Alva picked up Winthrop’s letter and stuffed it in her pocket, and later that day when Consuelo asked if she had received any mail, Alva looked into her daughter’s hopeful, doe-like eyes and she lied. She lied to her the next day, too, and the day after that. By the end of the week, Alva had five of Winthrop’s letters—each filled with romantic angst and longings—locked away in her desk drawer.
The next day Alva got hold of an outgoing letter that Consuelo had written to Winthrop. Again, casting aside all privacy—a line she’d long since crossed—she tore the letter open and felt her legs turning weak as she read more about their plans to elope. I have my dress picked out . . . I cannot wait to get away from here . . . So excited to start my life with you . . . Alva was shaking by the time she finished. She had to do something—she couldn’t sit back and watch Consuelo throw her future away. She had to save her daughter from herself.
After an hour of fretting, her panic had escalated and could no longer be contained. She rang for the butler, asking for the key to Consuelo’s bedroom.
It wasn’t even noon yet and Consuelo was still asleep when Alva locked her daughter’s bedroom door. Wringing her hands, Alva paced up and down the hallway. She had no idea what she was doing—it sounded absurd even to her. She was about to reach for the skeleton key in her pocket and unlock the door, put everything back the way it was. Consuelo would be none the wiser. But just then she heard the doorknob turn once, twice, and all the fear came flooding back. Consuelo jiggled the knob harder on the third try before calling out. “Boya? Boya”—she called for her maid—“can you help me? My door seems to be stuck.”
Alva’s heart was racing, her hand sweating as she worried the brass key in her pocket. She was light-headed and dizzy. It hurt to breathe. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was having a heart attack.
“Boya?” The knob turned more violently. “Boya!”
Alva dropped the key back into her pocket. “It’s not stuck,” she said. “It’s locked and you’re not going anywhere until you stop this foolishness with Winthrop Rutherfurd. I know all about your plans, and I’m putting an end to them right here and now, do you understand?”
There was a beat of silence before Consuelo began desperately pounding on the door. “I love him. I love him, and I’m going to marry him.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Do you hear me? You’re going to marry the duke.”
“I won’t marry Sunny. I won’t do it!”
“Then you’ll just stay in your room until you come to your senses.”
Alva walked away just as Consuelo began pounding on the door again, demanding to be let out.
Later that afternoon all was quiet when Alva went to check on her. “Well,” she said from outside the door, “are you ready to do as you’re told?”
“I’m going to marry Winthrop.”
“I’m not playing games here, Consuelo. You are not going to marry that man.”
“Oh, yes I am. He’ll come for me.”
“If he does, I’ll have him arrested for trespassing.”
“You’re bluffing.”
Alva sighed, resting her head against the door. “Consuelo, I’m warning you—you do not want to push me on this.”
She heard Consuelo’s footsteps coming closer, stomping across the floor, and watched the doorknob twisting. “Let me out!”
“You know what you have to do if you want out.” She paused for a moment. “Well? Are you going to do as you’re told?”
Through the sound of gritted teeth—a grimaced expression she could picture in her mind—Alva heard Consuelo say, “I am going to marry Winthrop.”
“Fine. Then you have a good night, Consuelo.” She walked away while Consuelo screamed and pounded on the door.
Alva hardly slept that night. Twice she got up to unlock the door and then changed her mind. The next day she wrestled with herself, trying to figure out what to do. Realizing she couldn’t keep her daughter locked up forever, Alva finally went to Consuelo’s room. She found her lying in bed, eyes barely blinking as she defiantly stared at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge Alva.
“You have no idea what you’d be getting yourself into with that man. He’s no good. He’s no good for you—I won’t let you do it. You cannot marry Winthrop.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know that he’s too old for you, he has a gambling problem, he’ll never be able to give you children, and he’ll—”
“What?” said Consuelo, her eyes open wide.
What did she mean, “what?” Had she never heard this before? Alva sensed the tiniest of cracks in her daughter’s resolve. Was it possible that Alva had finally raised an argument that was getting through?
“It’s true,” said Alva. “He’s sterile. Didn’t you wonder why he’d never taken a wife? It’s because no other woman would have him.”
Consuelo blinked, her eyes welling up with tears.
This was all it would have taken? Telling her he was sterile? Why didn’t I tell her this sooner? “I know what having a family means to you. If you marry this man, you’ll never have children of your own. Never.”
“But—that can’t be true. It just can’t be.”
Alva reached for Consuelo’s hand, bringing it to her cheek dampened by her own tears. “I wish it weren’t true. I don’t dislike Winthrop, truly I don’t,” she lied. “But he can never give you the life you deserve. Why do you think I want you to marry Sunny instead?”
Consuelo sniffled and let loose a cascade of tears before she folded down into her mother’s arms. “It’s not fair. Why does it have to be true? It’s not fair . . .”
* * *
—
Two months later, Consuelo’s engagement to the duke was announced in newspapers across the country. The date had been set for the sixth of November, and planning the nuptials had begun for what the New York Times predicted would be the Wedding of the Century.
So Alva had gotten her way, but her victory was bittersweet. This was her daughter—her only daughter—who was getting married, and all the fantasies Alva had about one day designing her wedding gown and selecting the items for her trousseau and the flowers for her bouquet fell flat. Alva had never seen a more indifferent bride in all her life. And everyone seemed to notice.
Willie begged Alva to call off the wedding. “Can’t you see the girl is miserable? Don’t force her, Alva. It isn’t fair. A title isn’t worth it.”