By the time she’d reached Chapter XXVI, An Era of Extravagance, where he described Alva Vanderbilt’s masquerade ball, Caroline was beside herself:
We here reach a period when New York society turned over a new leaf. Up to this time, for one to be worth a million dollars was to be rated as a man of fortune, but now, bygones must be bygones. New York’s ideas as to values, when fortune was named, leaped boldly up to ten millions, fifty millions, one hundred millions, and the necessities and luxuries followed suit.
Caroline was so agitated she had to pause and collect herself before she could continue reading about a certain masquerade ball and the hostess who had unseated the queen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Alva
The night before Consuelo’s thirteenth birthday party, Alva went to her daughter’s bedroom carrying a big box, lavishly wrapped with a pink satin bow. Consuelo was fast asleep when Alva placed the box on her bed, gently shaking her awake. With sleep in her eyes, her dark hair strewn across her pillow, Consuelo began to stir.
“Happy birthday eve,” Alva said, perched on the edge of the bed. Now that Consuelo was becoming a young woman, Alva had something special to give her, something she wanted her daughter to open in private, and it couldn’t wait for the morning. Celebrating the eve of her children’s birthdays was something her mother had always done for Alva and her sisters. She’d crawl into bed beside them or pull them onto her lap, or as they got older, she’d sit with them at the table, teacups between them, while she’d recount their births, which she no doubt edited for their sake. Alva had arrived early and fast. You were in such a hurry to start torturing me, her mother used to say playfully.
Consuelo sat up, the pillows propping her up from behind.
“Well, go on, open it.”
Consuelo smiled as she carefully removed the bow and peeled back the wrapping paper.
“You’re not a child anymore,” Alva said, reaching over to help Consuelo lift the lid off the box. “You’re a young lady now and this is exactly what you need.”
Consuelo reached inside the box and pulled out a steel pole contraption with leather straps. She turned to Alva. “Mamma? What is it?”
“It’s going to straighten that posture of yours. Now stand up and let’s put it on.” She sounded excited, as if it were a new dress to try on. “C’mon now.” Alva threw off the blankets. “Let’s make sure it fits good and snug.”
Consuelo gingerly stepped out of the bed, her bare feet landing on the hardwood floor. Alva stood next to her, instructing Consuelo to turn around as she tugged on the leather straps and aligned the pole with her spine.
“Oh, Mamma, it’s so cold.”
“Now just stand still. It’s almost on.” She held the pole in place, while fitting the brace about her hips to stabilize it. Lastly, she placed the leather straps over her shoulders and about her forehead. “There. Now how’s that?”
“It hurts, Mamma. It’s pinching me.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to that. It’s the surest way to correct your posture.” She saw some correlation between her daughter’s curved spine and the way Consuelo always conformed and bent to the stronger will of others. Alva hoped the brace would not only straighten Consuelo’s spine, but also give her a backbone, a dose of confidence to stand up for herself. Though Alva didn’t necessarily want Consuelo to be like she was as a child—oh heavens no—she did want her girl to fight for herself, to say no to Alva. Just once.
“Straight posture is a must for a young lady searching for a husband,” Alva said, still inspecting the fit.
“But I’m not searching for a husband.”
“Maybe not yet. But it’s never too early to start thinking about your future. You’re going to marry well. We just have to straighten that spine of yours.” She helped Consuelo out of the back brace, crawled back into bed with her firstborn, and then, like her mother had done, Alva recounted the day Consuelo was born.
When she was done, Consuelo’s eyes were heavy with sleep. Alva reached over, kissed her forehead and turned down the lamp. “Happy birthday. Sleep tight.”
After she’d checked in on the boys, she went downstairs to her sitting room and was just starting to read Ward McAllister’s memoir when Willie K. came through the front door, held up by Oliver Belmont, the two of them reeking of whiskey. Willie’s hair and clothes were rumpled, his words slurring together, making no sense whenever he attempted to speak. Alva was disgusted and could hardly bring herself to look at him.
After the footman helped Willie to his room, Oliver turned to Alva and said, “Don’t be too hard on him. It was all my doing.”
“Sure it was,” she said with a harsh laugh, folding her arms across her chest.
“I realize you’re perturbed. And”—he raised his hands—“rightfully so, but I swear the girl was with me.”
The girl? There was a girl involved? That hadn’t even crossed her mind. Something caught in Alva’s chest, squeezing hard.
“I swear she was with me. Willie hardly said two words to her the entire night.”
“Thou dost protest too much.”
“No, no,” he laughed drunkenly. “I swear Willie was a perfect gentleman, whereas I, on the other hand, was an absolute scoundrel.”
She looked at him, so cocksure, so convinced he could charm his way out of this. “You? A scoundrel, Mr. Belmont? I’d like to see that.”
“Oh, would you now?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.
That little gesture of his threw her off-kilter. She excused herself, hopefully before he noticed the blush surfacing on her cheeks.
Alva didn’t sleep well that night. She was disturbed by the girl who was supposedly with Oliver. There had been another girl in Willie’s past, a woman, really. It was about five years ago, right after Billy died and Willie inherited all that money. Alva heard that Willie had been seen at Sherry’s with this other woman. A brunette, about Alva’s age. Willie of course denied it, but then he turned around and bought that $650,000 yacht and named it the Alva just to make himself feel better for being an unfaithful husband.
She thought they’d moved beyond that, but now she was worried again. She tossed about, thinking how Willie seemed more distant lately, and tried to remember the last time they’d had relations. Then, out of nowhere, she caught herself thinking about Oliver Belmont. That suggestive eyebrow of his taunted her, rising over and over again.
* * *
—
The next day, during the party, Alva observed the festivities with a sense of detachment. Conversations barely registered with her as she stood back and watched Consuelo, the guest of honor, talking with Mamie Fish and Lady Paget, with Ophelia Meade and Penelope Easton. Her daughter was blossoming into a woman before her eyes. She was as beautiful as her father was handsome, but more than that, she had her own style, demure but endearing. Alva saw how gracious Consuelo was, how at ease she appeared. Her daughter had the makings of a natural hostess. All the things that Alva had worked so hard to master seemed innate to Consuelo. Alva should have been pleased. After all, she’d fought to get into society for the sake of her children—especially her daughter. But she could see now that one day, Consuelo would outshine her, and that left Alva with an undeniable and shameful pang of jealousy.