“So easy for you to say. You’ve never been publicly shunned. No, you took a mistress and no one slammed their door in your face. Do you realize what it’s taken for me to pry that door back open? Even just a crack?”
In truth, it was more than just a crack. As Lady Paget had predicted, invitations to balls and luncheons, to dinner parties and teas came flooding back to Alva. Even the published details of her pending divorce—her suing for custody of the children, her anticipated settlement of at least $200,000 per year along with Marble House—no longer fazed her former critics.
Off the record, Willie had offered her Petit Chateau, but she no longer wanted it. She didn’t want anything of his other than his best friend. Oliver Belmont she did want. Badly. She would have him, too. And she didn’t care that he was a Jew. He loved her and wanted to marry her just as soon as her divorce was finalized.
When he’d first raised the subject of marriage, Alva had laughed and nearly shoved him out of bed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We each have one failed marriage behind us.”
“All the more reason why we should do it again. We already know what not to do.”
Alva propped herself up on her elbow. “You’re the last person in the world I’d marry. You’ll never be ready to settle down with anyone.”
“I am with you.”
She had been ready to make another joke, when she saw the look in his eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you see? I finally understand why I couldn’t settle down before. Nothing—no one—ever felt right. I was always looking for what’s next—who’s next—because what I had wasn’t right. This is the first time in my life that I don’t want to run. When I’m with you, I’m exactly where I want to be, where I’m meant to be. When we’re together, I’m not thinking about the past, I’m not worrying about the future. I’m not thinking about anything but you and what we have right here, right now in this very moment. And I want a lifetime of moments with you.”
That was when she realized that he had articulated how she felt, too. Exactly.
The two planned to marry the following year, and then she would be able to rest easy. She would be Oliver’s wife, her daughter would be a duchess, and Alva would have survived the ultimate taboo.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Caroline
NEW YORK, 1895
After more than two years, Caroline was out of mourning for William and Helen, and her upcoming annual ball would be her first social engagement and her first opportunity to reinstate Charlotte’s good name. In fact, her ball was going to be in Charlotte’s honor. Caroline would show everyone that, despite the rumors, despite what may have been true in the past, it was a new day now, a new era for women. She needed everyone to understand that she stood by her daughter.
This, of course, was an easier stance for her to take given Alva Vanderbilt’s upcoming divorce. Although Alva was expected to retain custody of her children, whereas poor Charlotte had lost that battle. Caroline had certainly taken that loss harder than Charlotte, which left her baffled. Charlotte’s detachment from those children was nearly impossible for her to defend, but still Caroline had to try.
She moved forward with her party planning, disgusted by how ridiculous and extravagant balls had become in recent years. It was as if jeweled favors and zoo animals could compensate for a weak hostess. Caroline’s ball would be dignified, and she would show society what it truly meant to be a New York hostess.
Two days before the big event, while she was reviewing the orchestra’s song list, Charlotte and Carrie came to her with that doleful look in their eyes.
“Mother,” said Charlotte, stepping into the sitting room, Carrie close behind. “Oh, Mother, have you heard about Mr. McAllister?”
What now? “What has he gone and done this time?” she asked, returning to her list.
“He died,” said Charlotte bluntly.
“What?” Caroline dropped the orchestra list.
“He was at the Union Club last night,” said Carrie. “It happened right in the dining room. He was having dinner by himself and suddenly collapsed at his table. They said he died instantly.”
Caroline brought a hand to her chest. For a moment she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Oh, Mother,” said Carrie. “I’m so sorry. How much more can you take?”
Caroline was stunned but composed—perhaps because she’d already been through far greater losses. But both her girls had gone glassy-eyed, refusing to outright cry, knowing that such a display would have only disappointed Caroline.
“Shall we cancel the ball?” asked Carrie, looking at her sister, who was readily nodding.
“I’ll understand if you wish to, Mother,” said Charlotte. “We’ll wait and have the ball after his funeral. Or maybe wait until spring.”
Caroline shook her head. She didn’t even have to consider it. “That won’t be necessary.” It was more important, now more than ever, that she host her ball. There was too much riding on this event—mainly, Charlotte’s reputation.
After her daughters left, Caroline sat by herself for a good long while, until the sun began to set. She hadn’t seen Ward McAllister in months, and their friendship, if she could have called it that, had been fractured by his memoir and then destroyed by the Four Hundred. She thought any affection she’d once had for him would have drained out of her long ago, but in the quiet of that room, she felt a tear in her heart.
There was a time when he’d been her only confidant and she, his Mystic Rose. He’d been the first one—even if it was because of her inheritance—to recognize that she could lead society. In a sense he’d been as much a part of her family as her husband and children. He’d been the one who crowned her queen of New York society, and together they had designed a world that served them, delighted them, empowered them.
A lump gathered in her throat as she thought about her losses, first Emily and then William and Helen, and now Ward. It made her think about what lay ahead after this world. Caroline did believe in heaven and hell, and she wondered about God’s judgment. Was he as strict as Caroline and Ward had been when it came to society and determining who was acceptable and who wasn’t? It occurred to her that by establishing the Patriarch Ball, her own annual ball and especially the Four Hundred, they had excluded many, based on their own criteria, on the randomness of birthright and bloodlines. It all seemed so insignificant now, and she realized, to her horror, that she and Ward had been playing God. And a vengeful God at that.
* * *
—
Two days after Ward McAllister died, Caroline held her annual ball as planned where she honored her disgraced daughter in a public and purposeful way. With Charlotte at her side, Caroline received her guests, the two of them seated next to each other beneath Caroline’s regal portrait.