He kissed Grace and stepped back to admire her. ‘Aren’t you ravishing in that dress, my darling. I knew it would suit you. You look like a beautiful magnolia.’
Grace turned to me and smiled demurely. ‘My husband chooses all my clothes. He always insists on coming with me to Paris when I buy my seasonal wardrobe. The Duchess and your sister are forever trying to “borrow” him. He knows exactly how to display a woman to her best advantage.’
Harland squeezed her hand and gazed at her, by all appearances very much taken with his wife. Had I misjudged him?
‘Well, I have to credit you with doing your part, Grace.’ He turned to me. ‘My wife looks ten years younger than she is because she works so hard at it. The New York beauty industry would go downhill if it didn’t have Grace to support it!’
If a man had said that to me, I would have been humiliated. But Grace didn’t seem bothered at all and laughed merrily at the comment. Perhaps this was simply the way they humoured each other.
‘You’d better get going, darling,’ she said. ‘You have your work to do, and Caroline has only spared Miss Lacasse for a couple of hours.’
He kissed her again, then headed towards the door. Before he reached it, he stopped and turned back to me. ‘I hear you’ve been invited to one of Augusta Van der Heyden’s formal dinners, Miss Lacasse? You poor thing! I have to warn you that they are frightfully tedious. Grace and I used to be invited before we got married, but thankfully that was the end of that.’
He left the room, and I tried to regain my composure by searching for something pleasant to fix my attention on. The first item that captured my eye was a Flemish tapestry that hung between two bookshelves. It showed three women standing over the body of a fourth.
Grace caught me looking at it. ‘I bought that recently — Harland was furious. The three women represent the Greek Fates: Clotho spins the thread of life; Lachesis measures it to decide how long a person will live; and Atropos cuts the thread to bring death.’
The sight of the three women holding the power of life and death over a fourth did nothing to comfort me.
‘Why was Harland furious that you bought it?’ I asked.
‘Because it’s a reproduction of course.’ She stared at the tapestry for a long time as if she had discovered something new in it. ‘Harland plunders Europe for its old treasures, fully believing that New York is the rightful capital of the world. He loves nothing more than to wrestle an artefact off a weeping widow.’
So Grace did have insight into Harland’s behaviour. How could she stand being married to him? From the little I had seen of her, she seemed like a moral person.
I must have looked perplexed because she sighed. ‘You’ve noticed that my husband likes to cheat people and tries to get everything for free? It’s become a game with him — he doesn’t need the money. He’s like an overgrown child. Most people are greedy and self-seeking in some way; Harland simply isn’t afraid to show it. In many aspects he is a visionary — hell-bent on converting this city from a settlement of dull brownstones into a magnificent sparkling metropolis. My fear is that he’ll cheat the wrong person one day and they’ll kill him for it.’
An odd, tense sensation settled in my chest. I could have understood it if Grace was blinded by love to Harland’s faults; but she seemed not only to know them well but to accept them. Surely her admiration of his vision for New York wasn’t enough to justify the way he went about achieving it?
‘Why did Augusta Van der Heyden stop inviting you to her formal dinners after you were married?’ I asked.
‘There is an example of a friendship destroyed by rivalry,’ she said, glancing at the book. ‘An architect isn’t the kind of person the old New York elite would normally have at their dinner tables, especially a young unestablished one. But Harland was born into an affluent family that lost its fortune, so he had the credentials of old money just not the wealth. Besides that, his charm was irresistible. Augusta acted like a mentor for him, introducing him to the finest families in New York, buying all his clothes and jewellery, and even setting him up in a luxurious apartment in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. But Harland has always been his own person. Your sister is his champion now — she chose him to design her home here in New York. That has put some of the old guard’s noses out of joint.’
I remembered what Isadora had told me about Caroline and Augusta being in competition. It made what Grace had said sound plausible. But I suspected there was more to the story than she had revealed.
Before I could ask, she turned to her harp. ‘Let’s begin our lesson, shall we?’
Grace played a Mozart sonata. She was more than an accomplished student: she had flexible wrists and lightweight fingers, and tackled the markedly contrasting shifts of mood in the piece — from passionate to playful — with natural flair. With regular practice, I was certain she could achieve the level of a concert harpist, if that was what she wanted.
When she’d finished, I gave her some suggestions on improving her technique and the precise stroke needed for certain strings to produce the most elegant sounds. She grasped everything readily and eagerly, and had the discipline to work on a single phrase until it was perfect.
I lost all track of time until the clock in the grand hall struck five.
‘Goodness,’ I said, ‘I don’t know where the time went. I’ll have to return soon to give Isadora her music lesson.’
‘Don’t go yet,’ Grace said. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’
She led me through a pair of trompe l’oeil doors depicting an Italian garden into a drawing room with a moulded ceiling and provincial French chairs. Above the carved marble fireplace hung a portrait of a younger Grace. She was perched on a sofa and wearing a white satin ball gown with a blousy pink rose at the bustline. The striking, fluid brushstrokes had captured the expression of a young woman in love: her eyes sparkled and her rosebud smile was tender.
‘My first husband commissioned Giovanni Boldini to paint it,’ she said. ‘When I look at it now, I can hardly believe that young woman was me.’
‘Your first husband?’ I stammered. I had never imagined that Grace had been married before.
She lowered her eyes. ‘Sometimes fate sneaks up on us so quietly we don’t see it coming. I thought Clarence and I would be together forever, but he died only a couple of years into our marriage, of blood poisoning. The months after his death were the worst I could imagine — blackness, gloom, fits of depression. My mother told me that my grief was a failure of self-command; that I must think away sadness, and to fail to do so was a deficiency of resolve. Then I met Harland, and gaiety and laughter seemed to return to my life.’
They seemed to return to her life? Hadn’t that actually been the case?
The butler appeared to inform us that the carriage was ready to take me back to Fifth Avenue.
‘Very good, Aston,’ Grace told him. ‘We’ll be along shortly.’ She clasped my hand as he left. ‘When I met you at the luncheon last week, Emma, I knew you were different. You’ve inspired me to re-examine my life. But be careful: this city can give you everything and then quickly take it away again. The more you associate with the fashionable crowd, the more alienated from your soul you will become.’
A maid arrived with my coat and helped me to slip it on. After she’d left, Grace said, ‘She tried to kill Harland, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Augusta Van der Heyden.’ She linked her arm with mine and walked me out to the great hall. ‘She was madly in love with him, you see. Her husband is dead now, but in those days he was neglectful. He provided her with every material luxury anybody could want, but no love or companionship. He preferred to spend his time sailing around the world on his yacht and entertaining women of dubious reputations. Harland took up escorting Augusta everywhere and made her feel like a queen.’
Grace looked at me directly. ‘Nobody understands what women desire better than my husband. Everybody is happy, so amused, so delighted! Until th
e game comes to an end and he moves on to someone else. Augusta couldn’t believe that he would betray her.’ Her voice took on a bitter edge. ‘She went to Harland’s office with a pistol she had taken from her husband’s gun room. Fortunately for Harland, she was a terrible shot. She fired several times from just a few feet away but only managed to graze his arm.’
The butler was waiting to open the front door for me.
‘How did she avoid the scandal?’ I whispered. ‘Were the police called?’
An amused smile arose on Grace’s face. ‘When you have money, you can always avoid a scandal in New York, Emma. Harland didn’t call the police. Instead, he put Augusta into a carriage and told her never to do such a foolish thing again. My husband can be quite chivalrous when he wants to be.’
She clasped my hand and gave me a parting kiss on the cheek. I thanked her for the afternoon and we agreed to have another lesson in the near future.
But as I climbed into the carriage, an unpleasant sensation, like the touch of a cold finger, ran down my spine. No matter how she acted, Grace wasn’t happy in her marriage. How could she be? Harland was unscrupulous.
FOURTEEN
Lucy and I were to go to Augusta’s dinner in the grand carriage the Hopper family used for important occasions. It was drawn by four magnificent horses, two white and two black.
Caroline saw us off. ‘You look like one of us now,’ she told me.
The chiffon dress in pale tones of blue and cream Madame Bertin had made was glorious with its low neckline and flounced skirt, and to it Caroline had added, from her own wardrobe, a cloak of cream velvet with cascades of lace rippling down the front. Part of me was flattered by my sister’s double-edged praise, while another part of me was aware I was being sent into enemy territory. I was like Madame d’Oettlinger spying for Napoleon.
The footman opened the carriage door and helped us inside, and out of the icy night air. My days of travelling by omnibus to Montmartre and buying clothes on sale at Le Bon Marché seemed years away. I thought of Claude and wondered what he would make of all this opulence. I could hardly believe it myself.
Augusta’s home was Dutch Renaissance in style, with an array of elegant turrets, chimneys and red-tiled gables. Unlike my sister’s imposing house it was quainter and much less ostentatious.
A red velvet carpet ran from the front door, down the steps to the pavement, where two footmen in olive-green livery, powdered wigs and white face make-up were waiting to open the guests’ carriage doors as they arrived.
Another footman posted at the top of the stairs bowed and opened the door for us, showing us into a grand hall with a curving staircase and portraits covering the walls.
A maid took our coats but not our evening gloves, which Lucy had advised must be worn until we had been seated for dinner. ‘Place them on your lap under your napkin,’ she had instructed during one of the many drills she and Caroline put me through in preparation for the occasion. ‘I like to make a fold in the napkin and tuck them into it so they don’t slip off. There is nothing as unladylike as searching for your gloves under the table when it’s time to move to the drawing room.’ Caroline had been so pent up about my attending Augusta’s dinner that I hadn’t dared point out that I’d been teaching my etiquette students that trick for years.
A gathering of people waited ahead of us to be taken into the formal reception room and announced by the butler. The gentlemen were each handed an envelope and guided to a seating-arrangement diagram placed on a side table.
Lucy gave the diagram a cursory glance as we passed it. ‘That’s not so good,’ she whispered to me. ‘We’ve been seated away from each other. Be very careful what you say, Emma. It could be a ploy.’
The magic of the evening disappeared in an instant and I remembered why we were there.
The butler ushered us into the reception room, Lucy a few steps ahead of me because of her rank. ‘Her Grace, the Duchess of Dorset, and her companion, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ he announced.
The eyes of the elegant assembly turned to us, staring and curious. Lucy was an object of envy because of her aristocratic title, and many of the guests must have known from Town Topics that I was Caroline Hopper’s mysterious sister.
But there was one gaze that was more penetrating than the others and when our eyes met, I knew who it belonged to. Augusta Van der Heyden wasn’t imposing in height but she was imposing in person. A matronly woman of about sixty years of age, she was exquisitely dressed in a black silk dress embroidered with beads and sequins. She wore a diamond tiara in her high coiffure, but her jet-black hair looked dull and lifeless. It was surely a wig, I thought.
‘Good evening, Duchess,’ she said, taking Lucy’s fingertips. ‘I’m very glad you could come.’ Her voice was cool and silvery.
How different she was to my sister. Caroline was spirited and impetuous, while Augusta appeared dignified but rigid. She turned to me and I tried to read her thoughts, but her face was impeccably composed.
‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ she said, taking my fingertips as she had Lucy’s. ‘I’m glad you could come.’ At the moment she released my hand something flashed in her eyes, so fast and deadly it was like a scorpion’s sting.
Caroline had warned me that Augusta’s reason for inviting me was dubious, and I might have been terrified of the older woman if I hadn’t heard Grace’s story about her foolish infatuation with Harland. That folly made her human.
Augusta turned to the man standing by her side. He was tall, with a military-like posture, a cleft in his chin and tawny-coloured eyes. The grey that threaded through his thick brown hair gave him a distinguished appearance. I wondered if he was Augusta’s current younger lover — another Harland.
‘May I present to you my nephew, Douglas Hardenbergh,’ she said.
Douglas took our hands in turn and gave us both a slight bow, although from the enquiry he made about the health of the Duke of Dorset it was clear that he’d met Lucy before.
Indicating an elderly couple standing by the fire, he said to me in French, ‘Allow me to introduce you to Mr and Mrs Williamson, Mademoiselle Lacasse. They will be seated at your table tonight.’
He spoke so perfectly and elegantly that it was a shame to make it clear that I spoke fluent English. But decorum demanded it. He would be embarrassed if he found out from someone else.
‘That would be most kind of you,’ I told him.
‘Ah,’ he said with a smile, ‘my efforts to impress you have missed their mark. Never mind, perhaps some other time you will allow me to practise my language skills. I do believe French to be the most beautiful language in the world.’
He guided us through the guests towards the elderly couple, but before we reached them a woman of corpse-like paleness and wearing an emerald snake ring on her hand intercepted Lucy. Her smile revealed yellowed teeth.
‘When is the Duke going to grace us with his presence?’ she asked.
Lucy tilted her head. ‘I’m afraid my husband travels poorly by sea and it’s difficult to entice him away from his beloved Rosebery Hall.’
Her reply seemed well rehearsed and I guessed this wasn’t the first time she’d given it. I had wondered myself about her husband and why he wasn’t in New York with her.
‘Indeed,’ the woman said, her eyes narrowing as if she didn’t believe a word of it, ‘I’ve heard the English are very attached to their estates.’
When it became obvious that she intended to continue the conversation, Douglas guided me away towards the Williamsons. Mr Williamson was a stout man with flowing side whiskers, and his wife had a florid face. She was obviously nearsighted and used a lorgnette to look me up and down.
‘So you are the young lady we have been hearing all about,’ she said in a high, imperious voice. ‘The one who plays the harp and writes stories. Well, no doubt Douglas will want to tell you all about his literary endeavours.’
I glanced at him.
‘I’m rather fond of writing poetry,’
he confessed. ‘But I keep it largely to myself. I’m always impressed to meet a published author.’
Mrs Williamson leaned towards me as if speaking in confidence. ‘It’s all very well for men to while away their hours writing. But there will be no time for that once you are married, my dear. You will see.’
It seemed to be a common belief that a woman’s artistic life ended with marriage. Once she had taken her wedding vows, she was viewed as a servant to her husband. Claude, too, was convinced that marriage would somehow change our relationship for the worse, even though we would both be the same people.
The butler announced that dinner was served, and Douglas excused himself to lead the guests into the dining room. My dinner companion approached me and offered his arm. He was a musky-smelling man with a bulging forehead and sharp nose.
‘I’m Frank Beaker,’ he said, enveloping me in his stale tobacco breath. ‘And I’m afraid we are seated at the least important table tonight. Still, better to be seated at the lowest table at one of Augusta’s dinners than to be at the table of honour in any other house in New York.’
I feared I might be in for a tedious night — as Harland had warned me — in the company of such an obsequious man. But my concern was overtaken by delight when we entered the dining room. Paintings by old masters covered the walls, their gilded frames arranged jigsaw-style as in a museum. There were originals by Jules Lefebvre and Édouard Detaille — how Claude would have loved to see them! I wished I had my writing journal with me so I could record all the details, and then imagined how horrified Caroline would be if I did. I reminded myself that I was here for Isadora’s sake.
The room held a centre table of twenty people, and four corner tables of eight each. The tables were covered with white damask cloths and each was decorated with a candelabrum surrounded by a wreath of roses. The plates were monogrammed with the initials BVdH.
Mr Beaker guided me to the table in the far corner, and we were soon joined by Mr and Mrs Williamson and two other couples. Mr Williamson introduced them to me as Mr and Mrs Warburg and their daughter and son-in-law, Mr and Mrs Chaser. Our table had three footmen to attend to us; the centre table had eight.
The Invitation Page 16
