“That’s not saying much.” Alva didn’t care for Winthrop. He was much too old for Consuelo, thirty-three to her eighteen. He had a reputation of being a fortune hunter and courting lonely socialites whose husbands ignored them. On top of that, he was a gambler, and Alva had already seen what happened to Jeremiah. She didn’t want her daughter subjected to a life like that.
“And you know Winthrop is sterile,” said Lady Paget.
“No.” Alva was shocked.
“Yes.” She nodded as if that were worse than all the rest. Alva didn’t bother to ask how she knew this intimate detail. “Think of it this way,” said Lady Paget, “you’d be rescuing your daughter from a far worse fate. And honestly, it’s the only way to get you back in society’s good graces. Look at what marrying a title did for me. And, of course, marrying a duke did more for you know who—we won’t even mention her name—but it did more for her than all her banjo playing ever could. And need I remind you how enraptured we Americans are when it comes to British nobility? If Consuelo becomes engaged to the duke, there won’t be a hostess in this city who wouldn’t welcome you. My God, they’ll be tripping over themselves just to get invited to the wedding . . .”
Lady Paget kept talking about what the duke could do for her, but Alva was more interested in what the duke would do for Consuelo. Her daughter was so young, putting all her hopes on Winthrop. Alva wanted to open Consuelo’s eyes, show her that there were other men in the world, men that were far better suited for her. Maybe the duke could turn her head; maybe she’d actually like him. At the very least, Alva could get her daughter away from Winthrop, and there always was the possibility that she could marry a title—could have the ultimate status for a woman in society. Consuelo’s future would be secured. The idea filled Alva with a sense of duty and a great deal of trepidation. Alva knew that if Consuelo married the duke, she herself would forever be in the shadow of her daughter, the Duchess of Marlborough. She knew that her daughter would forevermore be the main attraction, and not Alva. The fact that Alva was willing to give that up, something that had once been her raison d’être, was a measure of how much she loved Consuelo. What had sounded absurd just moments before now made sense.
“How would we even go about this union?” Alva asked.
Lady Paget raised her bejeweled hand. “You leave that to me. It just so happens that Sunny will be here in New York on holiday. I’ll arrange a dinner and, in good time, a meeting with him so you can work out all the details. But whatever you do, don’t offer a penny over $2 million. That’s more than enough to save Blenheim Palace—and your reputation.”
* * *
—
The dinner with the ninth Duke of Marlborough went better than expected. He was gracious and notably impressed by Petit Chateau, especially Alva’s Baccarat crystal chandelier and platinum-paneled walls in the dining room. The duke was quite handsome. A bit too serious in the beginning, though he relaxed as the evening progressed, even attempting a joke or two.
“I heard a good one,” he said at dinner, between the bouillon d’huîtres and the terrapin. “Tell me,” he said, “why is a dog just like a tree?”
They all looked at one another before Alva said, “I don’t know. Why is a dog like a tree?”
“Because they both lose their bark after they’re dead.”
Consuelo laughed so hard that Alva was momentarily appalled by her unladylike guffaw. But then His Grace told another joke, and Alva realized this was what he did at the supper table. Consuelo would have to get used to that and cache some jokes of her own so she could contribute.
After dinner, when they retired to the music room, Consuelo had impressed him by playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata followed by pieces by Chopin and Strauss. Alva was pleased. Consuelo and Sunny seemed to be getting on very well.
The next day, the duke joined them for tea, and two days after that, he accompanied Alva and Consuelo to the Metropolitan Opera House for the production of Fidelio. The following week, Alva invited him to a reception and another dinner. After each new encounter, Alva would huddle with Consuelo, the two of them crowded into her bed with the coverlet pulled up past their shoulders while they compared notes: He did bring me flowers. He clearly doesn’t like America. He has such a lovely smile. He was obviously bored at the opera. The ladies at the reception all found him charming. Night after night they did this, and Consuelo hadn’t so much as mentioned Winthrop’s name.
Six weeks later, just two days before the duke was set to return to England, Alva met with him in the office that had once belonged to Willie. After the duke expressed his interest in marrying Consuelo, Alva took over.
Resting her hands on the desk, fingers laced together, she said, “Shall we discuss the dowry?”
“As you know,” said the duke, “Blenheim Palace is facing some financial challenges.” He went on to list his needs including the staff and, of course, the palace itself, which was overdue for a complete renovation.
Alva fluttered her eyelashes, and keeping Lady Paget’s advice in mind, she started low, offering $1.5 million.
The duke sighed. “Actually, I was hoping to do a bit better.”
Alva contemplated her options. She didn’t want this opportunity to get away—especially since Consuelo was growing more and more attached to the idea of marriage. “I suppose I could go a little higher.”
The duke was a tough negotiator and, in the end, the day before he set sail for England, they agreed that Alva would pay him $2.5 million, plus 50,000 shares of Vanderbilt stock and an additional $200,000 a year for the rest of his life. Now that the finances had been settled, they were just waiting for the duke to propose.
* * *
—
One morning, Alva was shuffling through the mail, which had increased significantly since her association with the duke. There were invitations and notes from Mamie, Tessie and several others.
Alva set those aside and came upon an envelope addressed to Consuelo. Clearly the handwriting was a man’s, and Alva was hoping it was from Sunny. Without a thought for her daughter’s privacy, Alva sliced the envelope open only to find a lengthy letter from Winthrop Rutherfurd, who was abroad, visiting relatives in England. As Alva continued reading, she turned queasy when she reached the part about his undying love and affection for Consuelo. Alva was confused. Consuelo said she’d ended it with him right after meeting Sunny. She seemed in favor of marrying Sunny. Had she just been pacifying Alva? Playing her this whole time? Her daughter couldn’t be that cunning, could she? And then her eyes moved to the next paragraph, and the knot in her stomach pulled even tighter. Winthrop had detailed their plans to marry. Marry! Good lord! They were eloping, one month from the day.
The letter slipped from Alva’s hands. The panic was rising inside her, and she thought she might get sick. There was no way her daughter was going to marry Winthrop Rutherfurd. He was a laughingstock. A philanderer, a fortune hunter, a compulsive gambler. She could see the headlines now: Vanderbilt Heiress Swindled . . . The room grew hot. Alva turned clammy and nauseated. A marriage to Winthrop would be a source of ridicule and scandal, and Alva had to spare her daughter from that. Consuelo wasn’t strong enough to withstand that kind of pressure. Winthrop would break her heart. Besides, Alva had already promised the duke that Consuelo would accept his proposal.