Setting a teacup down before her, Thomas said, “I brought you some extra chocolate biscuits.”
She reached for one, when he stopped her. “Allow me, Mrs. Astor.” Without another word, he helped her off with her gloves. “There. Now that’s much better, isn’t it?”
She nodded, and as she sipped her tea, she overheard Hade speaking to someone out in the hallway, mumbling . . . She’s not having a good day.
She wondered who he was talking to—Jack? Carrie? Had Charlotte come back from Europe to see her? Charlotte was remarried now, happily so, and she’d been trying to reestablish ties with her children, especially her daughter. Time, Caroline had said to Charlotte, give it time, but Caroline feared she didn’t have much time left, and she didn’t want to miss a thing. For now, at least, she was still the matriarch, the guiding force over this family. Just as she’d created society, she had, even more importantly, created this family, her legacy: three surviving children, twelve grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren. They would carry on the Astor name, the Astor traditions. It was her family that gave her strength and made her want to hold on.
Thomas was still in the hallway when she called for him. “Thomas?”
“Yes, Mrs. Astor?”
She couldn’t remember why she’d wanted him.
“Perhaps you might enjoy a hand of cooncan?” Thomas suggested, sitting down across from her, reaching for a deck of playing cards.
“That would be lovely.” She nibbled a biscuit. “Very nice indeed.”
While he shuffled the cards, Caroline sat silently, thinking. On some level she was all too aware of things getting away from her. She knew her mind was unreliable, failing her. She knew she sounded like a demented old woman, and it terrified her. She was reminded of some of the nonsense her mother would say in later years, calling Caroline by the wrong name, insisting that someone had taken her cane, stolen her jewelry . . .
Caroline was so terribly confused. She didn’t trust herself to speak—afraid of what might come tumbling out. She was on an emotional ledge, one thought away from pure senility. Her heart began racing, her breathing labored as sweat broke out on her brow and along the back of her neck.
“Thomas,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Thomas, I’m not done yet. I’m not ready to die.”
“I should hope not.” He smiled kindly, trying to make light of her comment as he began dealing the cards.
She dropped her biscuit and brought her hands to her face. “Oh dear lord, what’s happening to me?”
“You’re tired, Mrs. Astor. You didn’t sleep well last night, but I assure you, you are positively fine.”
“Oh, Thomas, what would I ever do without you?”
“You needn’t worry about that.” He set his cards facedown and reached for her hand, gently squeezing her fingers. “I’m here, Mrs. Astor. I’ll always be right here.” He released her fingers, picked up his cards and fanned them out.
After a moment, she felt her breathing return to normal and felt the walls in her lovely drawing room expanding once again. She reached for her cards, and after a hand of cooncan, she was feeling better, more in control.
When they’d finished their game, she said she wanted some fresh air. “Bring the carriage around, Thomas. I’d like to go for a ride.”
Once outside she felt better still. The mild breeze and sunshine did her good as they traveled down Fifth Avenue, Thomas sitting right beside her. She was stunned by the number of automobiles puttering about on the road.
“I remember Harry predicted ages ago that those machines would replace the horse. I still don’t believe it . . .”
Soon they turned in to the park where children were roller-skating in the distance, women and men cycling just about everywhere she looked. She must have dozed off because the next thing she knew, church bells were pealing in the distance and they were no longer in Central Park. Her head was resting on Thomas’s shoulder. She looked around, bewildered, and asked for the time.
“It’s just past four o’clock, Mrs. Astor.”
“Oh dear. We have to hurry. Guests will be arriving in a matter of hours and there’s so much yet to do.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Astor, everything is under control.”
She ordered the coachman to take them back home, and after she was inside and had her afternoon tea, it was time to perform her evening toilette. The purple Worth gown she’d selected was one of her favorites and just perfect for that evening’s ball. She insisted on wearing her diamond tiara, and since her favorite rings wouldn’t fit, she opted for one of her diamond stomachers instead.
Before leaving her dressing room, she called on Thomas. “Is the orchestra ready?”
“You look lovely tonight, Mrs. Astor,” he said with a slight ceremonial bow.
Caroline turned back to the mirror to see what he was seeing—and there she was, young Lina with the future about to unfold before her. And it was going to be grand.
With that, Caroline left her dressing room, went to the top of her staircase, the very staircase she’d fallen from, and taking a seat beneath her portrait, she waited patiently to receive her guests.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Alva
NEWPORT, 1908
The sun was high above, the sky a vivid blue. The orchestra outside had begun playing “We as Women.” Alva grabbed the black chiffon parasol that matched her gown, thinking, How awful having to wear black on such a hot day.
Making her way down the long hallway, she exited through the French doors, thrown open to let in the ocean breeze and cool the cottage. Police officers were stationed outside of every room, keeping an eye on her priceless art and antiques while thousands of strangers came to view Marble House.
Long before Oliver passed away, when Alva wasn’t tending to society, she had devoted her spare time to visiting tenement houses, hospitals and orphanages. After his sudden death that June, Alva had pushed back against her grief, not allowing it to swallow her whole. Instead, she’d thrown herself and her financial muscle at the women’s suffrage movement. She’d already secured a lease for the National Suffrage Association at Forty-Second Street and Fifth Avenue and had given the landlord $5,000 to cover the rent for the entire year.
She was still living at Belcourt, Oliver’s cottage, just across the street on Bellevue Avenue. Having never been able to part with Marble House, Alva had kept her prized cottage, using it mostly to house her too many clothes and all her furnishings, artwork and antiques. Today would be the first time she’d done anything at Marble House in years. And for those who criticized her for entertaining while in mourning, well, they didn’t understand that this was not a social event. This was an important occasion, and Oliver would have wholeheartedly approved.