A Well-Behaved Woman Read online

  As Alva searched the room for Consuelo, hoping for rescue, behind her came a voice saying, “Please excuse me for interrupting—” Alva turned, and there was W.K. He said, “Might I have a few minutes of your time, Miss Smith?”

  “Of course!” she gushed—too eagerly? Had she just dampened whatever interest he was exhibiting, which might not be interest at all, might be nothing more than a desire to ask her about goldenrod?

  Her companion, though obviously put out, made no argument. He bowed and left them, while Alva said, “I’m pleased to have a chance to—” To what? What would Miss Fair say? “To—to merit some of your time. It’s a genuine pleasure,” she added. “Truly.”

  He gestured for her to precede him through doors that led to a wide stone terrace and extensive sculpted gardens. The Allegheny peaks were violet against the mauve sky. A mockingbird recited its chickadee-cardinal-wren-titmouse litany at the top of its voice. Were it not for the scene she was supposed to be staging, she might have been able to properly admire and enjoy her surroundings. She might have been able to admire and enjoy W.K. Instead, she fought to control her nervousness and, as ladies did, waited for the gentleman to speak first.

  They left the terrace and entered the gardens and he said nothing. Strolling the paths—nothing, still. Nothing for so long that she couldn’t stand it anymore and said, “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, dancing.”

  Dancing with everyone else, that is.

  “Did I? Yes, well. Unlike my elder brother, I’m not willing to spend all my youth at a desk calculating profit margins on shipping rates. You were quite good in there. Quite popular, too.”

  Then why didn’t you ask me to dance?

  (No one good will ever consider them seriously.)

  “Thank you,” she said. “I learned the dances in Paris—at court,” she emphasized, in accord with the plot. “Armide, my older sister, had her debut in the Tuileries Palace at one of Emperor Napoléon’s balls, and I attended several when I was old enough. My mother was quite intimate with Empress Eugénie and her celebrated friend, the salonnière Countess de Pourtalès.”

  (An overstatement.)

  (Be the prize.)

  At those balls, her mother had been displaying her to the highborn gentlemen as though she were a coming attraction, something to look forward to, to plan on, perhaps. Maman would tell the men that she danced well and was fluent in English, French, and German. Not a beauty, perhaps, not yet. But pretty enough and already so poised, n’est-ce pas? And her ancestry …

  W.K. invited Alva to sit beside him on a bench, where she attempted prize-like conversation.

  Her: Do you enjoy that new game, lawn tennis? I’d wager you’re awfully good at it. (Bat eyelashes. Smile.)

  Him: I do play, and fairly well, it seems. A bit hot for it now, though. Yachting, that’s the thing.

  Her: Have you spent much time in London? Paris? Parlez-vous français? (He did. Geneva. School.)

  Him: I’m keen on horses—breeding them, racing them; they’re the most magnificent animals, don’t you agree? (She—silently—did not.)

  Even with the pleasant banter, he didn’t appear to be enjoying himself. He rubbed his eyes. He sneezed, withdrew a handkerchief, wiped his nose. Alva’s stomach was knotted and painful. They went on this way, a rowboat idling in an eddy seemingly forever. Her smile felt pasted on her face. Finally she blurted—

  “I’m loath to tell you this. But I’ve recently heard a rumor. About Miss Fair. The sort of thing I would want to know if I were befriending a lady.”

  His eyebrows were lifted in curiosity, so she continued. “It seems she may have become … quite close … to a young man who works for her family.”

  “Oh?”

  “A stable hand, actually.” His eyebrows went higher. Alva said, “So I heard. I can’t say that it’s true, but…”

  “I did have some reservations about Miss Fair,” he said, then sneezed again. “This only confirms them.”

  “I dislike spreading rumors, but in this case…”

  “Miss Smith,” he said, laying his gloves on the bench. He picked them up again. Laid them down. Patted them.

  “Miss Smith,” he repeated, “Corneil—my older brother—has three children. Margaret, my oldest sister, has four. My younger sister Emily has one and—if I may—is currently in anticipation of another.”

  “That’s a lot of nieces and nephews,” Alva said. “Holidays must be lively affairs.”

  “They are.”

  “And I’m certain you make them all the brighter.” This, in her best prize-like tone.

  He picked up his gloves and clutched them.

  He sneezed.

  “I think it’s the”—he gestured as he pressed the handkerchief to his nose yet again—“the flowers on your dress.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, and began to pluck off the offenders and toss them aside.

  “Please.” He waved off her apology while shifting farther from her on the bench. “What I have been intending to say is that I understand your father is having some difficulties right now.”

  She stopped plucking. He wanted to speak about her father?

  “Well,” she said, “yes, that’s true, but it’s only temporary. He’s been ill, you see. Once he recovers—”

  “Certainly. But if you have no objections, it would please me to be in a position where I could aid him in the meantime. I thought I might speak to him when I return to New York.”

  So the Vanderbilts were now also in the lending business and W.K. was fishing for clients? Perhaps she had misjudged his merits. Perhaps she should go this minute and find the Pittsburgh coal man.

  “That’s kind of you,” she continued, gathering her plucked skirts and rising, “but I suspect he would prefer to—”

  “As his son-in-law, I mean,” he said, standing.

  “As his son-in-law.”

  “I—yes. That is, if you’re amenable to that plan. I’ve been meaning to see you alone for days. This was my aim in coming here. I realize my proposition might seem surprising—”

  “To say the least! You didn’t even ask for a dance.”

  “I do apologize. I … well, it’s … Miss Smith, seriousness doesn’t come easily to me. I had to work up my nerve to speak with you. Because as my family has rightly advised me, it’s time that I … Well, I’ve considered this carefully, and as I’m certain you know, we—all of us—are given a small array of choices that suit our situations, and you seem to me a good choice, and from what I can tell, it seems that you feel similarly. About me.”

  She stood there stupidly, blinking. Then she began to laugh.

  “Miss Smith?”

  Was it really as simple as this?

  He said, “I’m afraid I don’t see the joke.”

  A few strokes of flattery and a few gushing remarks, once the scene had been set?

  Recovering her composure, she said, “You’re certain?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d thought that perhaps Miss Fair…”

  He shook his head. “She wouldn’t suit. But you—you do find the prospect appealing?”

  “Yes. Yes! Wonderful, in fact. It’s what I had hoped for.”

  He grinned that happy-puppy grin. “Good. Then we shall continue our acquaintance in New York. I think you’ll find I’m an agreeable fellow—and if not, you’ll call it off.”

  “I find you completely agreeable already. Please, Mr. Vanderbilt, do see my father, as soon as you can.”

  “Call me William, won’t you?”

  “If you’ll call me Alva.”

  “Alva,” he said. “Alva. Good. It’s all arranged.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Alva met Theresa Fair in the corridor.

  “Clever Miss Smith,” said Miss Fair in a voice even more childlike than she. “You made like you were after the Southern gentlemen last night, but obviously it was a ruse. I saw you in the gardens. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

>   “In love—?”

  “With Mr. Vanderbilt. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  Love him? Alva thought. I hardly know him.

  She said, “I suppose it’s obvious, then. I may as well admit it. He proposed marriage to me, and I accepted. I’m sorry if this means disappointed hopes for you. There will be many excellent opportunities in your future. I wish you well.”

  Love was a frivolous emotion, certainly no basis for a marriage—every young lady knew this. You must always put sense over feeling, Madame Denis, Alva’s favorite teacher, had said. Sense will feed you, clothe you, provide your homes and your horses and your bibelots. Feelings are like squalls at sea—mere nuisances if one is lucky, but many girls have lost their way in such storms, some of them never to return.

  Alva did not need to love William Vanderbilt; she needed only to marry him.

  III

  “I’VE BEEN TELLING Father and Grandfather all about you,” William said as he and Alva, en route to dine at the Commodore’s house, strolled in nearby Washington Square Park. “They can’t wait to see for themselves what a fine match I’ve made. I believe Grandfather even trimmed his sideburns for the occasion.”

  “The pleasure will be all mine, I’m certain.” Already she was enjoying herself; who would not be flattered by such enthusiasm? It was endearing, really.

  He said, “I would temper your expectations. The papers refer to him as ‘the old tyrant’ for a reason.”

  “And is he a tyrant?”

  “Oh, not at all. He is—shall we say?—less accomplished in the social graces than the gentlemen you’re accustomed to.”

  “If you fear I might judge you by his behavior, rest easy; my practice is to give every person a fair trial on his own merits.”

  “Good! This is my practice as well. Society’s gotten so caught up with convoluted rules and standards—”

  “Hasn’t it, though? It can be maddening.”

  William said, “It pleases me that you’re so understanding—and intelligent! I told them, ‘She’s not one of those insipid girls who can’t think for herself.’ That dress with the flowers—granted, those particular flowers didn’t agree with me—but I told them how you were the only girl there with an original approach.”

  “And you were the one gentleman there whose opinion I valued.”

  This compliment was not exactly a lie. Had she delivered it convincingly? Artful doublespeak did not come as naturally to her as it seemed to do for others she’d seen—the ladies in the French court, for example. They had made a sport of it, a sport that had amused her when she’d been merely an observer.

  At their destination, they were shown into the Commodore’s drawing room, a high-ceilinged, well-appointed but not ostentatious space where the two men stood up to greet them. Mr. Vanderbilt, William’s father, was a stout, balding man with dark, bushy muttonchop whiskers and friendly brown eyes that were almost Asiatic in shape. The Commodore was much the same in countenance, but with white hair and piercing blue eyes. He was taller than his son, and lean—strapping, one might call him, despite his having turned eighty years old earlier that year. His sideburns were indeed neat.

  He came to Alva and took her hand. “Welcome, Miss Smith! The boy here has been talking of you without end.”

  “I do hope the descriptions were favorable; if not, you must confess it so that I can run away right now.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt took her hand in turn, saying, “Fear not. He used only the most glowing terms.”

  “Glowing? Oh—well, now I’m worried I shall never live up to your expectations.”

  “What, you can’t actually glow?” said the Commodore. He looked at William’s father. “Billy, the lass can’t glow!”

  “How very unfortunate,” said Mr. Vanderbilt. He shook his head in mock disappointment.

  “That’s it, then. Out with ye!” The Commodore gestured toward the door.

  Encouraged by this favorable reception, Alva said, “If you must know the truth, I truly can glow—but to display my talent might mean outshining you all, and I don’t wish to be immodest.”

  “Aha! A bright girl,” the Commodore declared, nudging William. “Shine away! Already our boy here is showing good effects from it.” The Commodore pinched William’s cheek.

  Alva smiled demurely. (Glance coyly—lashes down.) It was not so difficult to be the prize, not when it meant exercising one’s mind in the process. She hoped William possessed the same wit she was seeing demonstrated by these men—though she had yet to see signs of it.

  They dined on beef rib roast, candied carrots, creamed spinach, pickled beets. Alva savored every delicate bite she brought to her lips, no forkful actually full—one did not wish to appear overeager. What a pleasure it was, though, more so even than the repartee. If William did not prove to be clever, she would regardless eat very well, just as she’d envisioned that day at the Greenbrier. She’d done right in allowing Consuelo to lobby for her, for this.

  As they ate, the Commodore, who’d begun life as a Staten Island farmer’s son, did much of the talking, regaling them with dramatic stories of his steamboat days in the wilds of Nicaragua, and New Jersey. Mr. Vanderbilt, far more modest in attitude, told about the Vanderbilt family history and how he’d gotten his own start farming the family land before his father brought him in to manage the railroads.

  The Commodore said, “He tells it too simply—when he was a young man, I knew he was stupid. Blatherskite, I called him. Always going on in his plodding way. He plods, he ought to plow! I thought. So I gave him leave to run the farm—didn’t see him being any good to me here. He showed me, though, believe it. Smart like a fox. That farm never saw so much income! So I put him in charge of the whole works—all the roads, operations, accounting—the whole works, I tell ye, and we’re more profitable than ever.”

  “Not that business profit should concern Miss Smith,” said Mr. Vanderbilt with equanimity. “Likely she prefers more feminine subjects.” He then asked after Alva’s father, inquired politely about each of her sisters, and bade her talk about her years in Paris.

  Time to play huckster once again:

  She told them that she had attended a good school, “though I much preferred the city over confinement within the school’s walls. My mother was active in society and at court. We attended the opera, the ballet, so many plays and concerts. Je parle très bien le français, as you would expect. It was a fine upbringing. So much emphasis on art and beauty. I confess I used to wish I could be Empress Eugénie’s daughter. But not anymore,” she added. “My fate could not be happier.”

  At the conclusion of the most satisfying dinner Alva had eaten in a year or longer, the Commodore raised his glass of what was a marvelous Garrafeira port and said, “William, my boy, I speak for your father and myself when I say you’ve done well by the family. Miss Smith here is a fine, well-behaved woman, there’s no doubt in it—no, none at all. Marry her, with our blessings.”

  * * *

  She was comporting herself perfectly and reaping the benefits. Yet all the while, Theresa Fair’s accusation—that Alva loved William—sat on her shoulder speaking into her ear the way her mother’s pet mockingbird used to do. Love. Liebe. L’amour. Amore. Love, for a man. She’d read of it, had seen it seem to happen to other girls, but could no more imagine how it felt than she knew how it felt to fly.

  She believed that what Madame Denis had cautioned was true, but was there any benefit to this type of love, any advantage? Fact: emotions were unstable, unreliable, time consuming. Emotions were forever getting the heroines of stories into trouble. Only when Elizabeth Bennet stopped fretting over Mr. Darcy and he over her did the wisdom of their pairing prevail. Only when passionate Mr. Rochester had been tamed by grave injury was he worthy of sensible Jane Eyre’s affection and commitment.

  Besides, one could not conjure love.

  William had selected her, would marry her, and they would in time become something like his parents. Alva would manage his hous
ehold. She would bear his children. She would be at the very least a prominent second-tier society matron. She would never have to live in a tenement, or die in one. That ought to be enough.

  * * *

  “Mother is home from her summer travels and would like you to come to tea,” William said, standing by the window in Alva’s cramped drawing room on a late September afternoon. He’d stopped in to see her before leaving for Long Island, where he and some companions were going to hunt quail. Alva’s youngest sister, Julia, sat nearby ostensibly writing a letter to a friend.

  The sisters, having seen only a little of him, were intensely curious about this Vanderbilt fellow who would be their savior. They’d given up waiting for Armide to receive an offer; now twenty-seven, she was far too old to be anyone’s first wife. Jenny, nineteen, was prettiest, but Jenny was painfully shy and suffered from melancholy. Fifteen-year-old Julia was flighty and spoiled and in no way ready for marriage, even should an offer come her way. They’d pinned Alva with their hopes the way a naturalist pinned a frog to a pan.

  Alva observed William. He was slender and of a good height, with gray-blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. His hair was golden in the sunlight. He was in fact a golden boy. She was the one who’d gotten the prize.

  He continued, “She says Thursday would be best, if you’re free. Three of my sisters will be there, and Corneil’s wife, Alice. George, too. He’s about to be twelve, but Mother indulges him. Everyone’s eager to finally meet you, as you might imagine.”

  “And I them. I’ll send a note right now.” She went to the desk and told Julia to go.

  “Why should I?” said Julia, not budging.

  “Because I asked you to.”

  “You didn’t ask, you commanded.”

  “Will you please leave us?” Alva said sweetly.

  Julia turned to William. “Must I?”

  “Go,” Alva said. “You see? This is why I commanded.”

  William smiled as Julia went off pouting. “All right now,” he said, resuming the conversation while she penned her note. “Let’s see. You might bring some orange daylilies. Are they in season? Or violets. Mother likes those, too. I should tell you, you’re not the sort she’d choose for me. She’s retiring and gravitates toward similarly quiet friends. But she’ll like you just the same. Better, I should think.”