooner had her husband inherited $2 million than she wanted $2 million more. It was obvious now that she was destined to be unhappy, unfulfilled. She was insatiable, her desires too vast. If she ever wanted to be content, she was going to have to learn to settle for less and be grateful for what she had.
Alva wrestled with this for the next several days. After all, who was she to have such lofty dreams? What right did she have to demand so much from the world? How quickly she had become accustomed to the Vanderbilt riches—plentiful food, the finest jewelry, clothing of the best fabrics and designed by the most talented couturiers. The more she had, the more she wanted. She was becoming greedy, taking such luxuries for granted, which she swore she’d never do. She had to right her ways. And quickly.
She tried convincing herself that a grand home wasn’t important. And yet she’d seen what owning a magnificent mansion like the Stewarts’ had done for Cornelia. Before building that house Cornelia Stewart was considered a swell—a swell of the worst kind. Flashy and ostentatious. The Knickerbockers had refused to open their doors to her. But all that changed with the house—the house that had already eclipsed Alva and Willie K.’s best efforts.
She would have to find another way to get ahead, a way based on her own merits, her own wits. She told herself it would be more gratifying that way. Wouldn’t it be?
* * *
—
But all those mental calisthenics fell apart one afternoon during a visit with Jeremiah. While Willie and the rest of the Vanderbilts wanted nothing more to do with him, Alva had settled back into her friendship with him. After all, he was an outsider, as was she.
She arrived at his hotel room at the Glenham on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Second Street, where he’d been living for the past year after selling his townhouse in order to pay his lawyers.
“How were you able to get away?” he asked, letting her inside.
“I told Willie I was visiting a friend.”
“Oh, we’re so discreet, aren’t we,” he said. “Just like a husband and his mistress. But without the copulating.”
She laughed, shrugging off her coat, taking a seat at a little three-legged table in the corner, near the only window. A full ashtray and a half-empty bottle of whiskey were resting on top, along with two glasses.
“Is it too early for a drink?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
“That’s my girl,” he laughed, pouring her a whiskey. “To us,” he said, tilting his glass to hers.
They started up right away gossiping about Alice and Cornelius, about Billy and Louisa. When he mentioned that Billy was spending $3 million to build two mansions—one for him and one for the daughters, Alva sat up straight.
“For Margaret and Florence?” Alva gave him a puzzled look. “What about us? He didn’t even offer to help us with our new place.” She looked at Jeremiah’s flattened expression and caught herself, leaning over to squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry. You’re the last person I should be complaining to.”
“Darling, I’ll commiserate with you about those stingy Vanderbilts all day long.” He laughed as if this was much funnier than it actually was. And he kept on laughing, which turned into a violent coughing fit before he finally broke down into a series of heaving sobs.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Jeremiah apologized as he dried his eyes. “I’m surprised I held out this long. I’ve been crying like a baby all morning.”
“What’s going on?”
He propped his cigarette in the corner of his mouth while he refilled his glass. “Remember that $400,000 that went into my trust?”
She nodded, bracing herself.
“Well, I tried to make a withdrawal and it turns out, thanks to Billy, I can’t touch a penny of it. I’m only allowed to specify in my own will who that money goes to. So how do you like that?” He laughed even as his face grimaced. “I’m worth more dead than alive.” He looked at her, his eyes rimmed with fresh tears. “I’m broke. Well”—he shrugged—“not entirely broke, but how long will that pittance I ended up with last me?”
“Listen to me”—Alva had inched closer in her chair, taking Jeremiah’s hands in hers—“I have some money set aside. It’s not much, but if you ever need it, you come to me, you understand? I mean it.”
He patted her hand. “Now why would you do that for me?”
“Maybe it’s my way of rebelling against the mighty Vanderbilts.”
* * *
—
The next day, Willie K. came home in a foul mood. Brushing past the butler, he plunked down his top hat and gloves and hurled his walking stick at the rack in the corner.
“What’s the matter with you?” Alva had been in the drawing room, reading to Consuelo. After handing her off to the nurse, she went to Willie’s side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” he said, reaching for a decanter of bourbon. “I can’t seem to catch a break.”
“What happened?”
“James invited me to sit in on a poker game at the Union Club.” He poured a generous drink and took a long pull. “Those bastards wouldn’t even let me in the door. Van Alen’s fine—they let him join the club, but they won’t even let me visit as a guest. I’m sick of being treated like a second-class citizen in this town.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You’d think after all this time, after the inheritance, they would see that I’m as good as any of them. I’m sure as hell wealthier than most of them.” He took another drink. “And then I heard they even accepted Alexander Stewart’s membership—they were going to let him join if he hadn’t gone and died on them. They’d accept him—a dry goods merchant—but not one single Vanderbilt . . .”