On the night of the ball, Caroline wore a full-length mink overtop of her Marie Antoinette costume. Wanting to look especially lovely for Harry, she had gone a bit overboard with her gown, even by her own standards. Her dress was heavily weighted down with diamonds, and after reading in the newspaper that Cornelia Martin’s Mary, Queen of Scots gown had cost $30,000, Caroline realized she had outspent the hostess by two. But the look on Harry Lehr’s face when he arrived at her home and saw her—that wide-eyed look of admiration and enchantment—told her it had been worth every penny.
Of course she thought Harry was dazzling as ever that night, dressed as George Washington with a white powdered wig beneath his three-pointed hat. His waistcoat was fully embroidered; his sword peeked out from the bottom of his beaver coat. She had refused another ride in that mechanical contraption of his, and so their horse-drawn carriage proceeded toward the Waldorf Hotel.
On the way, Harry told her everything he’d gleaned about the ball. “They sent out 1,000 invitations, and you won’t believe this—every couple will have their own private footman. And”—he leaned in conspiratorially, so close that she could smell his wonderfully aromatic shaving soap—“I have it on good authority that Bradley Martin has imported 4,000 bottles of Moët et Chandon. Each guest will have two bottles just to themselves. Can you imagine what that must have cost . . .”
Coming from Harry, this didn’t seem like gossip, and he held her spellbound and oblivious to the biting cold, immune to the many changes in her old neighborhood. Her attention was so fixated on Harry that she was only vaguely aware of the crowds that had congregated along the snow-covered sidewalks.
Once inside the Waldorf’s lobby, Caroline felt as though she had entered the Palace of Versailles. Everywhere she looked she saw women dressed as queens and princesses, the men as kings and dukes and former presidents. It was as if everyone had stepped out of the pages of history.
Normally, Caroline stood with the hostess as she received her guests—a symbol of society’s approval—but given the outrageous balls and dinner parties recently held, Caroline had declined the honor, for fear she would have been endorsing another fiasco. But that didn’t appear to be the case at the Bradley Martin Ball. It was such a regal display, she was delighted and felt as if she were back in the arms of the society she’d known and trusted. After she and Harry Lehr were received by Cornelia Martin, they mingled among the other guests.
Harry stayed close by her side, and at first all was fine, the two of them making polite conversation with the various other guests. But by one in the morning, Caroline began to tire. Her bunions were acting up and her lower back ached from the weight of her gown, so she took refuge in a Louis XV chair that had been brought into the hotel as part of the decorations. Glancing about, admiring all the roses and floral arrangements, she spotted Jack, looking slender and fit in his Henry IV costume. Carrie was there as well, dressed as Elizabeth of York, and her husband, Orme, was Henry VII. Despite all the drama that had preceded their wedding, her daughter was happily married. They were talking with John Morgan, whom Caroline supposed was dressed as the Duke of Guise, but she couldn’t be sure. She recognized the architect Stanford White as one of the many court jesters, prancing about.
Though she never thought she’d live to see the day, Caroline was beginning to accept that the distinctions between the Knickerbockers and the nouveau riche had all but vanished; the two sides had practically become one. Together, they represented the upper crust, high society—whatever they were called these days. It made her nostalgic, which always made her think about Ward McAllister.
Other than her assigned footman, who had brought her a fresh glass of champagne, no one seemed to notice Caroline sitting off to the side, which was disturbingly odd. She was unaccustomed to being left unattended at a ball, even for a moment. She had assumed that people would come over, say their hellos, relishing an opportunity to speak with Caroline outside of a receiving line. She sipped her champagne, waiting, but everyone seemed caught up in conversations of their own. She opened her fan, moving it back and forth in slow, easy sweeps, perking up when she saw Penelope Easton coming her way. Caroline was about to say hello but Penelope walked right past her, joining a group of other women standing a few feet away. Caroline was embarrassed by her presumption. Puss Strong and Lady Paget—one dressed as Katherine of Aragon, the other as Anne Boleyn—were just across the way, and Caroline surprised herself by doing something she rarely did—she initiated the first gesture, a smile. A smile from Mrs. Astor was akin to being anointed, something that other women would have cherished and later boasted about to their friends. But Caroline was dumbfounded when they offered only a quick hello and drifted by. Was it possible that people hadn’t recognized Caroline in her costume? Nonsense, they had to have known it was her.
What is happening here? She was invisible, and the longer she sat there by herself, the more distance she was able to put between herself and the scene playing out before her. The fact that no one was watching her, scrutinizing her every move, gave her an opportunity to relax and see society from a clear vantage point.
For once she got to be the spectator rather than the spectacle. She found it all quite liberating and amusing—oh so amusing! She was positively tickled by all the pageantry, the frivolity. And in her newfound anonymity, she would have loved to get up to join in on the fun if only she could. The weight of her many diamonds and the gold sewn into her gown had anchored her into the chair, and she knew she would need help getting up when they called for supper.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Alva
After Alva and Oliver were announced at the Bradley Martin Ball and received by their hostess, they entered the grand ballroom as the orchestra played Hungarian court music. The floor was practically covered in rose petals, the crimson juice seeping into the carpets and marble as people trampled over them.
Alva was still thinking about the protestors outside when she overheard a group of women discussing the divine supper that awaited them: chaud-froid de pluviers, filet de boeuf jardinière, canard, terrine de foie gras, galantine à la Victoria, mayonnaise de volaille. Twenty-eight courses in all. Who could possibly eat that much? What about the people standing out in the cold who could barely afford to put food on their tables? She felt horrid being inside that glamorous hotel, watching people frolicking about with more money on their backs than those protestors made in a year or more. It wasn’t right. Nor was it right that Oliver was handed a Figurado cigar wrapped in a $100 bill and that Alva was presented with a diamond bracelet as a party favor. She tucked it inside her pocket, thinking she would give it to one of the women outside later when she left. Maybe they could sell it or exchange it for food or warm clothing.
Even before she saw her, Alva heard Mamie Fish’s cackle. “Oh, forgive me,” said Mamie, holding up her gilded lorgnette, scrutinizing one of the many Madame Pompadours there that night. “I thought you were someone else. I don’t wish to speak with you at all.” There was more cackling as Mamie walked on, heading in Alva’s direction. Alva turned to avoid her, her eyes landing instead on Mrs. Astor, sitting off to the side, all alone.