‘That’s true. But unlike the old society that does everything in secret, we’re going to reveal the details to the press one enticing tidbit at a time. They will tell everyone for us.’
Lucy glanced at me as if to see if I was thinking the same thing. ‘Isadora isn’t out in society yet. That could be a problem.’
‘I’ll make it her debutante ball. Everyone’s tired of the same old bals blancs for debutantes. If they won’t accept me as the queen of New York, they will have to accept Isadora. She is the wealthiest heiress of all. The theme will be the Palace of Versailles. Everyone will have to come as aristocrats, nobles and famous contemporaries of the French court.’
Lucy twisted her sleeve thoughtfully before her face broke out into a wide smile. ‘That does sound a rather splendid idea: different but still tasteful, especially if Harland does the decorations and Madame Bertin designs our costumes. What date were you thinking of?’
Caroline’s gaze travelled to the ceiling and fixed on the mural depicting the Battle of Lepanto. A vicious smile appeared on her face. ‘The third Thursday in January. I’ll make the old elite choose between Augusta and me.’
Lucy blanched. ‘Are you sure, Caroline? You are taking a terrible chance. The theme is daring enough but choosing that date is risking everything.’
‘Exactly!’
A pulse beat in my ears. My sister was about to throw down the gauntlet. And whether I wanted to be or not, I was a member of a family at war.
FIFTEEN
In early November, the New York Zoological Park opened and Isadora invited me to go with her and her friend, Rebecca, to see it.
‘The Central Park Menagerie is depressing,’ Isadora explained. ‘Those poor animals have been dumped by carnivals and circuses or private owners. At least they say the new zoo has placed the animals in groups and tried to emulate their wild habitats. I need to study them in order to do justice to the sculptures I make of them.’
I didn’t like zoos. Grand-maman had taken Caroline and me to the zoo in Paris once, and never again. While Caroline had been intrigued by the animals, Grand-maman and I became distressed as we moved from cage to cage. Not only was the stench of the place an assault to the nostrils, but our hearts broke at the sight of the unfortunate creatures sitting in solitary cages with cement floors, and nothing to occupy them but the faces of the humans taunting them, trying to provoke them into some action. ‘It was worse than a prison,’ Grand-maman said years later. ‘Because those unfortunate animals were innocent.’ But Isadora’s description of the new zoo gave me some faith that the animals would be treated better; and it was true that she needed to study her subjects and how they moved in order to improve her art. Besides that, I was keen to meet the young woman who appeared to be my niece’s only friend.
We bundled ourselves into coats and scarves, and packed Isadora’s art supplies to take with us.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Lacasse,’ Rebecca told me, when we picked her up on our way. She was a stout, homely girl with round spectacles to match her round face, but her grey eyes glinted with intelligence and character. ‘I’ve read your collection of short stories,’ she told me. Then, playfully pinching Isadora’s arm, she added with a smile, ‘I had to read them in Isadora’s sitting room. She wouldn’t lend me the book.’
It was touching that my niece held me and my work in such regard. ‘I hope you enjoyed them,’ I said.
Rebecca nodded enthusiastically. ‘Your collection was the best fiction I have read this year.’
‘And Rebecca reads a lot,’ chimed in Isadora.
Rebecca dipped her chin. ‘I do! Quite often a book a day when Mother isn’t interrupting me about some tedious social function I have to attend. I made my debut last season and she’s desperate to show me off.’
‘You must have quite a collection of books,’ I said.
‘This is the city for bookstores, Miss Lacasse. Perhaps one day the three of us can go to Fourth Avenue together. It has so many new, used and rare bookstores it’s referred to as “Book Row”.’
Our conversation continued pleasantly until we reached the Bronx. Unlike the rest of the city the area was rural with rustic cottages and large tracts of woodland. The carriage brought us to the wrought-iron gates of the zoological park, where a sign boasted that it was the largest of its kind in the world. Indeed the fresh air and the park’s many trees, hills and rocky outcrops were heartening compared to the awful conditions I’d seen at the Paris Zoo, but the animals were still behind bars. Perhaps zoo life wasn’t as tragic for the smaller animals like the beavers and turtles, who seemed contented enough with their artificial ponds and rivers. But my heart sank at the sight of a majestic lion sitting in a cage with nothing more to amuse him than a rock formation. But even in his bleak surroundings, he exuded a kingly grace with his luxurious mane, golden eyes and massive paws.
‘He’s a Barbary lion, from the North African plains,’ said Rebecca, reading the plaque on the cage. ‘There are very few of them still in the wild. They’re being hunted to extinction.’
‘I’ve heard the director of the park used to be a big-game hunter, but now he’s a conservationist,’ said Isadora.
Rebecca finished reading the plaque and rejoined us. ‘There’s a rumour that half the tropical animals died in that cold snap last month and they’re simply going to replace them. He can’t be that much of a conservationist.’
I enjoyed listening to Isadora and Rebecca talk together. They weren’t frivolous girls consumed with petty things; and seemed to have an affinity for nature and wild creatures, despite having grown up in a city.
‘I want to travel,’ Isadora said with a sigh, ‘but not like people in society do. I want to travel freely, to view animals in their native habitats, and experience how real people live. You’re the only person I know who travels like that, Aunt Emma. Everyone else just moves from one luxurious hotel to another. They may as well stay in Manhattan.’
I brought my hand to my chest. Was that how Isadora viewed me — as some sort of adventuress? I was sorry to disappoint her. I wasn’t free at all. In fact, I was not unlike the poor Barbary lion: Caroline had captured me and put me on display.
We stopped by the reptile enclosure, where Isadora and Rebecca made detailed sketches of an alligator’s horny scales.
‘Are you an artist too?’ I asked Rebecca.
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m a palaeontologist. Well, at least I pretend to be. My mother refuses to send me to university. But I’ve read every book on the subject at the New York Public Library, and one day I hope to work at the American Museum of Natural History.’
My heart ached for Rebecca. If her mother was anything like Caroline, that dream of hers was unlikely to be realised. Perhaps I was freer than I had assumed. My only real restriction in life was pecuniary; if I had money, I’d be at liberty to do almost anything. That brought home the irony of the difference between my life and Isadora’s and Rebecca’s. Their families had more wealth than most people could ever imagine, but that wealth meant they weren’t allowed to choose how to live their lives.
Our final stop for the day was the bear den, which housed a collection of grizzly, black and polar bears. A grizzly bear stood on its hind legs, leaning against the bars of its cage and watching us. Rebecca sketched it, while Isadora took a lump of clay from her bag and formed it into a bear paw.
‘Until you observe a real grizzly stretching its paw, you can’t appreciate how big and powerful they are,’ she said excitedly. ‘Look at the pad! It’s as wide as a dinner plate!’
I recalled the stuffed bear and lions in Oliver’s trophy room and shivered. Did Isadora even know that room existed?
While the girls worked, I conjured up a story about a sculptress who rescues a bear from a zoo by moulding a piece of him every day: first his paws; then his back and forelegs; next his rump; and finally his head. When she reassembles the model in her studio, the sculpture turns into a real bear and the bear in the zoo
disappears. The zookeeper thinks it has escaped and organises a bear hunt among the wealthiest and most brutal men in New York. The sculptress has to find a way to smuggle the bear out of her house on Fifth Avenue and back into the wild. She decides to use her father’s private railcar to pull off the feat —
‘Aunt Emma?’
I woke from my musings to find Isadora and Rebecca looking at me.
‘Where were you?’ Isadora asked, laughing. ‘Somewhere miles away! The zoo is about to close.’
After we’d dropped Rebecca home and returned to the house on Fifth Avenue, Isadora and I parted ways: she to her studio with her clay models, and me to my room to work further on my story. We had both been inspired by our outing.
On my way back downstairs for dinner, I met Oliver who had just arrived from his office.
‘How was your day at the zoo, Emma?’ he asked. ‘Was it all you expected it to be? What did you think of the enclosures?’
The fact that he’d lowered his voice so no one else would hear what we were talking about gave me the impression that he was keen to know my opinions rather than simply making polite conversation.
‘It was certainly a more pleasant zoo than others I’ve visited,’ I told him. ‘It inspired all of us — especially Isadora, who made some remarkable models of a live grizzly bear’s paws.’
I hadn’t intended to make the point so sharply, but Oliver didn’t register my barb. Perhaps he was one of those hunters who supported a zoo’s role in conservation so they could have an endless variety of animals to terrorise and destroy.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said. ‘When they were building that zoo I made a sizeable financial contribution. This country is extraordinary in its natural beauty, and I had a chance to see it when I travelled along the routes I intended to purchase for railway lines. I’ve seen bison in the wild, a moose giving birth, and buffalo stampeding. In my view, the natural landscape is the only way to appreciate the true majesty of animals. But all that will be gone before long — Isadora and my grandchildren will probably never get to see it. At least the wild beasts in the zoo might give them an idea of what once made this country great.’
Oliver’s speech stunned me; and also reminded me of Isadora’s expression earlier that afternoon of her desire to travel to wilder parts of the world.
‘Why don’t you take Isadora with you when you next make a journey for your railway lines?’ I asked him. ‘She would most certainly appreciate the landscape you describe.’
A light flashed in Oliver’s eyes for a moment, before his face returned to its usual expression of discontent. ‘Isadora is Caroline’s domain, and she would never allow it. It is a mother’s role to direct the life of her daughter.’
The tiny doorway of understanding that had opened up between us was firmly closed again.
Caroline sauntered down the stairs and greeted her husband with a stony glare. ‘You’re late tonight, Oliver. You haven’t even bothered to change. Don’t complain to me if the food has turned cold. You can’t expect the chef to perform miracles.’
But before we entered the dining room, Oliver drew me aside and said in a hushed tone, ‘I’m glad you came to New York, Emma. I can tell you are doing Isadora a world of good.’
Dearest Claude,
As I move deeper into my sister’s world, I often ask myself what you would make of it all. It is so different from café life in Montmartre where our conversations are colourful and intense. We never hesitate to discuss the innermost workings of our minds. Here everything is on the surface.
When I went to Le Cimetière des Chiens with Florence to visit her little dog’s grave, there was an epitaph that read: ‘One would have thought he was human . . . but he was faithful!’ I remember that made me think about how with another human being you can never be sure that what they are saying is actually what they are thinking, while animals are transparent in their sentiments. That feeling has increased one hundredfold here. I find that my own thinking is becoming muddled from the sheer inability to speak authentically in this environment. In many ways the conversations about clothes, about houses, about who is who in society, seem very safe — but are not safe at all. I find myself wondering what pent-up emotions and impulses are hidden behind those perfect façades and all the show of wealth and pomp. Just as the surface of the sea seems calm, but underneath lurk all sorts of dangerous creatures.
I have nearly filled the writing journal you gave me. I am sending you my story about a grizzly bear that escapes from the zoo in New York in a most unusual way. I hope you like it. I wrote the original in English and will see if I can submit it to a journal here.
I miss our late suppers together, our sharing of ideas and our conversations about our work.
Please give my best regards to everyone at the café and send me news about them.
My love always,
Emma
After I’d sealed the letter, a wave of longing washed over me. Paris was still my home: a place where I could find love, protection and security. My Montmartre friends had been a substitute family, especially after Grand-maman died.
Here I had a blood family, but Isadora was the only one I was close to. Despite my wariness of Caroline, I still found myself longing to be closer to my sister. But her love was like a carrot on a stick that she dangled before me. Each time I reached for the carrot, she tugged it away. It had always been like that, and I wasn’t confident she would ever change.
The distance between us was driven home to me as Thanksgiving approached. I was anticipating an intimate family occasion, until I learned that Caroline and Oliver were usually invited by the Harpers to the fashionable restaurant Delmonico’s, and Isadora customarily celebrated with Rebecca and her family. Caroline didn’t include me in the invitation to Delmonico’s, and I didn’t want to intrude on my niece’s friendship with Rebecca, so I was relieved when Florence invited me to join her and her aunt and a few friends for the celebration.
Caroline was occupied with ball preparations when I told her. ‘Who is this friend of yours again?’ she asked, her head bent over the invitation list.
‘A very respectable woman from a good family in Gramercy Park,’ I said. Why did I need to justify to my sister who my friends were and where they lived? I wasn’t a child.
‘Please yourself,’ she answered. ‘We shall have a family celebration for Christmas.’
Aunt Theda’s dinner was to commence at five o’clock. Woodford arranged a carriage for me, but I paused awkwardly at the front door. Teddy had been assigned to drive me. The horrible memory of the night I had seen him cleaning blood and gore off the wheel of Oliver’s motor car came back to me. I wouldn’t mention it to him. He didn’t know I had seen him and there was no need to bring up such a terrible event on Thanksgiving.
‘So we’re off to Gramercy Park again?’ he said cheerfully as he helped me into the carriage.
‘I’m eagerly anticipating my first Thanksgiving in America — or at least the first one I can remember.’
‘It’s my favourite celebration of the year,’ he said. ‘I like the idea of giving thanks, and my mother and sister make such a fuss. There’s the dressing and roasting of the turkey, the cranberry sauce, and of course all the candies and pastries to be given out to the little ragamuffins who come begging at the door.’
‘Where does your family live?’
‘In Brooklyn.’
‘So you’re from New York?’ I said with surprise. ‘I had the impression you were from the country.’
He chuckled. ‘Well, there are those in Manhattan who would consider Brooklyn the frontier. But I assure you that we’re quite civilised, especially since the bridge was built between the boroughs.’
‘I only meant that I’m stopping you from spending Thanksgiving with your family,’ I told him. ‘Couldn’t someone else have taken me this evening — someone who doesn’t have family so close by?’
‘Mrs Hopper has given me permission to call on my folks for a few hou
rs as long as I return to pick you up at eleven o’clock,’ he said, merriment in his eyes. ‘So don’t worry about me when my job is to worry about you.’
He shut the door to the carriage and climbed up onto the driver’s seat. The interior was luxuriously fitted out with plush seats and a reading lamp. I checked my appearance in the mirror and pinched my cheeks to give them a healthy glow, feeling every part the grand lady.
I had expected the city’s population to be at home with their families but the streets were anything but quiet. Fantastically garbed young men and women, as well as children, were masquerading on the pavements, on horseback and on the backs of wagons: Uncle Sams, John Bulls, harlequins, sailors, dolls, clowns, scarecrows and mythical creatures of every description were out in full force. The festive atmosphere enhanced my mood for celebration.
At Aunt Theda’s house, Teddy opened the carriage door and helped me down the step. ‘Please don’t hurry back on my account,’ I told him. ‘I promise I won’t say anything to my sister.’
His face turned serious. ‘I will be here to pick you up at eleven exactly.’ Then, measuring his words carefully, he added, ‘If I don’t follow Mrs Hopper’s instructions to the letter, there will be trouble.’
An awkward silence settled between us. Of course that would be the case with Caroline. I had only wished to be considerate of Teddy, but I had to remember that wasn’t how things worked between employers and their servants.
‘I hope you have a nice time with your family,’ I said, ‘and I’ll expect you at eleven o’clock.’
He tipped his hat and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
A young maid welcomed me into Aunt Theda’s house. The air inside smelled as I imagined a Thanksgiving celebration would: a blend of cherry, mint, walnut, cardamom and toffee mixed with the oily aroma of a fowl roasting.
The Invitation Page 18
