Julia didn’t say anything, but Alva felt her sister’s body go stiff. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Julia turned and looked at her. “For a moment there, you were starting to sound like yourself again. You were doing fine until you mentioned the money. You just had to bring that up, didn’t you?”
“Now, Julia—”
“You were always so ashamed of being poor. I never understood that. We were still the same people, we just had less money. And it wasn’t like we were poor because we were bad people or because we did something to deserve it. We just had a streak of bad luck is all. Could have happened to anyone. I thought you would have learned something from that.”
“I did. I learned that I never want to be poor again.”
“You still don’t get it.”
“Oh, come on now, Julia. I’m just trying to help—”
“I don’t need your help. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want your money. And I’m not impressed by your big fancy house or your clothes or all your wealth, so you don’t need to flaunt it.” She turned and started to walk away.
“Julia . . . at least let me give you a ride back.”
“No thank you. I’d rather take the train.”
She watched her sister walk away, and it was only her pride that kept Alva from chasing after her. Did Julia think Alva had forgotten what it was like to go hungry, to go without? If she hadn’t married Willie, who knows what might have become of her?
There was a time when all she wanted was to take Mrs. Astor’s place. Now, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. It was all such a silly game. Julia had just made her realize that she no longer knew how to reach out to people just as herself. She always relied on her money, thinking she had to impress them. It was exhausting. Something as simple as paying a friendly social call required wearing just the right dress and jewels. She thought about how much she’d spent on Emily’s wedding present, on all the birthday presents for her children. She’d done the same for Tessie’s children and had thrown elaborate dinner parties for Ophelia and even Mamie—whom she didn’t really like—and so many others that she’d lost count. When Consuelo became Viscountess Mandeville, Alva worried Duchy would no longer think she was worthy of her friendship. In part, she’d even thrown her masquerade ball hoping to prove herself to her oldest, dearest friend. She’d even tried to buy the press. Though she never doubted her bond with Jeremiah, she wished she’d spent more time trying to understand his troubles, rather than trying to pay them off. There was no denying it; Alva led with her money because, without it, she didn’t believe she had anything of value to offer.
Alva turned back to the headstones, watching her mother’s and father’s names blur through her tears. She felt lost as she dropped to her knees, praying for guidance, help in finding her way back to herself again. And she prayed that, despite it all, her mother would still have been proud of her, and that her father would have realized that a daughter was just as good as a son after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Caroline
“Why?” Carrie asked, standing in her father’s library, hands on her hips. “Give me one good reason.”
Caroline looked up from her needlepoint. A deep vertical crease had formed between Carrie’s brows. William cleared his throat, not saying a thing. Orme Marshall Wilson had just asked for Carrie’s hand in marriage, and William said no and had the young man escorted out of the house.
Orme may have been handsome, intelligent and well-mannered, but his family had amassed their fortune in the railroads, which was a strike against him. Plus, his father was known as a swindler who’d made a good sum of money during the Civil War by selling soldiers woolen blankets that had turned out to be cotton. Besides, the Wilsons were friendly with the Vanderbilts.
“But you let Emily marry James,” Carrie said, her voice still calm, reasonable, but those eyes steely, unwavering. “Well?”
Caroline looked at William, his fingertips pressed into the arms on his club chair. They had never told their children about the duel. William didn’t want them knowing that the only reason they’d let Emily marry James was to save their father from imminent death. He didn’t want them thinking he’d been a coward.
“This is different,” said Caroline.
“How so?” Carrie folded her arms. She didn’t raise her voice. She seemed so composed, so determined.
Caroline glanced back at William. His fingertips were turning white. “It just is,” Caroline said, pushing her embroidery needle through the hooped fabric. “For one thing, Orme Wilson is a fortune hunter.” It was true. All the Wilson boys were known for acquiring even greater wealth by marrying into families with money—mostly new money. They were known as the Marrying Wilsons.
“Your mother’s right,” said William, getting up from his chair, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a drink. “All he wants is your money.”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” said Carrie. “I know he loves me for me. And I love him.”
Caroline paused her embroidery needle. “Your father and I are only thinking of what’s best for you.”
“If that’s true, you’ll let me marry Orme.”
“Get the idea out of your head,” warned William. “You are not marrying him.”
“This conversation is pointless.” Carrie turned and started for the door.
“You get back here, young lady,” said William.
But Carrie kept walking, stopping just before she reached the doorway. “I think it’s best that I leave now,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “If I stay another minute, I’m likely to say something we’ll all regret.” Throwing the French doors open, she walked out to the hall, dignified and measured as she climbed the stairs. She was completely in control until they heard her bedroom door bang shut all the way down in the library.
Caroline looked at William, who was refilling his glass. “I’ll go talk to her,” she said.
Standing outside Carrie’s room, Caroline straightened the portraits that had been knocked off-kilter when Carrie slammed her door. She was trying to reason with Carrie, trying to convince her to let her inside.
“Go away, Mother. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Carrie.” She knocked again. “You unlock this door right this minute. I want to have a word with you.” Caroline was about to give up, when she heard the light padding of footsteps, followed by the turning of the latch. Thank goodness.
Caroline stepped over Carrie’s shoes that were lying in the center of the room, kicked off along with her ribbed lavender stockings that were balled up on the floor. Her dress was slumped in the seat of a chair by the open window, the drapes stirring in the breeze. Carrie was down to her union suit, her plaited light brown hair hanging down to her waist. Had it not been for her puffy eyes, the red nose and flushed cheeks from a previous crying bout, Caroline would not have known she’d shed a tear. When she came face-to-face with Carrie, her eyes were dry, her position unflappable.