Losing Jeremiah must have had something to do with it. Earlier in the evening she thought she saw him. Could have sworn he was one of the King Lears. It was just too hard to fathom that she’d never see him again, that she’d never had the chance to say goodbye. She felt tears building up behind her eyes and willed them away.
Mamie Fish interrupted her thoughts. She’d come dressed as Elizabeth I, her gown made of gold with a silver farthingale and a matching neck ruff that made it impossible for her to turn her head. In typical Mamie style she said, “I hope you and Willie don’t end up in bankruptcy after this ball.” She laughed, making everyone nearby turn around.
“Oh, go on, Mamie,” said Alva without cracking a smile. “I’m serious”—she gestured in the direction of the ballroom—“go on.”
But Mamie stayed where she was, undeterred.
Soon Puss joined them, holding one of her many tails in her gloved hands.
“I’m so glad you were able to get that bird off your cat,” said Mamie with another sharp laugh.
Puss patted her hat as if making sure the taxidermy was still in place. “Now, Alva, tell us about the new opera house. Is it still scheduled to open in October? Do you know who will be performing yet? Are you pleased with the seating . . . ?”
Alva was still fielding questions when Oliver Belmont appeared at her side, dressed in yellow-and-red-silk tights and a black velvet cloak. “Mrs. Vanderbilt, may I have the honor of the next dance?” He leaned in and whispered, “You look like you need rescuing.”
And she did.
“I’m warning you,” he said, leading her onto the dance floor, “I’m very light on my feet.”
In fact, Oliver Belmont was indeed light on his feet, a far better dancer than she would have expected. If he was at all self-conscious about dancing with a woman taller than himself, it wasn’t evident.
“You’ve pulled off quite a victory tonight,” he said. “So what’s wrong? Was the foie gras not to your liking?”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t smiled much tonight.”
“That’s because I’m exhausted.”
He nodded, unconvinced. “So what’s next?”
“Next?” she laughed. “You mean this isn’t enough?”
“Nah”—he smiled and twirled her around—“not for someone like you.”
“Someone like me? What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“No, tell me.”
He sighed. “All right. Very well. You, Mrs. Vanderbilt, are never quite satisfied with what you’ve got. I know that because you remind me a little of myself.”
She was facing him now, his gaze fixed on hers. She’d never really noticed how lovely his eyes were. Or how comfortable she was with him, which suddenly made her most uncomfortable.
She looked across the way and saw Willie K. waltzing with Duchy, who, in Alva’s mind, was the grandest of all the Princesses de Croy. She was smiling, laughing at something Willie just said, and it pleased Alva to see her friend enjoying herself. She was grateful that Willie was keeping an eye on her, especially since the viscount had been unable to attend.
When the dance ended, Alva thanked Oliver, though she wouldn’t have minded a second dance with him.
No sooner had she returned to her hostess duties than Ward McAllister came up to her explaining that Mrs. Astor had left early, at half past three. “And don’t you know, the press left right behind her . . .”
While he was talking, Alva thought about all the reporters scrambling back to their desks, writing up their articles that would appear in the next day’s society pages. She looked around, distracted by her various guests: Oliver Belmont was now waltzing with Puss; Alice Vanderbilt’s light switch had stopped functioning, and Cornelius was attempting to fix it; Mamie and Tessie Oelrichs were bickering over who had first decided to come as Elizabeth I. Ward was still talking about Mrs. Astor when Alva excused herself to steal Duchy away from Willie. In the midst of some 1,500 people, she felt lonely and wanted a quiet moment with her friend.
As the evening wore on, Alva was exhausted and, frankly, a bit bored. Her wig was heavy and hot, and her gown was digging into her waist. Willie was offering guided tours of the house as if he’d been the genius behind it all. Everywhere she looked she saw bits and pieces of discarded costumes: a trampled mask in the hallway, plumes that had come loose from someone’s hat, a gentleman’s gloves, a white powdered wig that turned out to be Willie K.’s. The hour was growing late; it was nearly dawn. Soon her staff would be setting up for the morning buffet, and then, after all the planning and all the anticipation, it would be over. Done.
* * *
—
Hours later, the last of her guests were gone. Willie K. had passed out just before daybreak, having to be escorted upstairs by a footman. The sun was coming up now, and other than the servants who were putting her house back in order, Petit Chateau was eerily quiet. As tired as she was, Alva knew she’d never be able to sleep. She started back at the beginning, reliving the evening moment by moment, already rewriting her personal assessment of the ball. Her mind canceled out those instances where she’d felt disappointed or flattened. She negated any details that were less than spectacular, less than perfect, until her memory had crystallized the unprecedented success that she hoped her ball had truly been. But of course, the press would have the final say on that.
It was going on eight o’clock in the morning. Willie and the children were still asleep, and Alva was wide awake, a nervous energy festering inside her. When she couldn’t take the quiet another minute, she reached for her overcoat and satchel and stepped outside into the morning air.
The red carpet that had been pristine the night before was now trampled on by thousands of footsteps. It was a cold, crisp day already set in motion: children being marched off to school by their governesses; businessmen in their bowlers, carrying attaché cases and walking sticks; carriages and hacks maneuvering up and down Fifth Avenue.
Alva saw a newsboy standing on the corner beside stacks of papers held together with fraying twine. Her heart began beating a bit faster. She felt like an actress or an opera star anticipating her opening night review. Those newspapers held her fate, and after buying one of each, Alva, still dressed in her Venetian gown, her wig and her pearls, sat down on a nearby bench and began scouring the papers one by one until she came to the one article, the only one that really mattered.
There it was, a quote from her harshest critic, someone who rarely spoke to reporters:
“We have no right to exclude those whom the growth of this great country has brought forward, provided they are not vulgar in speech and appearance,” said Mrs. William B. Astor as she was leaving Petit Chateau, adding, “The time has come for the Vanderbilts.”