Over and over again, Caroline questioned if her dear sweet Helen—who had always tried to do the right thing, to please everyone around her, to keep the peace—had truly lived the life she’d wanted. Or had she been living only for Caroline just as Caroline had lived for her mother?
She couldn’t undo the past, but now she knew that it was time to set them free—all of them. Rest in peace to those gone, live in peace to those still here.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Alva
NEWPORT
It was Duchy’s fortieth birthday, and Alva decided to throw a little dinner party for her. Nothing too elaborate or too large. Just a handful of friends. True friends. The past few years, with His Grace’s passing, had been hard for Duchy, and she’d been spending more and more time in the States. Sometimes she brought the children along; mostly she didn’t. Alva tried not to pass judgment, though she couldn’t have imagined being separated from her children for that long.
Duchy had been dreading this birthday. In addition to the dinner party, which Alva hoped would cheer her up, she’d bought Duchy a new banjo, especially made for her with a mother-of-pearl fingerboard, gilded frets and a burl walnut veneer for the resonator.
“Oh, Alva, you shouldn’t have. It’s beautiful. Just beautiful.” Duchy played a few chords. “What a wonderful tone it has.” She thanked Alva again and set the banjo back inside its velvet-lined case.
That was it? Alva was puzzled and then irked. If only Duchy knew how much trouble she’d gone to, not to mention the considerable sum she’d spent. Alva thought a little more enthusiasm was in order, a bit more appreciation. She thought Duchy would have played song after song, just like she did at lawn parties and on picnics. She loved to play and used to lead everyone in sing-alongs until her fingers needed a break.
Alva tried chalking it up to birthday malaise and did her best to let go of her disappointment. It continued to niggle at her, though, as they spent the rest of the day lazing around the cottage before heading to the beach and back in time to get ready for the party.
Duchy wore a lovely blue gown trimmed in matching feathers and sapphires. She looked radiant, happy and at ease. The prospect of a party in her honor seemed to have lifted her spirits considerably.
By eight that night they were all in the Gothic Room. It was a hot, muggy evening and they had the doors thrown open, while they enjoyed their aperitifs before dinner. Alva couldn’t help but notice that Duchy and Oliver were sitting rather close together. He’d just said something that made her laugh, and there was an intimacy to it, like an inside joke. Alva turned and began making polite conversation with Puss and Ophelia, Penelope and Lydia, but all the while her stomach was roiling. She could hardly believe that she was jealous of Duchy.
She realized that if her friend had been more gracious about the banjo, she probably wouldn’t have been upset. But no doubt about it, Alva was still angry and told herself this burst of emotion was more about the banjo than anything else. But it wasn’t just the banjo. It was Duchy. She wasn’t herself and hadn’t been for some time. Duchy had repeatedly hurt Alva’s feelings, leaving letters unanswered, passing judgment on Marble House’s furnishing, mocking Alva for commissioning the French painter Carolus-Duran to do her portrait. It was as if Duchy was testing the strength of their friendship. That bond they’d always shared seemed to be bowing, on the verge of snapping in two.
Alva excused herself on the pretense of checking something in the kitchen. She needed air, needed a moment to collect herself. She ended up looking in on the children, and when she went back downstairs, she saw Duchy slipping out of a shadowed alcove; one of her blue feathers had escaped from the trim and floated along the floor. Something about that feather landed heavy on Alva’s heart. She had a feeling that Oliver was about to step out behind her. And so what if he does? Oliver’s being with other women shouldn’t have bothered her. And she shouldn’t begrudge Duchy her happiness—especially after losing her husband. Besides, the only person more restless than Oliver was Duchy—it would never last . . .
She was trying to convince herself of that when she saw that it was not Oliver Belmont emerging from the alcove, but rather Willie; his hair rumpled, a blue feather stuck to his lapel. Alva felt the wind knocked out of her. The room tilted as stars danced across her vision, her pulse doubling its speed. Willie K. and Duchy. She stood there, frozen, trying to comprehend it all. She was clobbered. Silly little trusting fool. Sure, he’d ended it with Nellie, but now he’d taken up with her best friend.
Think, Alva. Think. She had to be smart about how she handled this.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Vanderbilt.” Her butler interrupted her thoughts. “Everyone is waiting for you in the dining room. Your guests have all been seated.”
Alva took another moment, still struggling to recover. “I’ll be right there.”
As she made her way back toward the dining room, she saw the banjo resting in the corner. She picked it up, plastered a smile on her face and entered the dining room, cast in the warmth of rose-colored marble. Everyone was seated around the table in her bronze Louis XV chairs that weighed seventy-five pounds each. They were anchored on the thick carpet and certain to render her dinner guests moored wherever they landed, unable to scoot any closer to the table, or get away without the assistance of a strong footman.
With an exuberance that alerted everyone to the sense that something was amiss, Alva said, “Why don’t we have the birthday girl play us a little song before the first course is served?” An awkward murmur rippled around the table; such an unusual way for a hostess to start dinner. Alva couldn’t bring herself to look at Willie. She handed the banjo to Duchy, who hesitantly accepted it as if it were a stick of dynamite.
Tentatively, with her eyes on Alva, as if trying to read her, Duchy played the opening chords of “Ole Dan Tucker.”
“Oh, no, no”—Alva cut her off—“that sounds terrible. It’s out of tune. Here”—she reached for the banjo—“let me fix that for you.” She yanked it out of Duchy’s hands and, holding it like an ax, proceeded to smash it against the marble sideboard. Everyone gasped but Alva kept going. The bridge and heel went flying; the resonator split in two. Duchy flinched, trying to get out of her chair, but she was trapped by the weight of it. She had to sit there and take it.
When the neck broke in two and all Alva had left was the headstock, she turned to her best friend and said, “Next time you decide to make love to my husband, please have the decency to do it somewhere other than in my home.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Alva
Alva hurried out of the dining room and down the hallway to the back staircase that led to the belly of Marble House. Even with the giant copper pots simmering on the stove and the kitchen filled with scullery maids and cooks, it was cooler down there than upstairs, the stone walls blocking out the heat. The wine cellar was cooler still. It was a deep, dark room, save for the lamps casting shadows along the wooden racks filled with bottles of claret and burgundy, champagne, and sweet dessert wines from Portugal.