Caroline heard the loud gong of the front door bell. A log gave off a sharp crackle, shooting sparks past the bronze andirons onto the marble floor, where they dulled and died. She heard footsteps in the hallway and realized she’d been crying. Caroline quickly composed herself, clutching her silk handkerchief between her fingers after she’d dabbed her eyes. The footsteps drew closer, so heavy she thought it was William. Is he back? Her heart lifted as the footsteps stopped. The doorknob turned.
“Madam?” Hade entered the room, setting a tray on the table before her. “I brought you some chocolate biscuits and tea.”
She watched him tending to the fire, realizing that aside from her children, he was the only other person she talked to on a daily basis. Being in mourning she had excused her social secretary, who was in Europe for six months. Her lady’s maid and the rest of her staff—even Smithy, Abigail and Sissy—tiptoed about, not wanting to disturb her. She felt so isolated, and though she had wanted to strictly observe the traditional practices, Caroline was beginning to question the wisdom of being in full mourning. Being alone for so long with one’s thoughts spelled trouble.
“If ever the grieving should be kept busy, too busy to think, it’s during our time of mourning,” she said, unaware at first that she was speaking out loud. “Without balls and dinner parties to plan, the opera and ballet to attend, one is left with little to do but think. Thinking”—she shook her head—“thinking can be a dangerous thing.”
“Indeed,” Hade said, pouring her tea. “Best to always keep one’s mind occupied as best one can.” He set her teacup on a saucer and handed it to her.
After he left, Caroline reached up and touched the locket about her neck that contained Emily’s hair. She squeezed it, as if it had magical powers, and kept waiting for her world to turn right again. For things to go back as they once were. Emily’s absence felt as if it were something temporary. Something still not quite real. Any minute now she expected her to come through the door. How could it be that she is gone forever?
* * *
—
That Hade also suffered from insomnia was, for Caroline, a blessing, and in those days of mourning, it wasn’t unusual for the two of them to sit down in the middle of the night and pass the time with a few hands of cooncan. Other times they’d sit in the library, where he would read aloud to her, both their slippered feet sharing the tapestry-covered ottoman between their wingback chairs.
Somewhere along the line she had begun calling him by his first name, Thomas, rather than Hade, and he in turn now called her Mrs. Astor rather than madam. She thought Thomas had a marvelous reading voice, rich and deeply resonant. They discovered a mutual love of Russian novels, and after completing War and Peace they had moved on to Crime and Punishment.
One night, even though she was tired and probably could have drifted off, she fought sleep, and at midnight, she went to her dressing table for her wig before heading downstairs. She went into the library and waited. And waited. It had never occurred to her that Thomas wouldn’t be there. She felt foolish for so desperately wanting her time with him, but his company had been the only bright spot while she was in mourning.
In mourning. These past few months had opened her eyes. Now she understood how her mother must have felt, over and over again. Losing a child—it wasn’t natural, it wasn’t right. For the first time she understood why her mother was the way she was. She had needed all the rituals, the traditions and routines to hold her together. Caroline understood that now, because when Emily died, she had taken Caroline’s lightness with her. All that newfound joy and freedom were gone, along with looking to the future. She wasn’t ready for change. She didn’t want it, couldn’t handle it. Now what Caroline needed was stability. She needed things to stay exactly as they were. She was struggling every day, clinging to the tried and true, things she could depend on.
That night, while waiting for Thomas, Caroline crawled back inside her mother’s world and pulled the lid shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alva
NEW YORK, 1882
When Emily died, Alva took it hard. It wasn’t that she and Emily were so terribly close, nothing like Alva and Duchy or Alva and Jeremiah, but still a friend. And so young. And a mother, a wife, a sister and a daughter. With everyone else Alva had lost, from her mother to the Commodore, there’d been time to prepare, to enter the sickrooms, sit by their bedsides, hold their hands and say her goodbyes. Emily had gone so quickly, so unexpectedly. The shock was what she couldn’t get past. It made her realize how precious and unpredictable life was, that nothing could be taken for granted, and yet she still did all the time.
She had wanted to attend the funeral, but of course, she and Willie weren’t invited. Instead, they’d paid a condolence call to James where the three of them sat around the fireplace, reminiscing about the dinners they’d all shared, about the birthday parties for the children, their christenings, how every year, the day after Christmas, they’d all get together and exchange gifts and drink mulled wine, laughing over one thing or another. Emily’s laugh—once you got her going she couldn’t stop, and that had always made Alva laugh all the harder. Oh, how she’d miss that about Emily. James had choked up now and again, having to remove his monocle in order to wipe his eyes. When the nurse brought the baby out and placed her in James’s arms, Alva had nearly burst into tears herself.
The next day, Alva mustered up the courage to drop off her calling card for Mrs. Astor with the left-hand corner turned down in a show of sympathy. She’d wanted nothing in exchange, only merely to pay her respects, and for once Alva didn’t take it personally when Mrs. Astor hadn’t responded or acknowledged the gesture.
Time moved on and while Mrs. Astor remained in mourning, Alva, like so many up-and-coming hostesses, made the most of the Grande Dame’s absence from the social scene. Alva was busy. She paid social calls, attended teas and luncheons and made exorbitant donations to the other matrons’ charities, but mostly, she went back and forth between two construction sites. Of the two projects, she had far less influence over the new opera house.
From the start, Alva thought Mr. Cady was wrong for the job, and she’d been right. The board members, especially her father-in-law, only pacified her when she showed up at their meetings, voicing concerns over the design for the facade. They’d nodded when she said it had no style and the stone was all wrong, but didn’t do a thing to remedy it. She realized there was nothing she could do about the exterior now, but she wasn’t about to keep quiet on the interior.
Bypassing the men, she met directly with the architect at Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street. The sound of hammering was coming from all directions as she walked alongside Mr. Cady, passing the sawhorses, ladders standing two stories high, the slabs of marble and massive steel support beams.
She reached into her satchel and retrieved a sketch she’d drawn the night before. “Now this is what I had in mind for the ceiling.” She handed him the piece of paper. “As you can see, I’ve indicated where the fresco begins, and see how it runs right to the edges here?”