When a bulb landed in Caroline’s wig, she yelped for the second time that evening, perhaps the second time in her life. She nearly fell off her chair and was quite shaken, though no one seemed to notice. Everyone, including Harry, was too fixated on their game of catch with the chimp.
It was only Alva who came over to Caroline’s side. “Here,” she said, gently helping Caroline to her feet, “why don’t we go freshen up a bit.”
Caroline was only too grateful to escape the ruckus and allowed Alva to escort her to one of Mamie’s dressing rooms. Caroline could still hear the commotion, screams and laughter coming from the ballroom, when she sat down and looked in the mirror. She was mortified to see that a sprig of white hair had escaped from beneath her wig, and hadn’t even noticed the bulb still stuck in her hair until Alva began untangling it with her fingertips.
“I do declare that little chimp has got a strong pitching arm,” she laughed softly, gingerly tucking Caroline’s white locks back underneath her wig. “There,” she said, squeezing Caroline’s shoulder, both their faces framed in the mirror, “good as new.”
Caroline realized that it was simply impossible to go on hating this woman who had been so good to Emily and Charlotte. And now to her. She wanted to apologize for how she’d treated her in the past, but the words refused to come. The best she could do was reach up for Alva’s hand and offer a squeeze, thinking if only Alva had known all those years ago that it would have been her kindness, and not her money, her fancy houses or balls, that would have impressed The Mrs. Astor.
When Caroline and Alva returned to the main room, she saw that the atmosphere had further deteriorated. Ladies who knew better were taking turns dancing with the hairy little prince while the men stood around clapping, cheering, clanking their glasses of wine and champagne. When the chimp escaped the clutches of Wilhelmina Browning, half the party took chase after him, sending china and chairs crashing to the floor.
Caroline knew then that she’d stayed at the ball too long. While she adored Harry Lehr, she was too old and couldn’t keep up with him. She wanted no part of this tomfoolery and realized just how much she missed society as she knew it. And Thomas. She missed him and wished more than anything that she were back home, in her sitting room listening to him read to her.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Alva
NEW YORK, 1897
It had snowed for three days, and on Wednesday, the tenth of February, 1897, the storm let up but the temperatures had plummeted. As Alva and Oliver approached the Waldorf Hotel, where the Bradley Martin Ball was being held, Alva glanced out the back window of her carriage at a city blanketed in glistening white, sparkling in the moonlight. It was so cold that even her gloved hands inside her mink muff were stiff and chilled. Fifth Avenue was backed up with carriages, and Alva was surprised to see the street lined with men and women, standing knee-deep in snow, braving the bitter temperatures in threadbare coats and woolen hats. All of them protestors—members of the Populist Party—carrying signs: THE MOST GOOD FOR THE MOST PEOPLE. JUSTICE IS MODERATION. ROBBER BARONS GO HOME. Policemen were trying to contain them. The crowd was angry, shouting, chanting, “Shame on you,” as they threw snowballs and bottles at the elegant broughams pulling up to the hotel.
At one point, Alva made eye contact with a woman standing on the curb. Eyes sunken, lips chapped and quivering from the cold, she held a sign, ROBBER BARONS ARE GLUTTONS, and raised an angry fist at Alva that sliced through her like a blade. She was suddenly very aware that her Duchess of Devonshire gown had cost $25,000 and that Oliver’s suit of arms, with its gold inlays, had cost $10,000. He’d been complaining how uncomfortable it was since they’d left their home and even had to temporarily remove his pauldrons, faulds and gauntlets just so he could sit in the carriage.
After recently getting such harsh criticism in the news about the ball’s extravagance, Alva and others had opted to employ local dressmakers rather than going to Europe as a means of helping the workers in town. But clearly the protestors hadn’t seen it that way, and what would they think if they knew that neither Alva nor Oliver would ever wear these costumes again?
The woman outside shook her fist again, and Alva had to look away, her pulse jumping, her heartbeat echoing inside her ears. Something hit the side of their brougham, and Alva jumped, reaching for Oliver. She was terrified as a pair of footmen—dressed in full sixteenth-century livery, powdered wigs and all—cut through the chaos and ushered them inside the Waldorf, shielding them from the flying debris with bumbershoots.
Alva was not able to shake the protestors as she entered the hotel, taking in all the lavish decorations and costumes. It seemed like such a shameful display. She was flooded with guilt as another footman escorted them to the second floor. There Alva found a series of private dressing rooms along with a lady’s maid waiting to assist the guests with their costumes and hair, should either have been disturbed during the journey to the hotel. There was a time when she would have given anything to be invited to a ball like this, but just then, seated before the vanity, she found it hard to look at herself in the mirror.
Part of her felt as though she belonged outside with the demonstrators. When she thought back now on Petit Chateau and Marble House, on all her balls and parties, all the clothing and jewelry, she had to admit that Julia had been right. None of it had made her happy. She’d once been as hungry as those people on the street.
Despite Alva’s privileged upbringing, she’d been no better off than any of them, and yet, she’d married money, she’d used Willie’s wealth to elevate herself, and for what? Once upon a time she’d done it for her mother and then for her children, but any worthwhile sense of purpose had fallen by the wayside long ago. Advancing in society had become a game, a competition with Mrs. Astor, and the challenger in Alva had refused to lose.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Caroline
Caroline hadn’t wanted to go to the Bradley Martin Ball. She’d been appalled by recent balls, especially Mamie’s chimpanzee ball, and wasn’t interested in any more shenanigans. Plus, she was still annoyed that the Martins had chosen the Waldorf over the Astoria Hotel for the location of their ball.
The two hotels, butted up next door to each other, were in constant competition, vying for the same pool of patrons and social events. When Caroline learned that the Martins had selected the Waldorf over the Astoria, she’d been dreadfully disappointed and disgusted by Waldorf’s gloating.
She said she wasn’t going to the ball, but then Harry offered to escort her, and much as she hated to admit it, Caroline still found Harry Lehr captivating. Besides, the Bradley Martin Ball had promised to be a good old-fashioned masquerade ball. Prior to the Vanderbilt ball nearly fifteen years before, Caroline would have found such a thing gimmicky and outrageous. But now, in lieu of the animal balls, a costume ball seemed quite tame and dignified to her.