She went inside to escape and sat on a bench, leaning forward, elbows planted on her knees, fingertips pressed into her forehead. Did she really just smash that banjo to pieces? Yes, she did. Did she regret doing it? No, she did not. As she sat in the wine cellar, she realized that Willie’s affair with Duchy had to have been going on for some time. That visit with Duchy, when she’d been so cold to Willie, when she’d told Alva about Nellie—Duchy had done it to punish Willie. He hadn’t only been cheating on his wife, he’d been cheating on his mistress, too. Alva was reliving that conversation with Duchy when she heard footsteps outside the wine cellar.
The door creaked open. She looked up and saw Oliver.
“Are you okay?” He stepped inside the cellar and bent down so that she was forced to look him in the eye.
She attempted a weak smile. “I think I’ve just reached a new low.”
“Don’t talk to me about new lows. You’ve got me by three inches.” He straightened up and laughed.
She didn’t. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Poke fun at yourself.”
“Oh.” He shrugged, rubbed his chin. “I figure I’ll crack a short joke before someone else has a chance to do it.”
His candor touched her, made her feel more inclined to be honest herself. “I made a fool of myself tonight, didn’t I?”
“Nah, but I have to tell you, you play one helluva banjo.”
She laughed sadly. “My husband is a louse. And Duchy is even worse. She stabbed me in the back.”
Oliver reached for a bottle, clearing the dust off the label with his fingertips. “I think this calls for a drink.”
“In here?”
“What better place for wine than in a wine cellar?” He grabbed the corkscrew hanging by a chain at the side of the door.
“I don’t think there’s any glasses in here,” she said as he turned the screw and pulled the cork clean.
“I don’t mind your germs if you don’t mind mine.” He took a drink and passed the bottle to her.
“You are bad, Mr. Belmont, aren’t you?” she said, gingerly taking a sip of the wine.
The two sat, passing the bottle back and forth, discussing Willie and Duchy, his short-lived marriage to Sara; things they never would have shared had they not already finished off that first bottle. Occasionally they heard servants moving about. They didn’t care; they kept on talking.
Oliver opened a second bottle, and halfway into it, he reached over and caught a droplet of wine on her bottom lip with his thumb and held it there, gently running it back and forth. Such a small gesture but it set off something inside her. At first she was afraid to let her eyes meet his and instead focused on his mouth, the slight parting of his lips, their fullness. When she couldn’t fight it anymore, she leaned into his touch and did the thing she realized she’d been wanting to do for a very long time: she kissed him. She kissed Willie’s best friend.
* * *
—
The next day, Alva did what no wife had done before. She told her husband she was going to divorce him.
“Divorce me?” Willie hadn’t even gotten his coat and hat off when she confronted him. He’d left Marble House the night before, presumably with Duchy. She had no idea where he’d been and she didn’t care. “Can you at least do me the courtesy of letting me sit down and have a drink before you start attacking me?”
“I don’t owe you any courtesies.” She stormed after him, out of the great hall and into the sitting room. “I mean it,” she said. “I want a divorce.”
“Don’t say that.” He fixed himself a drink and took a long pull. “Look, I know you’re upset and I understand—”
“No, you don’t understand, I am going to divorce you.”
“Alva, calm down. I know what we did was wrong. She’s sick about it. So am I. It just happened.”
“You’re a liar. It didn’t just happen. It’s been going on for God knows how long.”
He raised his hands, wincing. “It won’t ever happen again. I promise. It was a mistake. We can get past this. I know we can.”
“Well, I can’t. I can’t get past this. I don’t want to get past this. I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t want you in my bed—I don’t want you in my life.”
Willie faltered, as if she’d hit him, and after he recovered, he turned mean. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re a woman. A wife doesn’t divorce her husband. And don’t forget, Alva, you can’t divorce me without bringing yourself down, too. You’re too proud, you’ll never do it. You’ll be kicked out of society so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“You might find this difficult to comprehend, Willie, but I’d rather risk losing my place in society than be forced to stay in this marriage with you.”
SOCIETY AS WE’VE KNOWN IT
1894–1908
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Alva
NEW YORK, 1894
For the past year, Alva and Willie had been living separate lives. He’d moved out, and other than to see the children, he hadn’t been back to Petit Chateau or Marble House.
Duchy’s best and numerous attempts to apologize hadn’t changed a thing. There weren’t enough tears or begging, nor enough telegrams or letters for redemption. As far as Alva was concerned, the friendship was irreparable. She knew the anger and bitterness would eventually burn itself out of her, leaving behind a heap of sadness that she wanted to put off for as long as possible. Sadness would turn her soft and more likely to forgive, and neither one of them was deserving of that. Especially not Duchy. In fact, she thought Duchy’s betrayal was worse than Willie’s. Friends didn’t do that to friends.
She thought about Willie’s friendship with Oliver. At first she blamed the kiss on the wine and thought she was getting even with Willie for his affair with her best friend. But deep down Alva knew that kissing Oliver wasn’t an act of drunken revenge. It had been real. And magical. Even now, his kisses stirred her to the core. What she felt for Oliver was part emotional salve and part raw desire for a man who had sneaked up on her and stolen her heart. She wanted a future with him, and that alone gave her the courage to go through with her plans.
But divorce was harder than she’d expected. Her own lawyer had tried talking her out of it, claiming it would harm her reputation more than her husband’s. If you divorce him, there won’t be a hostess in all of New York or Newport who will welcome you into her home . . .