I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter when Mama and I were invited to dine at Lady Paget’s beautiful house on Belgrave Square in London shortly thereafter. I was to be seated on the right side of the Duke of Marlborough—the ninth duke. He bore the intimidating name of Charles Richard John Spencer-Churchill.
I was schooled repeatedly to the fact that he possessed the only palace in England that was not owned by royalty, and Mama—along with Miss Harper—lectured me thoroughly on the historical significance of Blenheim, a structure that held seven acres under its roof when completed. The palace was a gift from Queen Anne of England in 1704 to the first duke, a general, who had beaten the French and made them lose a great, famous battle.
Miss Harper read me a poem by Robert Southey that included the lines Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won and ’Twas a famous victory. I rather liked the poem if not the import of it for me. Actually, its deep message was against war, and I was all for that, at least. I knew much of America’s so-called War Between the States, because Mother’s southern family had lost much during those dark days.
Of course I would be kind to the duke, interested and polite and try not to blush at how much the bare flesh of my shoulders and the tops of my swelling breasts were on display. Then I would beg Mama to go home, though not tell her I wanted to see my father and ask his help to encourage Win, my beloved Rosenkavalier, to quickly tell my parents he wanted to marry me, ending all these on-the-market rehearsals and let’s-bait-a-hook chicanery.
To my amazement, the duke indeed looked young—and, oh my, at least four inches shorter than I. I could tell that bothered Mama as she managed to get us seated quite quickly. He was slim with carefully combed brown hair and a wispy mustache. I found his face pleasant but nondescript, almost expressionless at times, as if he seemed to be somewhere else. He was fond of gesturing with his graceful hands. He did look me over carefully, mostly when he thought I was not watching him. In short—short was not a joke I told myself as I looked down on him—he was not a sighing maiden’s dream of a fairy-tale prince—or duke.
“I understand your ancestral home is not only historical but beautiful,” I observed after our introductions and what Mama called small talk.
His blue eyes lit at that. “Blenheim is a living entity, my heritage. It is my goal in life to see that she is taken care of, made more lovely yet,” he told me, riveting his gaze to mine for the first time.
I could not help but think that Blenheim was his true love. At least he had a purpose in life, something to protect and cherish. And he had referred to the estate as a “she.”
He went on to describe the grand rooms of the vast building, the grounds and gardens, the estate workers and antique villages in which they lived. His voice became animated, and his hands drew pictures in the air. But then he because more serious again.
“I understand there are some family difficulties that will soon become full public knowledge,” he told me between the third and fourth courses of dinner. “Mrs. Vanderbilt says you are going home straightaway, but that you will return for the next social season, so perhaps the two of you can tour Blenheim with me then.”
Mama had not told me we were leaving soon, but I was glad for it. And perhaps, for someone like this man who cherished his home and honor, a looming Vanderbilt divorce would keep him away. Oh, if only!
“I am sure we would love to see the palace and estate,” I told him, feeling much relieved that I—if not he too—might be promised to another before then. Mama may hope my absence would make this man’s heart grow fonder—for my dowry at least—but I was praying that out of sight would mean out of mind.
Suddenly the food and wine tasted better. Our halting conversation seemed smoother. I might never see his beautiful Blenheim at all, because I was going home.
WE STEAMED BACK to the States in September of 1894 on the ship RMS Lucania, arriving in time to join the Newport social season. I was so relieved to be home and out of the clutches of titled Europeans and the women who acted as go-betweens for my mother. I was happy to be part of the demanding, breakneck Newport season. Mama was busy planning how to obtain her divorce and yet retain her place in society. Although I could tell she was keeping Win away from me, with Mama’s attentions otherwise engaged, we could still correspond and we planned an autumn reunion in New York. I cherished each letter that came through my maid, addressed to “Dear Amber” and signed “Your true Rosenkavalier.”
The daily routine for the young social set in season stretched nearly from dawn to the next daylight. Morning rides sidesaddle, then the first of many changes of attire to a day dress for a carriage ride. Before lunch, swimming at Bailey’s Beach, though I detested the rocks and red algae there—and how long it took to change into my pantaloons, swimming dress, and huge hat. In truth, I thought a good deal of time was wasted in endless costume changes, usually from the skin out.
Next came noon luncheons in cottages or on yachts in the harbor or a picnic elsewhere with linen, china, and crystal laid out on tables or blankets on the grass. Tennis and gossip at the meeting place, called the Casino, and afternoon promenades. Tea later on the lawn and another change of clothes for dinner. Balls in the evening of various themes or decorated in a particular color. And then all over again the next day.
Papa spent his days on his yacht in the harbor or visiting his favorite place, Idle Hour on Long Island, to which I longed to escape. The few times I saw him, we quickly chatted somewhere outside since he was persona non grata with Mama, and I knew my friends might leak it to her, however loyal Miss Harper or my maid might be. Mama had sacked staff for far less before.
“Do not think she has given up plans for you with Marlborough,” Papa warned me as we ducked inside one of the shops on Bellevue Avenue while Miss Harper pointedly looked around at the merchandise. “Talk about the Battle of Blenheim paying off for generations of those dukes,” he went on, speaking fast and low. “Your mother’s battle is big, too—first, complete the divorce and get control of you three children.”
“No . . . that should be shared control at least,” I dared. “What else is she demanding?”
“I have offered her all three homes in exchange for joint custody, but she is only taking Marble House—she’s always hated the Vanderbilt home on Long Island. I thought she’d want 660 Fifth Avenue—well, she designed it, too.”
“Designed and decorated it with your money.”
“Do not talk like that. It takes two to make a marriage, and I am the one who asked for her hand, made the marriage decision, however much she steered me into it. But, what the deuce, I think she is going to emerge from this social disaster unscathed. She gave me a high-flying speech that she intended to pave the way for women being able to get a divorce without losing face—and then went on a rant about women getting the vote, no less. But, dear girl, how has all this been for you?”
“Everyone’s talking, whispering behind my back about it. A few sniggers here and there. But, Papa, it is so outrageous if Mama thinks she can still marry me off well after this. I heard that at the mere hint of divorce or marital troubles and Queen Victoria tosses former friends to the wolves, and it is not so different around here.”
“Well, Queen Victoria has not met Queen Alva. Your mama managed to best Lady Astor once, so I would put my betting money on her. But I am sorry, my dear, about the whispers, the scandal, which you are no part of.”
“It must bother Win, too. Please tell him I will see him in New York soon. I hope his feelings for me will not change, if you know what I mean. He is from a respectable, well-to-do family so she cannot say he is only after my—our—money.”
“No one who sees or knows you could be after only that, my dear. I had best push on now. I will tell Win you are looking exceptionally lovely. I would ask him down, but your mother is a powder keg right now, so take care of yourself and the lads.”
He pecked a kiss on my cheek. How much I loved him!
Miss Harper knew to offer a handkerchief the moment she came back to me in the shop. “My mother will have my head if she hears I see him here and there,” I whispered to her.
“My only assignment,” she said, “was to watch out for Winthrop Rutherfurd lurking about. Let’s go, or we will be late to the polo field to watch a few chukkers from the carriage. See and be seen, that is the best ploy to keep our chins up through all this.”
I knew she meant the scandal of the Vanderbilt divorce. But the scandal that devastated me—that I must somehow escape—was the shock of being sold for a title to the highest bidder for my hand, and for the rest of me, too.
BUT EVEN WHEN we returned to New York that autumn, I did not see Win. Granted, I was ailing for a while, but his letters stopped coming, even after I wrote him, making me even more ill, especially when the Vanderbilt divorce was discussed and dissected daily in the newspapers. I did not miss the whispers of my friends, but could the “great divorce” have changed Win’s mind about me?
Then, on a windy but sunny week in late winter, a few days before the divorce would become final, Mama announced that she and I were heading back to England on March 3, and that she was going to host a luncheon for my female friends on my eighteenth birthday the day before. She informed me that carriages would take me and my guests for a bicycle ride afterward, weather permitting.
Indeed, I thought, it would do me good to go out with a group of friends to get my stamina back and some color in my cheeks. In a way, but for having my brothers and Miss Harper around, I was in sore need of companionship.
I knew I looked pale, but painting was strictly for the demimonde, so I pinched my cheeks and enjoyed the luncheon—though Miss Harper informed me that several of those invited were “engaged elsewhere” when it used to be that no one missed any Vanderbilt event at the elegant 660 Fifth Avenue mansion. Then out we trooped to carriages that delivered us near to Riverside Drive, since the new bicycle rage kept horse-drawn vehicles away from that picturesque street now. And you might know that Mama actually rode along with us, including my brothers. And, suddenly, there was Win!
I never did learn how he managed to become part of our group! It hardly mattered. Here he was, at last, in the flesh, my handsome, clever Win. With the others around, Mama could hardly tell him to leave, and his presence made a public statement that the Rutherfurds, at least, still desired to mingle with the disgraced Mrs. Vanderbilt. He even doffed his hat to Mama as he coasted up beside me, and off we all went.
“Pedal fast so we can outstrip them, especially your mother,” he said without turning his head my way. “Why haven’t you written?”
“Only a million letters at least, and I have had none of yours.”
“It is not my mother intercepting them.”
“I am surprised I still have my maid and governess if she found out they used to pass them to me.”
“But that would be tipping her hand. Consuelo, my beloved ‘Amber,’” he added, using his secret pet name for me—probably secret no more, if Mama had intercepted our letters—“we will have to be strong through this. And I rejoice that you are of age today, as that may help.”
“Or not,” I said with a sigh.
We pedaled faster, ignoring the passing scene of the white-capped Hudson River, carriages, and other bicyclers. I was out of shape, out of breath—but out of patience, too. Indeed, I was of age! Must I be controlled by my mother yet?
“Then you still care for me?” I asked breathlessly as we increased our speed even more.
“I love you with all my heart. I play polo and think of you. I play golf and think of you. I have hidden here next to my heart a long-stemmed American Beauty rose to prove my continued constancy and pray that I am yet your Rosenkavalier. Would you consider a secret engagement until we can figure out how to best convince your mother?”
“What about your family—now with the divorce?”
“There is but one barrier as far as I can tell.”
“Once she realizes how much we love each other, surely she will want to keep me here in society, not that of Europe. I have not heard one word about someone there I thought she fancied for me.”
“Then, let’s stop here and make our vow,” he said, as we braked to a halt and glanced back at my laughing friends—and frowning Mama, all nearly caught up to us. He pulled a battered bright pink American Beauty rose from inside his buttoned jacket and seized my hand. The river wind ripped at us, loosening my hair and tugging at my hat. I clutched the flower to my breasts.
“Consuelo Vanderbilt, I love you with all my heart,” Win said, in a rush. “I pledge you my undying love and admiration and wish to marry you—when—when we can manage it. Will you marry me?”
“I will. I will! To death us do part.”
We dared not kiss but squeezed hands. I thrust the rose under my buttoned cloak as the other riders pedaled up to meet us. Somehow Mama managed to wedge the front wheel of her bicycle between ours.
“You are going much, much too fast,” she scolded us. “Consuelo, you have been ailing and need to keep up your strength for our departure tomorrow. And Win, how lovely to see you again. But you, too, look a bit windblown and flustered. Are you quite well? Nice of you to ride along today to bid Consuelo good-bye.”
“Hey, there, Win,” someone shouted. “The wind is in my face but seems to be pushing you and Consuelo along!”
“Not a bit of it!” Win responded with a smile as we all remounted our bikes.
I sighed and shuddered with excitement as well as sadness that we were to be parted again so soon. But now I could imagine us riding a bicycle made for two through any gale or storm, way ahead of Mama’s machinations, all the way through my now adult life.