A Well-Behaved Woman Read online

  The car! It was still idled. She hurried over, climbed inside, her heart pounding while she searched the seats and floor.

  “It has to be here!”

  “Lady?” said the driver, stepping back inside.

  “A muff: did you see it? Or a box, a blue velvet box.”

  “I found a half a sandwich…”

  Back into the street again, searching, praying—but of course it was no use.

  On the sidewalk once more, she wiped angry tears and choked back the rest. I will figure it out later. I will figure it out. Right now she had other important business to transact. It would not do to appear in Mrs. Buchanan’s shop all teary and bedraggled.

  She reached into her coat pocket for her purse to get fare for the ride up to the shop on Fourteenth. The purse, too, was gone.

  * * *

  As Alva walked, she attempted to fix her mind on a plan for Mrs. Buchanan, and not on her stupidity, not on the loss. Stupid pride. Oh, yes, she was solving problems brilliantly on her own! Well done, Alva Smith.

  Stop it, she told herself. It couldn’t be helped. You can figure it out later.

  In order to maintain bargaining authority with Mrs. Buchanan, she must give no sign of her agitation. She must encourage the dressmaker to create a vision of a modern bride heretofore not seen outside of royal weddings, outdoing Margaret Vanderbilt Shepard as instructed. She would insist on the best price, and then her father would settle the account later from the sum he’d receive after the wedding. If her stomach growled, she would pretend that it had not.

  Entering the shop, Alva heard, “Mrs. Vanderbilt-to-be, I presume! A pleasure!” Mrs. Buchanan, who was younger and more handsome than Alva had expected, rushed over and grasped her fingertips. The woman looked to be in her thirties. Keen gray eyes, light brown hair, nose rounded at the end like a berry. She reminded Alva of a squirrel.

  The dressmaker said, “I read of your engagement to ‘young Prince Vanderbilt’—they called him that, and by the sketch I’ll say he looks the part! Come, give me your coat! Now sit and tell me precisely what it is that will make your wedding day the most glorious ever.”

  That it should happen, Alva thought, seating herself on a jacquard chaise and unbuttoning her gloves. Mrs. Buchanan sat at the opposite end.

  “Supposing you mean my gown—” Alva said, unpinning her hat and setting it aside. Her mother had taught her this process—the undressing before being asked to undress. It conveyed sophistication, Maman had said. Experience. A perception that one was not to be trifled with in regard to materials or price. That way, by the time one was down to chemise and corset for measurement, one felt in control rather than exposed.

  “A heart neckline,” Mrs. Buchanan said, and gestured to a dour woman who’d been hovering nearby. “Take this down. Pale green satin—”

  “White,” said Alva. “It makes a statement.”

  “Ah, another anglophile. I had so hoped Victoria would go out of fashion, but the woman simply keeps on!”

  “With wide flounces,” Alva added.

  “A riot of flounces! And a neckline to flatter the décolletage. Stand up, dear.”

  Alva stood. “I don’t know that further emphasis of my…”—she looked down—“is necessary.”

  “Fashion dictates,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “We must comply.”

  “My husband—”

  “Will admire you tremendously, as will his gentleman friends—a perfect outcome!”

  “It must be modest,” Alva said. She pointed to her neckline. “Perhaps you can put lace here?”

  “Oh, certainly. A chemisette of the very best lace, the finest of the fine. Woven by angels! And I’ll find you silk so supple that you won’t believe it isn’t poured from a bottle. Japanese baleen in the bodice, of course, and … hmm.” She put her hands on Alva’s hips and moved her one way, then another. “Seed pearl beads? Opals?”

  “Opals would be marvelous.” And expensive. But with the marriage settlement, her father could afford it. She said, “Prince Albert was quite fond of opals.”

  “Make a note,” Mrs. Buchanan told the dour woman.

  They discussed sleeves and seams and embroidery and buttons. After they’d gone through the process of taking Alva’s measurements (Mrs. Buchanan scolding her for being too thin), the dressmaker said, “We’ll have a sketch for you to review on Monday next.”

  “Wonderful. I do appreciate your making time for me this way. I’m sorry I had to delay our appointment.”

  “A terrible situation that could not be helped! The thing to do in all such cases is to look for the silver lining. Yes. That’s my way. There’s always something to be— Wait: a silver lining in the gown! The primary underskirt. Yes, oh my, an excellent idea. Make a note!”

  “I suppose you know best,” Alva said without conviction.

  “I do know best! Wonderful! What a wise girl you are,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “We’ll meet on Monday, at…”

  “Eleven A.M.,” said the dour woman.

  “At eleven A.M. Yes? Upon your approval, we’ll take a deposit of fifty percent and get the work under way.”

  “A deposit?”

  “Oh, don’t be affronted. It’s not personal. But you see, not everyone in this city is trustworthy—to say the least! We can’t simply sell off a gown if the client changes her mind or—and this has happened!—suddenly can’t afford to pay. Men play the markets like it’s only a game. Some win. Some lose spectacularly! So we now require a deposit from everyone, even Mrs. William Astor. It’s strange times, strange times indeed. We must adapt!”

  “Certainly,” Alva said, as if this requirement changed nothing. “My father will want to know the price—”

  “It’s too soon to say.”

  This was unexpected. How could she negotiate if there was no price? “A range, then.”

  The dressmaker looked at the ceiling, as if the figures were stamped there on the tin. “Eight hundred to twelve hundred—a wide range, I know, but I won’t be able to say better until I’ve selected the beads.”

  “As much as that?” Alva said. “That seems … rather high.” Her mother had never paid more than one hundred dollars for the most elaborate of gowns, even from the best Parisian dressmakers.

  Mrs. Buchanan nodded. “Yes, I know—it’s terrible how postwar inflation is taking its toll. But I wouldn’t dream of offering the future Mrs. Vanderbilt anything but my very, very best.”

  Alva suspected the inflation had more to do with the name Vanderbilt than with the economic effects of a war that had ended a decade earlier. Regardless, she was sunk. A deposit of four hundred or six hundred dollars—or even fifty—was impossible.

  “Of course,” she said. “Wonderful. So very exciting.”

  Seeing her to the door, Mrs. Buchanan again grasped her fingertips. “Until Monday!”

  “Yes,” Alva said, stepping outside. “I look forward to it.”

  Now she could go home, put her feet in a basin of hot water, and think of how to get herself out of the mess she had made. Such a clever young lady. Oh, yes. A lady of action indeed.

  Miss Lydia Roosevelt, just out of her expensively plain landau, approached.

  “Miss Smith,” she said, plump and privileged in her lustrous blue wool coat with its delicate fox-fur collar. “How pleasant to see you. Did you have business with Mrs. Buchanan? Do you not adore her?”

  “Yes, completely,” Alva said. “She’s planning my wedding gown. You know I’m marrying a cousin of yours.”

  “A cousin?” Miss Roosevelt looked confused. “I’d heard your betrothal was to William Vanderbilt.”

  “As I said.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve got something wrong, dear. The Vanderbilts, much as they may wish it, are no relations of ours.”

  “Oh, but you’re mistaken. My fiancé’s mother is a Roosevelt granddaughter.”

  “Was her name Roosevelt?”

  “No, it was Kissam. But her grandfather was Senator Isaac Roosevelt.”


  Miss Roosevelt said, “That’s how many generations back? I’m afraid you’re grasping at straws, dear. The only fact that matters to anyone is that Commodore Vanderbilt is a crass, boorish criminal.”

  “Really, Miss Roosevelt. Such slander diminishes you.”

  “It’s said.” Miss Roosevelt adjusted her fur collar to deflect the wind. “Besides, he spit tobacco on my father’s shoe.”

  “Intentionally?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You’re all being quite unfair to the Vanderbilts. Mrs. Astor—Caroline Schermerhorn, before she married her husband—lifted the Astor family’s similar reputation.”

  Miss Roosevelt said, “She was a Schermerhorn. Not a Kissam/Roosevelt twice removed.” She started to move toward Mrs. Buchanan’s door, then stopped and said, “You know, I’m sorry for you, Miss Smith.”

  “Sorry for me?” Alva said.

  “Oh—obviously the rumor hasn’t yet reached you.”

  Walk away, Alva told herself. Don’t give her the satisfaction. Say “good day” and leave. She saw herself doing it, saw Miss Roosevelt’s disappointment—

  She said, “Tell me the rumor, and I will put it to rest.”

  Leaning closer, Miss Roosevelt put her hand on Alva’s arm. “You know Mr. Gordon Bennett, whose father owns the Herald Tribune? He was entertaining some friends last week on a short cruise to see the whales, and your Mr. Vanderbilt was, I hear, quite taken with another of the guests, a girl whose father made a fortune in silver mining. Fair, I believe. A Miss Fair, yes.”

  “You’re mistaken. My fiancé is in mourning,” Alva said. “He hasn’t been at sea with Mr. Bennett.”

  “Perhaps not, if he’s observing custom.” Miss Roosevelt shrugged. “Little matter. Even supposing he does marry you, it’s not as if you can buy your way into best society. But at least you’ll have the gown—no doubt an improvement on the one I heard you wore at Greenbrier.”

  If only Alva were ten years old again, so that she could knock Miss Roosevelt to the ground and pummel her the way she had done to the boys who made fun of her for climbing trees and building little castles from sticks and rocks. Why was someone always interfering, judging her and her family, making her feel wrong and inferior when the things she was trying to do were neither?

  Alva stood taller and said, “Good day, Miss Roosevelt.”

  “Good day, Miss Smith.”

  As she walked away, her mind turned immediately to the rumor. Had William been sailing with Gordon Bennett? And Theresa Fair: Had she really been aboard as well? Would William have paid the girl so much attention (she was younger than Julia, for heaven’s sake!) that others would say he’d been “quite taken” with her?

  It was possible. How well did she know him, after all?

  If it hadn’t happened, why would anyone say it had?

  If it had, why had it? Was it that he was merely a flirt? Or was he so inconstant that he’d decided he needn’t hitch his wagon to an old horse like Alva, not when Theresa Fair was younger and prettier and had no want of his money. When she so clearly adored him, might even love him.

  Alva had given a good performance of those sentiments. But perhaps not good enough.

  I should love him, she thought.

  In time, perhaps she would.

  She would not, however, get prettier. Or younger.

  The blisters that had formed on both of her feet during her walk to Mrs. Buchanan’s had now swelled and split open, searing her left heel and little toe and her right first and third toes, and a spot toward the outside of that foot …

  William, entertaining Theresa Fair on Gordon Bennett’s yacht. Why would he do this?

  She could survive him breaking the engagement, if it came to that—though she would be a pariah where all other gentlemen were concerned; none would take up with another’s castoffs.

  Still, it would not be the end of the world. She would have to forget the entire plan that’s all, and learn to make do.

  Forget the buttered bread with raspberry jam.

  Forget the life of the empowered, well-off lady,

  the stuffed squab,

  the paid bills,

  the goose-down beds,

  the full stomach,

  the warm house.

  Forget the protection afforded by being married well.

  Forget supporting Armide and Jenny and Julia. And Daddy. And Lulu and Mary. Who had all come to count on her, whose comfort and well-being and safety depended upon her marrying William or someone like him.

  I have to try harder.

  Alva stopped to let a fish cart pass in front of her. She was so weary, and so hungry, and her troubles seemed to be multiplying by the minute.

  Money’s no fix! the tenement girl had said.

  It is, though, she thought. It can be. For me, it can be. It will be. It has to be.

  Alva made herself concentrate on facts. Miss Roosevelt might be wrong about everything. And even if she wasn’t, there might yet be a way for Alva to turn back the rising tide. She would have to seek an expert’s assistance— a man, unfortunately. As needs must, and pride be damned. For now.

  * * *

  Mr. Ward McAllister was expected back soon, his housekeeper told Alva. “You’re welcome to remain here in the vestibule if you like.”

  Alva sank onto a bench. “Thank you, I will.”

  The McAllister townhouse was a tasteful residence not far off Fifth Avenue on Sixteenth Street, where Mr. McAllister lived with his wife, Sarah, a quiet woman whose most remarkable feature had been the money she was to inherit from her steamship-tycoon father. Mr. McAllister was known to stroll Fifth Avenue regularly, observing his neighbors and, of course, being observed. And while it was true that the most fortunate of New York’s residents (including Caroline Astor and the notorious abortionist Madame Restell) lived at the corners of Fifth Avenue on increasingly higher-numbered streets, plenty of good people continued to reside in New York’s lower blocks, the McAllisters among them.

  What were the gentlemen wearing this season? Chestnut gloves or gray? Top hats a little shorter this year, or no? Beaver for those hats, or wool? Brooks Brothers or Wetzel for the best tailcoats? Enameled shirt studs or simple gold? These would be some of his concerns—he wanted always to dress currently. But it was societal fashion, not sartorial, that was his strength, the reason he was sought after by ladies of all ages and stations.

  Mr. McAllister was even better informed of the goings-on of the city’s best citizens. Indeed, this was his stock-in-trade. At one time he’d been an attorney; the law, though, was less interesting than his friends’ lives. Take, for example, the question of whom Miss Carrie Astor might marry when the time arrived. She was not yet sixteen, hadn’t officially debuted, but already there were a few young (and some not so young) men making love to her at picnics and parties and balls. Her mother, Mr. McAllister’s close friend Caroline, was reportedly concerned that the youngest Miss Astor would fall for one of these Lotharios. She might disregard her parents’ direction the way her sister Emily had done in marrying that ridiculous widower James Van Alen last year. Would Carrie remain obedient? If she did not, which unsuitable suitor was she most likely to choose? Mr. McAllister claimed he could occupy himself for entire days with the permutations of such matters, and often did.

  Gossips said he’d been in line for a million-dollar inheritance only to see his expectation thwarted when his aunt, whose support and influence had been his entrée into New York society when he was a young man, divided her estate between the Georgia Historical Society and the Presbyterian Church. So he had joined his father and brother in their California law practice. He liked to say that the three of them did quite nicely there, helping to secure claims and settle disputes when gold was all but jumping out of the hills. But the rush couldn’t last forever, and although ambitious, he hadn’t the form of Commodore Vanderbilt or Wall Street traders Mr. Drew or Mr. Gould, or the increasingly impressive Scotsman Mr. Carnegie, say, men who w
ent at their obstacles like bulls, heads down and horns out. Therefore he’d had to marry well, and had been lucky in that, at least. His wife’s father had left her a fortune sufficient for him to retire from the law and apply himself to all those things he did best.

  Alva heard a carriage come to a stop. A few moments later, the front door’s latch gave way.

  “Why, Miss Smith!” said Mr. McAllister, entering. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  She stood and offered her hand. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

  “Indeed I am,” he said, giving her a curious smile. “And here you are as well.”

  With ceremony he removed his hat, gloves, overcoat, and muffler, and gave the garments over to the housekeeper. “Come in, won’t you? Give Mrs. Shaffer your things.”

  Little in his appearance had changed in the years Alva had known him. He was a bit rounder, perhaps, and a bit balder, but his mustache and goatee were still present and well trimmed, if grayer than she’d noticed before. A man of average height, he managed to come across as shorter. Despite the care he took with his appearance and his attempt to be distinguished, there was something of the banty rooster about him.

  Alva gave the housekeeper her coat and unpinned her hat once again, saying, “I’d hoped to find you at home. I’m in need of your expert advice.”

  “And a warm drink, I’ll wager. Tea or coffee—or would you enjoy chocolate? My man gets the most exquisite cocoa. Imported from Denmark, don’t you know.”

  “Yes, thank you—the chocolate.”

  Mr. McAllister led her into the drawing room. “If I may, how is your father’s health?”

  “He’s following his doctor’s directions,” she said, taking a seat in an armchair. She spoke then about those directions, and about her concerns for her father (though she downplayed his current state), and of how, once she and William were wed, her father and sisters would move to a more comfortable house. “That is,” she said, coming to her point, “if I actually succeed in being married.”

  “What? Has there been a rift?”

  “I was aware of none, but a rumor to that effect has reached me. Mr. McAllister, may I ask your counsel?”