A Well-Behaved Woman Page 11

  Now the first old auntie sniffed. “I hadn’t thought you would be so selfish. My brother spoke affectionately of you—but then, he’s known to be swayed by feminine wiles.”

  “With due respect—” Alva began.

  “Mind, Jane, speak thee well of a dying man lest your harshness be returned to you on your own deathbed.”

  Alva tugged at her collar. “I do not possess wiles. Further, modern science has proven that ventilation is beneficial to our health. Fresh air—”

  “Modern science: pah! Those saltcellars haven’t’a cured him!” said the one.

  The other said to Alva, “You are about to be a mother. Time to stop thinking so much of yourself.”

  “You’ll excuse me,” Alva said, standing.

  These ladies were ancient, and the Commodore’s daughters hardly seemed younger. An ungenerous assessment, Alva would admit, but she had never been one to wallpaper a water stain. They truly looked aged to her. Tired. Worn down by the waiting. Worn down by their lives. Remnants of an era that had passed.

  Fanning herself, Alva observed the array of Vanderbilt ladies. Anywhere else in the world, a man such as the Commodore, a man who had conquered his foes and prescribed the policies of the land, would have made himself its king. His daughters and granddaughters would be princesses and would act in accordance with their place. They would not allow an overbearing doyenne like Mrs. Astor to behave as if she were the queen. Alva had made some small progress to that end. What she wanted, though, was for her sisters-in-law, her sisters, and herself to be recognized in best society for the upstanding people they were. It was only fair, especially when someone like Lydia Roosevelt enjoyed that status.

  What she really wanted just now was for someone to please God open a window.

  They watched the Commodore as he lay there, weak, helpless, his face sallow, his skin papery, the whites of his eyes now yellow as buttercream. His breath rattled. His chest heaved. His clouded blue eyes stared upward at the ceiling, or perhaps beyond.

  * * *

  “Play that song again, that song I like,” the Commodore said in a hoarse whisper.

  It was now a few minutes past ten in the morning. The Reverend Dr. Deems was at the bedside in conversation with William’s uncle C.J., who was very pale but had flushed areas on his neck and face. Alva wondered if he might be about to have one of his seizures. Or was he simply distressed over being so near the man who for years had refused to see or speak to him?

  “The song,” the Commodore repeated.

  “What was that, sir?” Dr. Deems asked.

  The Commodore whispered, “I think I’m nearly gone.”

  Deems motioned for the family to give him their attention. Then he kneeled at the Commodore’s bedside and bowed his head.

  “Now God himself and our Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ, direct our way unto you…”

  “The song!” insisted the Commodore.

  Frank, who’d seated herself on the edge of the bed, jumped up and went to the organ. In tears, she began to play and sing “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy.”

  The Commodore raised his hand from where it had been lying, veiny and bloodless-looking against the coverlet, and waggled his fingers to encourage the family to sing along. They obliged—especially Corneil and Alice, who, Alva had learned, met while teaching Sunday school at St. Bartholomew’s. How loudly their voices rose in harmony above the others in the crowded room! Did they imagine that excessive volume demonstrated superior godliness?

  And the Commodore, too, attempted to sing, but the sounds that emerged from his cracked lips were the noises of a weak cat being strangled. Alva put her hand to her mouth. Beside her, Lila covered her face. George got up and left the room.

  This theater of death was certainly no place for young children. Yet Alice had brought her two boys and her newest child, a girl, right into the bedchamber this morning, their presence meant to signal the parents’ unquestionable devotion to the Commodore—in case he would be moved to make a last-moment alteration in the will? Or was it to prevent a last-minute alteration that might get made out of spite? Was Alice so political?

  Alice and Corneil’s boys stood in front of their parents’ knees with wide eyes and somber expressions as they, too, sang—but not littlest Gertrude, who was in her father’s arms. Gertrude’s head, with its soft, dark curls, was drooping against his shoulder and her thumb was in her mouth.

  The last notes of the hymn faded into the quiet rustling of skirts and the delicate sniffles of some of the ladies as they also dabbed their eyes.

  “Billy!” the Commodore barked, making everyone jump.

  “I’m here, Father. Don’t excite yourself. Everything will be well.”

  The Commodore relaxed again. Long moments passed. Alice and Corneil’s oldest boy, six-year-old Bill, turned to his mother and said, “Is he dead?” Alice bent over and whispered something in his ear; he faced the bed and stood up straighter.

  Dr. Linsly leaned close to the Commodore and listened. He studied the Commodore’s face, then stood upright again. “The sight’s gone. Mr. Vanderbilt has passed.”

  Frank gave a single wet sob—but no: the Commodore’s hand rose again. He moved it slowly, so slowly, toward his face. And then, with his fingers extended, he dragged his hand over his face in order to close his eyes. That done, he rested his hand against his chest.

  He exhaled heavily. More long moments passed. The assembled family looked at one another and at Dr. Linsly, who shrugged. They waited. The Commodore sighed. A noise issued from beneath the covers. He sighed again. Then silence.

  Dr. Linsly took his watch from his pocket. He leaned over the Commodore’s face once more. He pressed his fingers to the Commodore’s neck. He put his ear against his chest. When he rose, he checked his watch again, then said, “I believe this time I am correct.”

  Now Frank began crying in earnest. Not to be outdone, several of the Commodore’s sisters and daughters joined her. The men coughed and shifted and stretched.

  Three-year-old Neily tugged at his father’s coat hem. “What happened?”

  “Great-grandfather has gone to be with God and Jesus in heaven.”

  Neily frowned. “No he hasn’t. I can still see him.”

  “Hush now.”

  William came over to Alva and said, “I’m going out to the stables for a bit.”

  “Find George,” she told him. “He’ll want to know it’s over.”

  Neily was protesting to his father, “He hasn’t gone anywhere, he’s right there.”

  Alice said, “His spirit has gone.”

  “I didn’t see it go.”

  “One can’t. It’s invisible.”

  “Then how do you know it went?”

  Alice’s lips tightened as she glanced at her husband. Then she said, “The Bible tells us. We have it as God’s word.”

  “Was that noise I heard his spirit getting out?”

  Corneil said briskly, “Let’s go have a muffin, shall we?”

  At the mention of muffins, Alva’s stomach rumbled. At her stomach’s rumbling, the baby gave a kick in its direction, then rolled mightily.

  Though William (unsurprisingly) wanted a boy, Alva hoped for a girl as sweet as little Gertrude, whom it had been her pleasure to hold and rock and sing to in her first months, to play pat-a-cake with more recently. The child made a pleasing distraction during Alva’s otherwise interminable visits with Alice, who found fault in everything. Alice proclaimed that her bath soaps were too fragrant, her cook’s piecrusts too dense, her landau too springy, her lady friends too concerned with hairstyles and hats and not concerned enough with God. Her house was too small to properly entertain the St. Bart’s clergymen, whose work she supported wholeheartedly and who deserved to be honored by many more people than she could seat. Perhaps a bequest in the Commodore’s will would allow her to change this. Alva felt certain Alice was wondering exactly that.

  Neily brightened at the prospect of muffins, but he was still
not satisfied with his parents’ responses to his question. He said, “How does a spirit get past the ceiling?”

  Bill said, “It can move through anything, like a ghost.”

  “Mrs. Keillor baked apple muffins, with cinnamon,” Alice said. “Can you smell them?”

  Gertrude perked up and pronounced, “Cimmanin!”

  “I’d like two, please,” Neily said, having received from his brother the answer that actually made sense to him.

  “Then come along, we’ll go down to the kitchen and see Mrs. Keillor.”

  With Frank and the older women still snuffling and dabbing, Alva gave a last glance at the inert Commodore, so strangely still, so remarkably quiet, so absent, and followed the family out through the sitting room crowded now with old men, and to the hall, where a grand pastoral painting of grazing horses was displayed with prominence. Here the scent of cinnamon wafted up through the stairwell and made her mouth water.

  When they reached the parlor downstairs, Alice said, “You should sit, Alva. I’ll have the maid serve you.”

  “Thank you, I will.” She pointed to Gertrude, still in Corneil’s arms. “Corneil, leave her with me, we’ll have a little visit and you can join William. He’s gone out back to the stables.”

  With Gertrude settled beside her on the tufted blue sofa and no one else in the room, Alva put one arm around the child. With her free hand, she rubbed her belly, trying to soothe her own little one.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked her niece, whose second birthday was only a few days off.

  Gertrude nodded. Her thumb was in her mouth again.

  “So am I.”

  Gertrude patted Alva’s hand with her own free one and then pointed at a painting across from them.

  “Do you like that one?” Alva said. Gertrude nodded. Alva told her, “That’s your great-grandmamma Sophia. She’d be glad to know you regard her well.”

  Gertrude then pointed at an object on the mantel. Alva said, “The shepherdess? Yes, it’s a very pretty statuette. Your great-grandfather grew up on a farm, and Sophia did, too—and your papa was born on one. Do you know what a sheep is?”

  Gertrude took her thumb from her mouth and said, “Baa.” She grinned.

  “You are a bright one,” Alva said. “Tell me, what do you imagine will become of us now?”

  * * *

  At the conclusion of the Commodore’s funeral service in the Church of the Strangers, Ward McAllister found Alva seated alone in a side gallery pew, where she’d gone to get off her feet for a few minutes while departing guests lingered in conversation with the family.

  The balconies were draped in black bunting. Urns and sprays of lilies made bright spots against so much heavy wood and black fabric. Still, elegant as the flowers were, their scent was oppressive.

  Alva wished she could go home and have a nap.

  “That was an excellent service,” said Mr. McAllister. “Frigid day! But what a turnout, just the same. I’d wager there were more than a thousand in attendance here, would you say so?”

  “Easily,” she said.

  Mr. McAllister seated himself beside her. “I’ll suppose you’ve seen the newspapers. Every detail of the will and its reading, there for the public to salivate over. They seem to have spies everywhere!”

  “They must,” Alva replied. She adjusted her pearls, which lay heavy against her swelling breasts. Her body hardly seemed her own anymore. “The family is displeased with the publicity. It’s quite invasive.”

  “But I’ll suppose they are not displeased with the will itself—save for my dear old friend Cornelius Jeremiah, I daresay.”

  In the will, which had been read to the men a day earlier, were numerous (and for the most part, modest) bequests made to Frank and the sisters and daughters and assorted others. The grandsons were treated more generously—far more than anyone anticipated: an estimated five million dollars in stock to Corneil and two million each to William, Frederick, and George. Two million dollars to William. Two million! Alva had not allowed herself to imagine such a figure—hadn’t even thought it possible.

  To Uncle C.J., however, the Commodore left a mere two hundred thousand to be held in trust, so that the money could not be spent all at once. The remainder of the estate—an unreal ninety million dollars—went solely to Alva’s father-in-law, who upon hearing the news had reportedly bowed his head and wept.

  Mr. McAllister said, “As regards your father-in-law’s share, there’s not that much money in the U.S. Treasury.” He said it with wonder, as if speaking of a visit of angels to Earth.

  “Astonishing, isn’t it? Though I’m certain some of society believe so much money is gauche.”

  “Some of our friends are yet mired in the cloistered past. Times are changing, though. I remember very well the gold rush days of only twenty or so years ago, when the notion of even one million dollars had been so startling that the newspapers put the word millionaire in quotation marks. And here the Commodore amassed a hundred such sums—which is, I should note, several times the estimated fortune of my dear friend Caroline’s husband, who is among the richest men in the country’s history. Gauche? Oh, that I could be so afflicted with such poor taste!”

  Alva said, “The real trouble, though, is that Uncle C.J. feels he’s been mistreated and is bringing suit against my father-in-law for a greater portion of the estate. It isn’t in the papers yet, but of course it will be as soon as they can set the story and run the presses again.”

  “Ah. And wasn’t he mistreated?”

  “Yes, of course he was.”

  “But your husband’s inheritance shouldn’t be at risk. So what is it that worries you?”

  “The papers. The spies. How far will they go in attempting to report the ‘news’? How badly will the family’s reputation be damaged? You have friends in all the important places; might you discourage them from printing gossip about us?”

  His expression was pained. “Would that I had that much influence! I’m afraid that when it comes to potential income, the press is rather like a runaway locomotive, to use a most apt turn of phrase. The family should, of course, be vigilant for anything libelous. Beyond that, you can only hope the two Mr. Vanderbilts will resolve the matter quickly.”

  “You used to litigate lawsuits, and you know both of these men. Tell me, do you think they will—resolve it quickly, I mean?”

  He gave a short, rueful laugh, and Alva said, “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Keep your head high, my dear, that’s all you can do—and make certain to put some of that money to obvious good use.”

  * * *

  Alva decided to attend a meeting of the Society for the Betterment of Working Children, which Armide had joined not long before. The group met once each month at the home of its president. Miss Annalisa Beekman was a young Knickerbocker lady whose pale eyes and pale hair and pale skin made her vulnerable to disappearance if she stood too near draperies or wallpaper of similar tones. Alva joined her and some ten other young ladies in the Beekman drawing room, which looked out onto Tenth Street. Among those ten: Lydia Roosevelt, who upon seeing Alva assessed her figure and said, “Well, Mrs. Vanderbilt, who would have expected you here?”

  “This is a cause I support heartily. When my sister told me of the meeting, I didn’t wish to miss it.”

  “How good of you. Do accept my condolences on the loss of your husband’s grandfather. Who knew he was so well off? It does, of course, enable you to be charitable—which is only to our benefit.”

  “Rather, to the benefit of the children, you mean,” Alva said.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. And you will recall that I have been engaged with charitable efforts for years.”

  Miss Beekman said, “Ladies, shall we come to order?”

  “Do forgive me for being late,” called Armide as she hurried into the room. Behind her was a young lady Alva didn’t recognize. Armide ushered the lady in with her.

  “Allow me to intro
duce Miss Mabel Crane. She’s newly arrived from San Francisco, California, and is eager to involve herself with good endeavors.”

  The others gave polite smiles. Miss Beekman said, “California, you say? My, that’s far from here.”

  “It was a really long journey,” said Miss Crane. She was a handsome girl, and well dressed. There was, however, no question that she was different. Her skin tone was more golden, her cheeks freckled, her hairstyle less formal than anyone else’s here. She was dressed as well as any of them, though, suggesting to Alva that she came from money but that the money was new.

  “And will you be in our city for a while?” asked Miss Roosevelt.

  “Oh, yes, I live here. My father got a house on Park Avenue near Fortieth—which I guess is a good part of town?”

  “Many new residents are buying there,” Miss Roosevelt said. “Most of us live here in this area of town, where New York’s first families settled.”

  Alva said, “Thank you, Miss Roosevelt. We all needed that history lesson.”

  Armide and Miss Crane found seats, and Miss Beekman, appearing flustered, said, “I was about to bring us to order, so I’ll proceed.”

  “Yes, do,” said Alva. “I know we are all eager to get to the business of this event.”

  Miss Beekman laid out the agenda for the meeting, the first item being the secretary’s report on what they’d done at the previous month’s meeting, followed by another report of the activities they had accomplished on behalf of the society in the intervening weeks as well as in recent months. Alva listened with diminishing attentiveness; her back was aching, and the baby kept kicking her beneath her left ribs, and these reports were interminably boring.

  “Forgive the interruption,” she said, shifting in her chair. “I want to be certain I understand the nature of this group. By what I’ve just heard, it appears that you raise money by hosting subscription teas and luncheons and dinner dances, and then the society writes a check to one children’s aid agency or another.”