“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”
Charlotte stopped, just inches from Duncan. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m not going to marry Coleman.”
“Oh, come now. Stop with this foolishness.”
Duncan pulled Charlotte protectively to his side. “Mrs. Astor, if I may say something—”
Caroline turned to Duncan. “Actually, no you may not. In fact, Mr. Briar, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with my daughter. In private.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” said Charlotte, clinging ever closer to him. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Duncan.”
“Fine, have it your way.” She sighed, fighting to keep her voice even. She heard the clickety-clack of horse-drawn carriages approaching; their guests were starting to arrive.
“I thought you’d be more reasonable, more mature about all this, but I can see now that you leave me no choice. You say you don’t want to marry Mr. Drayton, then we’ll have to make other arrangements.”
“What do you mean?” She gripped Duncan’s hand.
Caroline dreaded what she was about to say, but the words were right there—her mother was right there, too. “Since you sympathize with the poor so much, maybe you’ll enjoy being one of them.”
Charlotte’s hand slipped from Duncan’s as the color drained from her face.
“If you don’t marry Coleman Drayton, you’ll be on your own. I mean it, Charlotte. You won’t get a dime of your inheritance and not a penny from here on out. And—”
“Mother, how can—”
Caroline raised her hand. She wasn’t finished yet. “And if Mr. Briar agrees to leave here—leave New York, that is—I will make arrangements to help him secure employment with another family elsewhere.”
“And if I don’t wish to leave?” he asked, gallantly, foolishly.
“Then I’ll see to it that no proper family in this country will hire you.”
“But, Mrs. Astor, I have to work.”
“Perhaps you can shovel manure for $2 a day.”
“Mother! It’s not Duncan’s fault.”
“I suspect you’re right about that, but nonetheless, Charlotte, you have a very big decision to make. You can choose to live in poverty with your Mr. Duncan or you can marry Mr. Drayton.”
“But, Mother—that’s blackmail.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“How can you do this? That’s not fair.”
Caroline stared into her daughter’s eyes. “I have news for you, Charlotte. Life isn’t always fair.”
THE SOCIETY PAGES
1880–1884
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Society
NEW YORK, 1880
They call it Society News, but we call it what it is—gossip! And gossip is nothing new to us. Why, we’ve been whispering, cackling and spreading the most outlandish rumors about friends and foes alike for as far back as we can remember. Only now, reporters at the daily newspapers and weeklies act as though they’ve invented this concept, and they do seem to find us endlessly fascinating. Frankly, they can’t stop writing about our comings and goings.
They report on everything from the balls and dinner parties we attend to the menus we serve, the flowers we display and of course the gowns we wear down to the brocaded silk trim. They investigate us rather thoroughly, and it seems that a disgruntled footman or maid is only too happy to mention that so-and-so’s husband frequents a brothel in Murray Hill, and so-and-so’s wife gets into the brandy before noon. But of course, the most engrossing stories come from none other than Ward McAllister, who simply cannot keep his mouth shut.
That man loves talking to the press, and he isn’t always kind. After one of Lady Paget’s recent extravaganzas, he said to Town Topics, “The boeuf bourguignon—if you could manage to cut through it—was dreadful, and she did not properly frappé the wine.” The week before he had lambasted Penelope Easton in the World, saying, “The hostess who serves salmon during the winter, regardless what sauce accompanies it, does grave injury to herself and her guests.” The New York Times also recently quoted him saying, “A dinner invitation, once accepted, is a sacred obligation. If you die before the dinner takes place, your executor must attend.”
It seems that if we’re not reading about Ward McAllister’s pompous pontifications, we’re reading about the construction of Alva Vanderbilt’s future mansion. Just this morning we open our newspapers and see the headline: The Vanderbilts Transform Fifth Avenue. The New York Times has called it an impressive undertaking. The New York Herald said it was expected to be vast and expansive. The New York Enquirer called it a work of splendor and grandeur in the making.
Not since the construction of the Stewarts’ marble mansion has a private home been so generously celebrated in the press. And back then, that had set off a building frenzy among us as we all raced to build mansions of our own. The Knickerbockers thought it was a vulgar display of wealth. We knew they laughed at us, joking about how we were all going bankrupt trying to outbuild and outspend each other. But it certainly hasn’t taken long for those very same Knickerbockers to follow suit.
Ever since the Vanderbilts broke ground on their mansion, we’ve noticed the Brownfields have added gables out front and the Belmonts and Chews have both put up columns at their homes, hoping they’ll appear more stately. Rumor has it that even Mrs. Astor is thinking about making some enhancements to her townhome as well.
They’ll never admit it, but we know the Knickerbockers are trying to keep up with Alva and with us, the nouveau riche. A bit of the tail wagging the dog.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Caroline
By the start of a new decade Caroline had married off three of her four daughters and was a grandmother many times over with yet more grandchildren on the way. One thing about the Astor women—they were a fruitful lot.
Emily had a four-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son and had just announced that she was pregnant again. Helen had a one-year-old boy and was also expecting again, and Charlotte had a three-month-old daughter. Though all the girls had nurses and maids to help with everything from baths to diaper changes, Caroline had encouraged her daughters to be as involved with their children’s care as she had been with her own. Caroline’s growing family kept her busier than usual, her mornings spent going from her mother’s house to her daughters’, visiting them all before she tended to her correspondence and other social engagements.