Caroline had purposely left Alva off last night’s guest list, but still that woman had managed to make her presence known. In fact, she was constantly intruding on Caroline’s life these days. All night long she’d overheard people talking in rapt anticipation of Alva Vanderbilt’s ball at Petit Chateau. Petit Chateau—Caroline scowled. No one named their city homes. It simply wasn’t done.
The event was two months away, and already everyone was all aflutter over the guest of honor, Viscountess Mandeville. Caroline resented the encroachment and found everyone’s preoccupation with the Vanderbilt ball most upsetting. The New York Times had already declared it the season’s most anticipated ball. In the past, they’d said that about Caroline’s ball. She decided she didn’t care. She was still the head of society and she had no intention of attending Alva’s masquerade ball.
* * *
—
Later that afternoon she sat at her dressing room table, her black pompadour wig, which she’d worn the night before, resting on its stand. Looking in the mirror, she observed how gray she’d gone and how much her hair had thinned. Her lady’s maid hadn’t mentioned it, but over time, Caroline had become aware of the pale, ever-widening spot on the crown of her head, the size of a coin. Though her hats and bonnets had camouflaged the situation at first, in the end, the only remedy was a wig. Or wigs, as it turned out, for now there was a separate closet that housed the various styles in varying shades of browns and blacks. The fragile condition of Caroline’s hair and her need for wigs was something that she and her maid addressed without ever discussing outright.
With her fingertips, she worried her center part, growing wider all the time. When she couldn’t look anymore, she reached for her wig, squaring it on her scalp just as Carrie appeared in the doorway. Through the looking glass Caroline could see that something was terribly wrong.
“Heavens, child”—she turned around, facing her—“what’s wrong? Are you unwell?”
Carrie’s shoulders were slack.
Caroline pushed away from her dressing table and went to her daughter’s side, placing her hand on Carrie’s forehead, feeling for fever. Her daughter had just returned from practicing her quadrille for the Vanderbilts’ ball, of all things. Carrie and her friends were performing an homage to the king of Prussia, Frederick the Great. Caroline felt Carrie’s forehead a second time. “You haven’t got a fever.”
“I’m not sick.”
“What is it then?”
“All the girls were talking about the Vanderbilt ball at rehearsal.”
“This is what you’re so upset about? That silly ball?”
“Oh, Mother, why do you hate Mrs. Vanderbilt so?”
“I don’t hate her,” Caroline said, trying to sound indifferent. “I simply have no use for her.”
“I don’t think you understand. Alva Vanderbilt is shrewd. She’s calculating. They’re all saying she’s out to take over society. To take it away from you. They’re all saying how she has a new vision for society. Charlotte’s been hearing talk of it, too. You can’t afford to have her as an enemy anymore. You either need to join forces with her, or risk losing your position. And I’m sorry, but if you do lose your position, what happens to the rest of us? We’re going to be has-beens.”
“Oh pish-posh.” Caroline waved off Carrie’s concern. “That will never happen.”
“But it’s already starting. All my friends—they’ve all received their invitations to the Vanderbilt ball and I haven’t.”
“Your invitation just hasn’t arrived, is all.”
“No, you don’t understand. The others received their invitations more than a week ago. It’s obvious that I’m not going to be invited. How am I going to tell the others? We’ve been rehearsing our quadrille for weeks. You have to find a way to mend fences with Mrs. Vanderbilt.”
Caroline felt a barb run down her spine. “There’ll be other balls,” she said without much conviction.
Carrie looked up, glassy-eyed. Caroline hated for her daughters to be weak and Carrie knew that. “As you said, there’ll be other balls. I’ll be fine.” A tear slid down her cheek. “But what about you? What about your future?” And with that, she covered her face in her small, pale hands and wept so hard her shoulders shook.
A lump rose up in Caroline’s throat. “Well, there’s obviously been some mistake,” she said.
Carrie hiccuped, breaking into another spasm of tears.
Caroline was seething. She felt manipulated. How dare Alva Vanderbilt punish Carrie like this? She would not tolerate this kind of societal warfare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Caroline
The next day, Caroline called on Ward McAllister. No one understood the intricacies of society better than Ward, and he knew Carrie, even loved her like a daughter. Caroline was certain that, together, they could figure out a solution. The two were huddled in his library, surrounded by heavy dark paneling and plush velvet drapes that let in a single slant of sunlight. Tea service on a silver tray was perched on a table between them. Caroline was demanding they call for all of society to boycott the Vanderbilt ball.
“On what grounds?” Ward looked at her skeptically. “Just because your daughter wasn’t invited? Come now, Lina.”
The look on his face made her realize how ridiculous she sounded. “But Carrie is brokenhearted. I have to do something. And now she’s worried that Alva is going to take over society.” Caroline laughed as if that were absurd.
“Well”—McAllister plucked a sugar cube with a pair of gold tongs—“it’s no secret, that is part of her grand plan. She is very crafty. You need to watch her.”
So it was true. Something shattered inside her, like glass breaking just beneath her skin. She’d thought Carrie was exaggerating, being overly dramatic. Caroline tried to play it off as nothing, dismissing the notion by rolling her eyes—rolling one’s eyes! Such a pointless gesture, a weak display of disapproval that she had always detested, and yet here she’d gone and done it. “Well, from what I hear,” she said, “this is going to be more of a circus than a ball anyway.” Normally she was better at keeping her opinions to herself and immediately regretted having said anything. She sounded petty and defensive.
“It may be a circus, don’t you know,” said McAllister, stirring his tea, “but you can’t escape the chatter about costumes and invitations and all.” McAllister scooted forward in his chair as if their discussion was about to take a significant turn. “I’ve just come from the New York Times, and they told me that Alva Vanderbilt has invited them to a preview tour of Petit Chateau.”