When they drew closer still, Caroline saw the city’s finest carriages lining the street. If she didn’t know better, Caroline would have thought she was in Paris with all the liveried coachmen and footmen assisting guests. An enormous awning stretched from the doorway to the curb along with a thick red carpet there to protect everyone’s delicate footwear.
As she and her daughter made their approach, Caroline heard the orchestra music spilling forth from the mansion and good lord people were dancing in the great hall by the staircase. A woman dressed as a hornet with a diamond in her cone-shaped headdress was fluttering about, stinging guests and laughing as if she’d already gotten into the punch. A man dressed as Daniel Boone was chasing Mother Goose with a tomahawk made of flowers. A woman, whom Caroline would later realize was the other Mrs. Vanderbilt—Cornelius’s wife, Alice—was dressed in a white gown studded with diamonds that shimmered like tiny lightbulbs, and in her hand, a genuine electrical torch gave off a glow each time she pressed a switch hidden inside her pocket. There was a carnival-like atmosphere in the air, and everyone was laughing and carrying on recklessly. It was as if the costumes shielded their identities, giving them permission to do away with decorum altogether. Caroline shuddered. People never would have conducted themselves in such an undignified manner at one of her balls. Never!
Unlike the majority of the guests, hiding behind their disguises, Caroline was in plain view for all to see. She hadn’t given much thought to her costume and, frankly, hadn’t had much time to prepare it, opting at the last minute to wear a Venetian gown. It was a Rococo style in purple velvet, with a dramatic neckline cut low enough to display her four diamond necklaces. She drew a deep breath, feeling everyone turn her way. The wide-eyed glances told her that no one had expected her to be there.
As Carrie excused herself to prepare for her quadrille, Caroline saw that Puss Strong had come dressed as a puss herself, complete with a taxidermy cat on her head and several tails sewn into the back of her gown. She was making her way toward Caroline when, thankfully, Ward McAllister intercepted, cutting in front of Puss and practically galloping to Caroline’s side, all dignity abandoned.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, as if he were the host, which irked Caroline to no end. She didn’t like his embracing this charade of an affair. “My Mystic Rose has arrived, and now the real ball can begin, don’t you know.”
“And who, pray tell, are you supposed to be?” she asked, scrutinizing his outfit, uncertain what was more absurd: his powdered wig, the enormous plume protruding from his cap, the bright orange stockings or the pleated gorget framing his head. Were it not for that Mystic Rose and the don’t you know, she might not have recognized him.
“Why, I am a member of the French nobility.” He offered a grand bow that was entirely out of character for Ward McAllister. She gave him a disapproving glance as he straightened up. “Step right this way,” he said, still acting his part.
Passing through the great hall to the salon, Caroline willed herself not to glance up and admire the calcium lights illuminating the room along with the largest arrangements of flowers she had ever seen, orchids and bougainvillea everywhere she turned. It was also quite obvious that Alva Vanderbilt didn’t want a single guest to overlook her very expensive Louis XV furnishings. Caroline did her best to look unmoved. She had to retain a sense of superiority and would let it be known that she was not impressed, when in truth, she was immensely so. It seemed the only way to cope was to feign disgust—even if only to herself.
Suddenly there was a round of applause as a trumpeter began to play and a flock of white doves appeared from behind a curtain. Just as they flapped their wings and started taking flight, they revealed the hostess herself, Alva Vanderbilt, in grand preposterous style. Caroline assumed that Princess de Croy standing next to her was Viscountess Mandeville.
After the doves cleared her view, the first thing Caroline noticed was that Alva was also wearing a Venetian gown. Hers was a lemon-and-white brocade, and she had Catherine the Great’s pearls about her neck. Alva looked like a princess, but Caroline reminded herself that she was still the queen.
Through the crowd of adoring guests, Caroline and Alva locked eyes. It was like a matador facing off with a bull. Alva stood, waiting to receive her guests alongside the viscountess, and Caroline felt propelled toward her. The side conversations had stopped. All eyes were on Caroline and Alva, everyone waiting to see what would happen when the two came face-to-face.
Alva spoke first, her Southern accent syrupy sweet. “I’m so pleased that you could join us tonight, Mrs. Astor. Especially on such short notice. I do hope you’ll forgive my not receiving you that day when you came by.”
Touché. Caroline took a moment before responding. “Mrs. Vanderbilt, you seem to have outdone yourself tonight,” she said with a regal nod, and then turned away, only to be greeted by a masked man in yellow tights and a floor-length cloak.
“Isn’t this marvelous?” he said. “I’m mad as hops to see you here.” The accent gave him away. James Van Alen was all smiles. “How splendid that you’ve put your collieshangies aside. Emily would have loved that.”
Emily! For a split second, Caroline expected to see her daughter standing next to him.
“Emily was forever in Alva’s debt,” he said. “That day in Newport, we might have lost her had it not been for Alva . . .”
Oh, Emily. The ache in Caroline’s heart made it hard to focus on what Van Alen was saying and yet, she longed to talk about her daughter just to keep her memory close and alive. She was about to ask Van Alen to slow down and explain it all, when Carrie appeared and Van Alen vanished, swept away by another masked man.
“Mother,” said Carrie, “may I present Mr. Wendell Perkins.”
“Mrs. Astor, it’s a true honor.” He offered a ceremonial bow. He was wearing a diamond aigrette as if he’d stepped out of the days of Henri III.
Caroline sensed that Carrie wasn’t truly interested in this young man. Judging by the way she’d haphazardly introduced him to Ward as well, Caroline could tell that Wendell Perkins was just another admirer, wanting to meet Carrie’s mother. Still, Caroline and Ward exchanged pleasantries with the young man until the first quadrille began, and Carrie and Wendell excused themselves to prepare for their own presentation.
As soon as they left, Ward McAllister’s gossipy nature took over. “What was that business Van Alen was saying about Alva and Emily?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Well, I assure you, I will get to the bottom of it at once.” And off he went.
Caroline’s head began to throb; the pulsing of her temples seemed to be keeping time with the orchestra as they moved into the ballroom for the quadrilles. The majority of the presentations left much to be desired as far as Caroline was concerned. She found the Mother Goose and hobbyhorse routines unintentionally laughable and the Dresden quadrille far too dark. The last dance, the one Caroline thought was the most impressive, and certainly the most dignified, was Carrie’s star quadrille.