The apartment was quiet when I returned. Paulette was out running errands and Mrs Cutter and Elizabeth were having dinner with friends. I collected the letters that had been delivered directly to the apartment and went to my room.
‘Salut, Grand-maman,’ I said to her picture before sitting down at my writing desk. My shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Smiling and pretending all was normal at the café had drained me.
I inhaled a couple of deep breaths and sat back. I was too discouraged to work on my story so I turned to the letters and spread them like a deck of cards. One of the envelopes had a picture of a familiar-looking Beaux-Arts building in the corner. Time came to a stop when I read the words ‘Le Grand Hôtel, Paris’ next to it. There was only one person I knew who ever stayed in that luxurious hotel. My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope.
Dear Emma,
I am in Paris at present. I have a spare hour in the afternoon tomorrow. I will meet you in the Café de la Paix at four o’clock. I expect you to be there.
Your Faithful Sister,
Caroline
I dropped the note, as stunned as if I’d received a blow to the head. I hadn’t heard from Caroline since I’d written to her about Grand-maman’s funeral, but she didn’t express any remorse about not corresponding at all during the darkest time of my life.
I expect you to be there. Her patronising tone rankled me. Was I really such a worthless person in her eyes that she expected me to be at her beck and call?
I was about to tear up the note when I remembered the letter I had written to Caroline the previous day. I opened the desk drawer and stared at it sitting on top of the yellow envelopes. Ripples of gooseflesh prickled my arms. Writing was a mysterious process. Had penning that letter to Caroline drawn her to me again?
I looked from the note to the envelope in the drawer several times, as if I was being lured by something beyond my control.
‘All right, Caroline,’ I said, ‘I will obey your summons. But only because I need something from you.’
Watch over me, Grand-maman, I prayed as I sat on the omnibus on my way to Le Grand Hôtel. My stomach churned with the uneasy feeling that came whenever I was to meet Caroline. I’d gone to our last engagement at Voisin’s with high hopes, and left irritated at myself for not accepting that Caroline would never change, and that we could never be close. This time I couldn’t imagine not getting angry with her for not coming to see Grand-maman in her final days, or even sending flowers for the funeral. But I knew that getting into an argument with my sister was futile. She wasn’t afraid to punch below the belt, and I was the sort of person who was easily hurt. If she repeated her sentiment that I shouldn’t have spent so much money on Grand-maman because she was old, I didn’t know what I’d do.
The café was full of rich Americans and European royalty decked out in pearls and expensive silks. I was conspicuous in my Le Bon Marché dress and the hat I’d decorated with silk roses and velvet fern leaves, but I threw back my shoulders and steeled myself when I explained to the maître d’ that I was meeting my sister, Mrs Oliver Hopper.
Think of the money, Emma. Think of yourself for once.
Caroline was waiting at a table under the red awning. She was wearing a lemon-yellow silk dress with lace at the collar and cuffs, and an enormous hat with a band of mink wrapped around the crown and an upstanding peacock feather secured by a jewelled medal. Her dark hair was now peppered with grey and her mouth had deep grooves either side, but her eyes still shone with the intensity of someone ready to take on the world. Hers wasn’t the sort of ageing that came through being gradually crushed by life’s blows and losses. It was an idle, self-satisfied decline that resulted from a routine of rich meals and sipping champagne on yachts.
‘Hello, Caroline.’
My voice squeaked. It was terrifying how quickly I reverted to my child-self in the presence of my sister. I thought of Grand-maman, and reminded myself that I’d be safe as long as I didn’t let anything hurtful Caroline said into my heart. I had to let it flow over me like water flowing over a river stone.
She rose and grabbed my shoulders, planting firm kisses on my cheeks. ‘Oh, Emma, what a joy it is to see you again!’ she cried, then held me at arm’s length. ‘And how lovely you look! Every time we meet, you are exactly the same.’
My mind turned with confusion. Was that a compliment or an insult? I’d been prepared for Caroline to be stand-offish and cold. Now I found myself wondering why she wanted to see me. But then my sister had a way of picking me up and discarding me that never made any sense. It wasn’t the Paris season, so perhaps she was simply bored and I was somebody she knew in the city.
We sat down, and she ordered café crème, petits fours glacés and tartlets for both of us without asking me what I would like.
‘So tell me, what have you been doing with yourself since I saw you last?’ she asked.
I flinched. Although I should have been used to it, her insensitivity always caught me off guard. What have I been doing? Well, let me see . . . I nursed Grand-maman through the last stages of a horrible illness, and although I’m no longer wearing black I am still in deep mourning. Since then I’ve been busy writing, giving harp lessons and recitals and taking in boarders to pay off debts that you refused to share, despite them being far less than what you’re paying to stay in this hotel or even for that ridiculous hat!
But Grand-maman’s dying plea for me to get along with my sister, as well as a sense of self-preservation that warned me to stay calm and get the money from her, made me bite my tongue. Instead, I took from my bag the signed copy of Histoires de fantômes I had brought with me and handed it to her.
‘This is a collection of my short stories. It’s rare for a publisher to accept stories that have been previously printed in literary journals.’
Caroline glanced at the book and placed it at the edge of the table. Then she smiled condescendingly, as if I were a child who had brought her a dead insect from the garden as a gift. A familiar tide of heat and shame swept across my skin. I was sorry I’d given the book to her. I imagined it would be thrown in the fire, or ‘accidentally’ left behind in her hotel room.
‘I’ve also had a novella accepted for publication,’ I added. Her eyes glazed over and I saw no point in continuing. ‘How about you?’ I said. ‘What have you been up to since we last met?’
Her face lit up and she clasped her hands to her chest. ‘My new house on Fifth Avenue has been completed! The façade is Indiana limestone and the grand hall is Caen marble. The architect is a genius and a master of interior design. There are no reproductions in the house; every item of furniture, every vase and painting has come from an ancient European castle or mansion.’
My annoyance at Caroline’s self-centredness was growing by the minute. She didn’t see anything wrong with plundering the historic homes of Europe? Before I could say something sarcastic, the waiter brought us more coffee and I resolved to raise the subject of money before I lost my patience completely.
‘Caroline, you must have received my letters about Grand-maman’s funeral and the expenses I’ve incurred?’
She sliced one of the petits fours in half and put a piece in her mouth, savouring the marzipan before swallowing it. ‘Where is she buried?’
It was an odd question and it threw me off my train of thought. ‘In Père-Lachaise, of course, in the family tomb. Would you like to visit her grave? We could go together tomorrow.’
She shook her head and said, ‘I don’t like cemeteries,’ before finishing off the rest of the sweet.
I would have assumed the blunt statement was intended to turn me off my objective, but I’d seen something deeper flash in her eyes when she spoke. Was it possible she was actually sad about Grand-maman’s death? Or was she remembering how our parents had died? I had been too young to experience the horror, but Caroline had lived through the war and their deaths. It would have been a terrible ordeal. An ache of compassion for my sister overcame me despite her
behaviour, but I had to persist.
‘Caroline, there is no way I can pay all those debts in time. I need your help or I will lose the apartment.’
She glanced over her shoulder and around the café as if searching for someone.
I sighed and repeated the line from the letter I had written to her but not sent. ‘I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a loan. I intend to pay you back.’
‘You worried too much about Grand-maman,’ she said, her face still turned away from me. ‘You always did. Even when you were a child you were always worried she was going to die. She got old, Emma. You should be thankful she lived as long as she did, considering all her health problems.’
Her words hit me like a blow. Despite my attempted defences she’d struck me where I was most vulnerable. Again! All hope of help from her withered away. If one good thing had come from this meeting it was that I’d never waste my time asking for her assistance again.
Caroline waved to someone: a young woman, barely seventeen, who had just walked into the café. She was wearing an elegant dress in the palest shade of rose, with cream appliqué on the collar and three ornamental buttons down the front.
‘Here she is at last,’ said Caroline when the young woman reached our table. ‘Emma, you remember my daughter, Isadora?’
Isadora? I hadn’t seen the girl since she was four years old. Caroline had never mentioned her daughter in letters or brought her to visit me and Grand-maman. I’d met her by accident one day in the Jardin des Tuileries. She hadn’t spoken a word to me, and I remembered the way she had clung to her mother’s skirt and Caroline had kept pushing her off. Isadora was the only secret I’d ever kept from Grand-maman. It would have broken her heart to know she had a great-granddaughter who would never be part of her life.
‘Hello, Isadora,’ I said, taking the young woman’s hand before she sat down. I had always imagined my niece would grow up to be a replica of her mother. But there was nothing of Caroline in her. She was tall and svelte like me, but while I was blonde she was ebony-haired. Her doe-like eyes had circles beneath them; an unusual blemish in such a young woman.
The waiter approached and Isadora glanced at the cup in front of me. ‘A coffee with cream, please,’ she said to him in English.
‘Oh no,’ Caroline told him. ‘She’ll have a camomile tea, thank you.’ Frowning at Isadora, she added, ‘You know coffee will only upset your stomach.’
Caroline turned back to me. ‘Isadora and I have been fully occupied these past few weeks having dresses made at the House of Worth for the coming winter season. Isadora is to make her debut in January. Dear Monsieur Worth passed away a while ago, but his sons, Gaston-Lucien and Jean-Philippe, have maintained their father’s high standards. Most of the clients are catered for by a vendeuse, but Jean-Philippe looks after us personally.’
Did it even occur to her, I wondered, that she was boasting of her great wealth to someone who sewed her own underwear and had a patch on the sole of one of her shoes? Someone she had just refused to help with debts that should have been shared equally between Grand-maman’s two granddaughters?
Isadora smiled at me and looked away again. She was lovely and graceful but had none of the poise and self-confidence a young woman of her position would normally exhibit. She certainly didn’t seem very excited by the subject of her debut.
She picked up the book Caroline had laid aside and stared at the cover. Her eyes opened wide. ‘Did you write these, Aunt Emma? Are you an authoress?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I replied, wondering if Caroline had spoken of me at all to my niece. ‘Do you like to read?’
‘Indeed I do! I am currently reading Baudelaire in translation. Do you like him?’
‘Look at your aunt when you are speaking, Isadora,’ interrupted Caroline.
I frowned, embarrassed for Isadora. Why did Caroline speak to her as if she were a child?
Isadora blushed but met my gaze. ‘I shall read your stories with great pleasure, Aunt Emma,’ she said, clasping the book to her heart in a way that left no doubt as to her sincerity.
‘I don’t see how,’ said Caroline, cutting up a tartlet. ‘They are in French, and you haven’t worked as hard at the language as you should have. Let alone the other skills a debutante has usually mastered by this time.’
Isadora blushed deeper. She turned to me and said in broken but not terrible French, ‘I would have worked harder if I had known I had such a lovely Parisian aunt to correspond with.’ She gazed at the book again. ‘Even if I have to sit up night after night with a dictionary I am determined to understand these stories.’
I smiled, happy that my book wasn’t going to be tossed away after all. ‘I’m sure your French will improve very quickly that way,’ I told her. And then, with daring, added, ‘And should you wish to write to me to practise your French, I would be happy to receive your letters and correct them.’
I touched Isadora’s hand, feeling an affinity with her that I had never shared with her mother. It seemed Caroline was not my only remaining family after all.
Caroline, unnaturally quiet, looked between us with an intense expression, no doubt plotting how to break the bond Isadora and I were forming before it could go any further. I wasn’t even sure why she had allowed us to meet today. My niece existed in a different milieu. She was one of the richest heiresses in New York and would be expected to marry a man of equal rank and take her role in society. I was a writer who associated with the shabby artists of Montmartre. Caroline wouldn’t like someone like me influencing her daughter.
When it was time for me to leave, Isadora kissed my cheeks with an affection that warmed my heart. ‘I will write to you every day, Aunt Emma.’
I squeezed her hand, fighting the tears that were prickling my eyes. How I wished she had known Grand-maman!
I turned to Caroline, careful to hide my fury. We had grown so far apart, and she was so unsympathetic to me, there seemed little point keeping up the relationship at all now. Grand-maman would surely have understood that I had tried my best. I was on my own regarding my debts, that much was clear.
‘Goodbye, Caroline,’ I said. ‘I wish you both every success for the coming season.’
She raised her bejewelled hand to her throat. ‘Thank you, Emma. It’s sure to be an exciting one!’
On my way home, I soberly reflected on the events of the afternoon. I had failed miserably in my attempt to arouse any sense of duty in Caroline. Tears filled my eyes as I surrendered to the consequences of that failure. I had fought and fought during the last few years: firstly to save Grand-maman; then to make her last days as comfortable as I could; then to hold on to my home and pay back my debts. But I was beaten. Monsieur Ferat was right: my only option was to sell.
I slipped quietly into the apartment and the first thing I saw was Grand-maman’s wedding portrait on the hall table. My gaze drifted to the parlour, where my harp stood next to the pink bergère armchair that Grand-maman used to sit in when she gave me my first lessons. How could I give up this place? It was the only home I’d ever known and held so many memories of Grand-maman.
Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen as Paulette went about making dinner but I couldn’t face her yet. I went to my room and sank down on the bed.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t be happy in a little rented room in Montmartre, but this apartment was a sanctuary. In the absence of a family of my own, it gave me a sense of comfort and continuity.
A memory appeared before my eyes as vividly as if I were watching the scene unfold in the room. Grand-maman was tucking me into bed when I was very young and calming me during a thunderstorm. ‘Don’t worry, my little darling, it is only God and the angels rearranging their furniture. Like when Madame Bellamy’s maid does the dusting upstairs.’
My tears fell harder and I turned to her photograph on my desk. ‘What do you think, Grand-maman? Have I done something terrible to displease God? First he takes you from me, and now our home. And what shall I do about dearest Pa
ulette? She’s too old to find work anywhere else. Without you here she has been such a comfort to me.’
I took several deep breaths. I couldn’t give up like this, but every avenue had closed before me. I imagined Claude scolding me for being so attached to ‘some walls and floors’. But he was self-reliant and could make a home anywhere. That wasn’t my nature. I needed the familiar. I needed to feel safe.
I stared up at the ceiling. I can’t help anybody. Not myself, and not Paulette. I am a useless human being.
SIX
After a restless night, a vestige of courage returned to me. My situation was desperate and I would have to write to Monsieur Ferat, but having fought daily for so long I wasn’t able to stop. I rose at dawn and sat at my writing desk to finish my novella The Mysterious Cat. I would send it to Monsieur Plamondon right away; and then write a short story in the afternoon. Perhaps I could dig my way out of my prison a spoonful of dirt at a time.
Paulette knocked on my door mid-morning. ‘A letter has arrived for you registered mail,’ she called.
My blood froze. Registered mail? It must be a summons to court. My day of reckoning was here.
I opened the door and Paulette handed me the envelope, but it didn’t look like an official notice. It was the finest cream vellum with gilt scrolls around the edges. It looked like an invitation to a ball.
I opened the envelope gingerly and took out the letter inside.
Dear Emma,
I am returning with Isadora to New York today, but I have given some deliberation to your request and I have a proposal. In exchange for me paying the debts you owe, you are to present yourself in New York by 1 October to assist Isadora in preparing for her debut. She was clearly impressed by you when we saw you yesterday, and responded to your encouragement in a way she never has with the many governesses and tutors I have employed to help her overcome her affliction, which you could not have failed to notice. Her condition requires great discretion, and because you are my sister I trust your ability to keep family matters to yourself.
The Invitation Page 6
