It was nearly two in the morning when the footmen made their way through the crowd, distributing party favors. Caroline and the other ladies were presented with diamond-encrusted brooches and matching bracelets. Caroline remembered the days when silk fans and boutonnieres were considered fine favors. She found Alva’s flaunting most distasteful, as was Ward McAllister’s obvious delight with his new ruby cufflinks.
As the hour grew later, many of the gentlemen—and a good number of ladies, too—had consumed an excessive amount of claret and champagne and were acting a fool; one of the Marie Antoinettes was clonking people on the head with her scepter, as was Little Bo-Peep with her crook. Napoleon Bonaparte was arm-wrestling with Amadeus Mozart while onlookers cheered and clapped. Never in her life did Caroline imagine she’d see the day when society’s most respected citizens would behave in such a way. Such a spectacle. She caught herself staring and at one point even laughing, both tickled and appalled. The whole thing was just that absurd.
When they were called downstairs for supper, Caroline had regained her composure and was now bracing herself, imagining to what lengths Alva had gone to impress society. The dining room was enormous with a vaulted ceiling and a hundred or more round tables, each graced with cobalt-blue-and-gold Royal Worcester china, a plethora of crystal glasses and fourteen-karat-gold cutlery. Each table had an enormous centerpiece of American Beauties, which had always been Caroline’s flower of choice. She considered it to be her flower and felt a bit encroached upon.
A commotion across the room interrupted her thoughts as she saw one of the footmen gracelessly traipsing about, nearly knocking over one of the Catherine the Greats. Apparently a pair of doves from Alva’s grand entrance had escaped and were now flapping about the dining room. As the footmen tried to wrangle the birds, one of the doves landed atop Puss’s mummified cat hat. Puss didn’t seem to notice. With enough champagne, what was one more creature perched upon one’s head?
Ward McAllister ran—he ran—to Caroline’s side, nearly breathless and eager to tell her what he’d learned. “So I spoke with Van Alen, don’t you know . . .” He was saying something about Newport, something about Cliff Walk, jabbering on when Caroline stopped, unable to listen because she saw that her seat was on the dais, next to Alva’s. She should not have been surprised. She was always seated next to the hostess. But this was different. Caroline knew that she was being used as a prop, there to make a statement, put on display, and there was nothing she could do about it. All who saw her coming stepped back, making way for her.
Ward took his seat on Caroline’s other side and proceeded to tell her about Alva rescuing Emily that day on Cliff Walk.
“What?” Caroline looked at him.
“That’s right. Emily slipped and fell. Alva just happened to have been passing by and ended up saving her life . . .”
Caroline listened as the commotion around her faded to background noise, muffled and dimmed. She tried to absorb what Ward was saying but couldn’t make sense of it all. Emily was on Cliff Walk? With Alva Vanderbilt? One thought led to another as she vaguely remembered that day in Newport when Emily came home limping with scratches and bruises on her face. Alva had been with her. For some reason she remembered the black-and-gray-striped bathing costume. It was true. Alva really did save Emily’s life. Caroline brought one hand to her mouth, the other splayed across her chest. She could feel the rapid heartbeats beneath her fingertips.
Ward went on, whispering to her, but Caroline was lost in her own thoughts. She was struggling to reconcile her resentment and anger toward Alva with her sudden gratitude for rescuing Emily.
There was another round of applause as Alva and her husband—dressed as the Duke of Guise—entered the dining room. Caroline felt the energy shift as the couple made their way to the dais. She was still letting Ward’s news sink in. Caroline had to admit she was somewhat surprised, maybe even impressed, that Alva hadn’t exploited the incident with Emily. Maybe Alva had better judgment than Caroline had given her credit for. It didn’t make Caroline like her any more, but it did stir within her a genuine feeling of appreciation.
After Alva curtsied and her husband bowed, the couple took their seats, and the footmen began bringing out the first course. Caroline was sitting so close to Alva she could smell her perfume and see the exceptional cut and clarity of her diamonds. It was only a matter of time before they would have to acknowledge each other, and when their eyes met, Caroline knew it was up to her to speak first.
Had it been anyone else, Caroline would have apologized for her past actions against Alva, for Caroline was never afraid to admit when she’d been wrong. But Caroline had already swallowed her pride by attending the ball and now, looking into Alva’s blue eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. The best she could do was say, “Thank you.” And to indicate that she was not thanking Alva for the invitation to her ball, she added, “Thank you for what you did for Emily. I didn’t know.” And with that she started on her turtle soup.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Alva
At first Alva didn’t know to what Mrs. Astor was referring. But then she understood. Someone—probably James Van Alen, since no one other than Willie knew—had told her about Cliff Walk.
“I was happy to help,” Alva said, not quite sure that the Grande Dame had heard her, for she kept her eyes fixed on her soup.
And that was it. Not another word was spoken between them.
Throughout the meal, Alva glanced around the room, amazed at how her children’s gymnasium had been transformed into such an elegant dining hall. She was serving a nine-course meal prepared by the Delmonico’s chef himself, something that no hostess had ever done before. She couldn’t help but recall the times when she didn’t know where her supper would come from or if her family would be turned out on the street. Imagine, recovering from such a humbling setback. Alva had dreamed of this night, had craved it as much as she’d once craved a morsel of food. This was a moment she wanted to mark in her bank of memories, to never be forgotten. Here she was, with Mrs. Astor seated next to her, in her palace of a home. She wished that Julia were there, but she hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the invitation. Last Alva heard, her sister had moved to Brooklyn and was devoting herself to the suffrage movement. Alva looked about the room for Jennie and Armide, hoping they would at least understand the significance of this evening. Despite what Julia thought about the house, Alva knew her mother would have been proud. This was exactly the sort of life she’d always intended for her daughters—all of them, not just Alva.
There was no denying that Alva had achieved exactly what she’d set out to do, what even Alice Vanderbilt couldn’t have done. She had gotten the Vanderbilt family admitted into society’s highest echelon. She’d won and now she was waiting for that validating effervescence to bubble up inside her like a swallow of champagne. She waited. And waited. So where was it? Alva felt underwhelmed to say the least. She watched the festivities whirling around her—the feasting and dancing, her husband and Duchy laughing jovially—and yet Alva found such little satisfaction in her triumph.