Alva knew certain women would not have approved of her divorcing her husband. She’d been expecting that and had prepared herself for it as best she could. What she was not at all prepared for, however, was a visit she received one day from Tessie and Mamie. At first she’d been so pleased to see them, but when they refused to even step inside her house, she felt suddenly clammy and cold.
“I’ll make this brief,” Tessie had said. “Given the news of your divorce, we, all of us”—she gestured as if to an imaginary chorus of women—“have agreed that your company is no longer welcome at our upcoming teas or parties.”
“Oh, and you needn’t bother replying to any recent invitations,” said Mamie. “Your name has already been removed from our guest lists.”
Alva had felt her face turning red, but she didn’t crack. She couldn’t afford to. “In that case,” she had said, clearing her throat, “I suggest you take your leave before I have you thrown off my property.”
That had only been the start of it. Alva couldn’t make it through a day without being rebuffed. Even a simple visit to A. T. Stewart & Company had resulted in a public shaming. One day, under the dome of the grand emporium on the sixth floor, Alva was all too aware of the women with their hand fans up, covering their mouths while they whispered back and forth about her. And then it was Peggy Cavendish, of all people, who came forward and said in a loud, stuttering voice, “H-h-how dare y-y-you march in h-h-here as if y-y-you’ve d-d-done nothing w-w-wrong.”
Alva turned, shoulders back, her chin held high as she took painfully slow measured steps out of the emporium. When she reached the mezzanine, she doubled over, her face slick with tears.
She didn’t understand why they were so offended by her. Especially when for every one woman who criticized her, there were two more suffering in their own loveless marriages. How many wives had been humiliated and heartbroken by their husbands’ adultery? Hadn’t they all heard the stories about the first John Jacob Astor having orgies in his house with his wife sleeping upstairs? What about Charlotte Astor Drayton—was she the only woman who longed for a man other than her husband? Or just the only one brave enough to pursue him? Couldn’t they appreciate that Alva had taken it upon herself to be the first—that if she could divorce her husband, they could divorce theirs, too?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Society
Each day we read more about Alva and Willie’s divorce, skipping over news of the current financial crisis for which there seems to be no end in sight. Not that you’d know it to look at us. The depression certainly isn’t causing us to curb our appetite for the finer things. If anything, we seem to be indulging more than ever before.
Many of us were at Carrie Astor Wilson’s Hat Ball, where we arrived in the most original hats imaginable. One gentleman’s top hat was three feet high; another woman’s plumes were so enormous, they got tangled in a chandelier and had to be cut free. And not to be outdone, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Clews threw a Servants Ball, where we dressed in carefully designed rags made of satin and silk. Many of us ladies carried buckets as evening bags while the men converted brooms into walking sticks. Then Tessie Oelrichs threw her Bal Blanc, where she served only white food and displayed only white flowers. We ladies dressed in all white, including white wigs, and the gentlemen were restricted to wearing solid black. If one of the men appeared in a white shirt, or carried white gloves, he was turned away at the door.
Following suit, there was the Rouge Ball, the Royal Blue Ball and a ball dedicated to just about every other shade imaginable. It kept us quite busy with our dressmakers. With all the primary colors taken, Puss decided to do something truly original and hired an elephant for her ball and had given each of us a fourteen-karat-gold bucket filled with peanuts so we could feed the animal as it trudged past us.
Perhaps one of the most unique entertainments of all was the Dog Ball, thrown by the flamboyant Harry Lehr. The Field Spaniels, English Setters, Fox Terriers, Saint Bernards and Great Danes arrived with diamond collars, satin bow ties, and hats perched between their ears. With the dogs gathered around a table off to the side, we owners looked on while the pets slurped from individual water and food bowls. One of the little Pointers overindulged on the mutton and passed out under the table. Aside from some attempted mating caused by a Spaniel in heat, and an accident by an overly excited Collie, the Dog Ball had been a huge success and the talk of the town.
We can hardly imagine who or what will top that, but we know something even bigger, even more outrageous must surely be in the works.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Alva
Once upon a time the press had adored and celebrated Alva. But no more. The very people who had built her up and helped to establish her in society were now first in line to tear her down. She could hardly believe the things they’d written about her—saying she was greedy and ruthless, a conniving liar. They urged other women not to follow her example, claiming it would destroy the institution of marriage and do irreversible damage to the American family.
Alva took Mamie and Tessie’s advice and stopped attending all social functions, losing the nerve to show her face in public. And by then, the usual onslaught of invitations had come to a screeching halt anyway.
Oliver said he didn’t mind and she was inclined to believe him. As far as he was concerned, they could run away to Europe until the whole thing blew over, or else stay in night after night. He just wanted to be with her. He didn’t care if she was a socialite or not. He might not have cared, but she did. Alva spiraled downward, staying in bed most of the day, not bothering to join the children for luncheon like she normally did. There were times she wondered if it was all worth it, if she would have been better off staying in the marriage. And yet, she’d gone this far; she couldn’t undo the damage to her reputation.
One day Alva’s sisters, even Julia, arrived at Petit Chateau. They’d come to rally around her, hoping to cheer her up and take her mind off things.
“When was the last time you left the house?” asked Jennie.
“Get your hat and gloves,” said Armide. “You’re coming with us.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” said Julia, taking her hand.
They went on foot, walking through lower Manhattan, traversing streets she’d never been down before, Pearl Street and then Doyers. It was filthy: piles of manure everywhere, rubbish flying about, dirty-faced children playing in the street. A crude, crooked sidewalk of broken stone was overgrown with furry moss, and the scent of burning leaves hung all around them.
They ended up at a rickety building, covered in sooty-looking limestone with a rust stain running down the side caused by a leaking pipe. They entered and were led downstairs to a room packed with men and women sitting on long hard benches. The air smelled of cedar and cigars, though Alva didn’t see anyone smoking at the time. A man was standing up at the front of the room, talking about an eight-hour workday and giving instructions for a protest the following day.