“And did you see the part about you, Mother?” Helen picked up the newspaper and read: “‘We can only assume that Mrs. Astor will be unable to defend her son-in-law’s egregious behavior this time.’”
This time? It was true that in the past Caroline had publicly defended him—claiming she didn’t notice that he spoke with an accent and explaining away the monocle by saying he was nearsighted and couldn’t find spectacles that fit properly. He was Emily’s husband after all, and for her daughter’s sake, she’d tell all who would listen what a wonderful son-in-law she had. Still, as Caroline read on, she thought, Why did they drag my name into this? Thanks to the press, Caroline felt as if she was always being watched. People knew where she lived now, and one afternoon she’d found complete strangers looking through her downstairs windows. After that, she ordered the drapes be drawn shut at all times. Now whenever she went out in public, she kept her face covered by a veil.
Emily called the maid to take the children, and after they were gone she said, “My husband doesn’t deserve this. Why are people so vicious? My own father has never even given him a chance.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “you knew Father hated James when you married him and—”
“Oh hush,” said Caroline. “Your father does not hate James.”
“The press is out to destroy him,” said Emily. “He’s a sensitive man. This will devastate him.”
“You have to do something about this,” said Helen, looking at Caroline as if she had some magical powers, some invisible shield that could protect them all—and she wished that were true, but the press was too formidable, even for her.
Caroline turned away, feigning interest in a family portrait on the wall, recalling the times she and William had mocked Van Alen. Sometimes Caroline had even poked fun at her son-in-law simply because it gave her some common ground with William. Instead of protecting her daughter, Caroline had been cruel; her jabs at Emily’s husband were merciless and at times even exaggerated in hopes of fusing her own fractured marriage. What kind of mother does such a thing? The guilt grabbed hold of her, and though she still had plenty of misgivings about James and all the Van Alens, she knew that for Emily’s sake she had to do something to spare her son-in-law from the press.
“You pay that story in the paper no mind,” she told Emily.
“You do realize, though,” said Charlotte, “this isn’t going to stop with just that one article, Mother. This is just the beginning. I’m afraid the newspapers are going to have a field day with this and there’s nothing even you, Mrs. Astor, can do about it.”
Was Charlotte right? Caroline couldn’t accept that. She was still the most powerful woman in New York and had always had the ability to sway public opinion. But the press presented a new challenge. She wasn’t sure how the game was played anymore, but she knew someone who did.
* * *
—
The following day she summoned Ward McAllister to her home. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said after Hade had shown him into the library.
“But of course,” said Ward. “Don’t you know, I’m always at your disposal, my Mystic Rose.”
Ward was wearing lavender kid gloves with a complementary violet boutonniere in his lapel. The tall collar on his white shirt stood at attention, and like most society men, Ward was swept up in the latest fashion trends. Even Jack, on the brink of manhood, tried desperately to keep up with the modern styles, but those popular snug-fitting creaseless trousers, like the ones Ward was wearing that day, did Jack no favors. The boy could not control his appetite even though he knew his weight held him back. Poor Jack required a mounting block to get on his horse, and each time he laughed, his belly shook like aspic.
“Before I forget,” Ward said, taking the chair opposite Caroline, “I have something very interesting to tell you. You’ll never believe what just happened.” She could see that he was wound up even before he sprang back to his feet, passing his walking stick from hand to hand as if it were a theatrical prop. “As I was leaving the Knickerbocker Club earlier today, a reporter from Town Topics approached me.”
Caroline didn’t say a word. Town Topics was quickly becoming one of the most widely read weeklies in the city.
“This reporter said I was—and I quote—‘a wealth of information’ where society is concerned.”
“That you are,” she said, feeling nostalgic for the days when the two of them had plotted out the first Patriarch Ball, how they’d labored over every detail of her annual clambake. Together they had made a serious study of all the ways in which polite society was to behave. Now her dear friend and business partner was more concerned with high fashion and seeing his name in the society pages. He’d even recently lent his name to a newspaper advertisement for Dr. James P. Campbell’s Safe Arsenic Complexion Wafers.
“Believe it or not, the reporter said I should write a book—my memoirs.”
“Your memoirs?” She suppressed the urge to laugh.
“Oh yes. And then, don’t you know, he started asking me about you.”
“Oh?” She certainly didn’t like the sound of that.
“He was quite interested in speaking with you, but naturally I told him that was out of the question. ‘Mrs. Astor does not give interviews. She’s extremely private, a lady of absolute elegance and style,’ I said.” He paused, beaming at her.
She didn’t respond and found his servile manner most off-putting. It was as if he expected something in return, just like everyone else who tried to flatter her. This saddened her greatly because she thought their relationship more genuine and not reliant upon the need for pandering.
“I said explicitly that ‘Mrs. Astor never speaks to the press.’”
This was true. If it were left up to Caroline, her name would never have appeared in the papers. The first time she saw her name in the New York Times had been her wedding announcement. The second time it was a lengthy article about her annual ball, and in thirteen separate mentions, she had been referred to as Mrs. William Backhouse Astor Jr. Each time she saw William’s middle name, there in black and white, it conjured up visions of outhouses. That same day she’d ordered her social secretary to have new calling cards engraved and had insisted that reporters and others only refer to her from now on as Mrs. William B. Astor Jr.
“Now tell me,” Ward said, “what was it you needed to see me about?”
For a moment Caroline had almost forgotten the whole point of their visit. “Well,” she said, “I need your help with a sensitive matter.” Even as she said those words, she felt the absurdity of thinking she could trust him. Though there was a time when she most certainly did trust him. In the past, she’d talked to him at length about Emily’s marriage and the duel. About Charlotte and Coleman Drayton—especially since William had wanted nothing to do with his future son-in-law. Ward had been the one to assure her that in both cases she had done the right thing. He’d always been there to listen and provide guidance when there was no one else to turn to.