The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  The maid led me to the drawing room, where Florence and her aunt and the other guests were already seated in tufted purple satin armchairs before a roaring fire. They were all engaged in a lively conversation and no one heard the maid when she announced me.

  ‘I’ve never read Vanity Fair,’ a gangly young man was saying. ‘I’m always afraid that books that sell in large numbers can’t be much good.’

  Florence and one of the female guests groaned in unison.

  ‘Oh, you are a snob, Edgar,’ said Aunt Theda. ‘You’re one of those people who believe that if too many people like something it can’t be art!’

  Minette was perched on Florence’s lap and spotted me before anybody else did. She sprang down and rubbed against my skirt.

  Florence’s gaze followed the cat and she gave a cry when she saw me. ‘Emma!’ She rose and kissed my cheek before thanking the maid. ‘Come and sit down next to me, Emma, and let me pour you a glass of Dubonnet. Then I’ll introduce you to these other orphans.’

  The comment was made in jest but I flinched. When Grand-maman had been alive I’d never thought of myself as an orphan, but now I was in New York that old feeling of being cut adrift in the world had returned.

  ‘This is my sister, Constance,’ said Florence, indicating a young woman who was as different from Florence as fire was from ice. She was dark-haired and plump, and wearing what looked like men’s trousers. ‘And this is Edgar, her fiancé,’ Florence continued, nodding towards the young man who had spoken out against Thackeray’s novel.

  The other guests were Violet, who was an artist like Florence, and Richard who was an actor.

  ‘Where is Cecilia this evening?’ Aunt Theda asked Florence. ‘She’s usually the first to arrive.’

  ‘She’s helping with the dinner for the true orphans at the Catholic Protectory,’ Florence answered. ‘They’re feeding nearly three thousand little boys and girls today and she doesn’t expect to make it in time for our meal.’

  The maid returned and whispered something to Aunt Theda, who nodded and rose. ‘The table is laid, everyone,’ she announced.

  We followed Aunt Theda down the hall and into a dining room that was painted Pompeian red and frescoed with a frieze of lotus leaves. In the centre of the table sat a roast turkey surrounded by a sumptuous display of mashed potatoes, baked squash, parsnip fritters, olives and pastries.

  After we were seated, Aunt Theda lifted the lid of a soup tureen. ‘I’ve given Nora and Louisa the rest of the evening off so they can be with their families. We are going to serve ourselves. No airs and graces today. Pass me your bowls one at a time.’

  I’d always served myself and my guests at home in Paris, but I’d had every need taken care of by a footman or a maid for several weeks now and my old way of doing things had become strangely unfamiliar. If Caroline could have seen me passing a sauce dish to Florence, she would have been displeased.

  The dinner conversation couldn’t have been more different either. There was no talk of hunting, horseracing or fashion. Aunt Theda was a woman of keen intellect who took pleasure in extracting interesting facts from each of us.

  ‘Constance, I saw you absorbed in Edvard Westermarck’s The History of Human Marriage the other day. Do tell us what you have discovered.’

  Florence’s sister put down her knife and fork and considered the question. ‘Well, he certainly challenges the commonly held assumption that in the past humans were promiscuous and lived in group marriages. He argues that human beings have naturally evolved into alliances of men and women, and that it is western civilisation that is having an adverse effect on marriage. More people are eschewing the institution than ever before.’

  ‘Marriage is different these days,’ said Richard. ‘Men and women used to work alongside each other in the fields or in the market. Now men are expected to go out into the world and women to stay at home. In some houses in New York, the spheres are so separate that husbands and wives only see each other at breakfast and dinner.’

  That described Caroline and Oliver’s marriage perfectly. They didn’t even see each other at breakfast and they had separate rooms. I remembered waking up in Claude’s arms in the room beside his studio; one of my greatest pleasures was snuggling into his warm body before rising to face the day. Was it true that marriage might be the death of that simple intimacy?

  ‘Constance and I shan’t be like that,’ said Edgar. ‘I intend to take her with me when I make my anthropological studies of the primitive people of Borneo.’

  ‘As long as you keep her safe from head-hunters!’ said Aunt Theda with mock horror.

  Aunt Theda’s question to Violet was on evolution, and her one to Richard on the implications of the discovery of radium. When she asked Florence to explain Nietzsche’s philosophy on ‘eternal recurrence’ I wondered if it had been written on the invitation somewhere what field we were expected to have studied before coming.

  Aunt Theda glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m disappointed Cecilia isn’t here to tell us about the legal status and property rights of women in the United States as I believe she is writing an article about them for the New York Journal.’ She turned her keen eyes on me and I shrank back in my chair like a naughty child who hasn’t done her homework. ‘Now, Emma, before I bring out the pumpkin pie, I should like to know your view on the purpose of a novel. Should it encourage us that love and goodness will prevail and wrongdoers will always be punished? Can writing that is entertaining also throw light on social injustices?’

  I was taken aback that my questions were so easy. Was it because Aunt Theda judged me less bright than the others?

  ‘A novel can certainly throw light on social injustices and be entertaining at the same time,’ I told her. ‘Charles Dickens is an excellent example of that.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ We all turned to see Cecilia standing in the doorway, her coat in her hand. Her penetrating gaze rested on me. ‘I believe that all writers, no matter their genre, have a duty to society. We must improve it by exposing its faults and hypocrisies; and those faults and hypocrisies almost always originate in ourselves.’

  Her eyes drifted over my bronze satin dinner dress as if taking in every detail. I could tell she’d noticed I was much more expensively dressed than when she had last seen me.

  Florence jumped up. ‘Let me take your coat. Are you hungry? I’ll set a place for you.’

  ‘I won’t have dinner,’ said Cecilia, ignoring the chair Florence pulled out for her next to Edgar and sitting beside me instead. ‘I ate at the orphanage. But the pumpkin pie sounds tempting.’

  After the pie, and a stimulating philosophical debate around a topic proposed by Aunt Theda — ‘Can there only be one best way to solve a problem?’ — we returned to the drawing room for apricot brandy, bonbons, mints, walnuts and hickory-nut cake.

  ‘Now it’s time for some games,’ announced Aunt Theda, handing out cards with the name of a guest written in the top left corner. ‘I want you to study the person whose name is written on your card, then write down the vegetable they most resemble.’

  The game elicited giggles at first, but once we set about the task the room fell quiet as we sneaked furtive glances at each other. I’d been assigned Florence’s name. I closed my eyes and imagined myself at the market in Paris, lingering over the brightly coloured baskets of tomatoes, pumpkins and green beans sitting among the fragrant basil and wildflower bouquets. At first I selected a carrot, but then chose asparagus because she was so naturally elegant and subtle.

  ‘All right,’ said Aunt Theda, holding out her hand. ‘Everyone pass me their card.’ When she’d collected them all, she perched her glasses on her nose. ‘The first card is for Richard,’ she said. ‘His vegetable is a potato because “he is down to earth and smells like dirt”.’

  The description brought peals of laughter from the guests.

  ‘There are worse smells than dirt,’ Richard said. ‘At least the scoundrel who wrote that didn’t say I was
a cabbage!’

  Aunt Theda suppressed a smile and read out my description of Florence as asparagus, before turning to the next one. ‘Oh, this one is for me.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Hmm, apparently I am an artichoke because I “love an entourage and to be the centre of attention”.’

  ‘It’s so true!’ cried Edgar. ‘What an insightful game this is.’

  Edgar himself was described as a leek because ‘he sticks to his principles like a leek to the pan’. Constance was a bell pepper, and Violet was a cauliflower.

  ‘A cauliflower!’ she exclaimed. ‘In what way am I like a cauliflower?’

  Aunt Theda read the card slowly and dramatically. ‘Because “she has a heart of gold”.’

  We all sighed in unison and another round of apricot brandy was served. Then it was time to read Cecilia’s card.

  ‘Cecilia is an onion because “she can make you laugh or she can make you cry. She divides opinion and her effect remains long after she has gone”.’

  Cecilia looked pleased. ‘That’s very perceptive, which is why I know Florence wrote it.’

  Florence smoothed her hair and turned to Aunt Theda. ‘One card left. What is Emma?’

  Aunt Theda squinted as if she was having trouble reading the handwriting. ‘An aubergine, because she is “charming yet mysterious”.’

  ‘That sounds like it was written by someone in love with Emma!’ said Edgar. ‘Who was it?’

  The ringer at the front door tinkled and Florence went to answer it. She quickly returned. ‘Emma, your carriage is here.’

  ‘Goodness me,’ I said. ‘Is it eleven o’clock already? I must go!’

  ‘Like Cinderella leaving the ball,’ said Richard, raising his glass to me.

  ‘Don’t leave anything behind,’ chimed in Violet, ‘or we’ll have to come searching for you.’

  Cecilia stood up to shake my hand. ‘I was the one who described you as an aubergine,’ she confessed, her breath scented with the sweet brandy. ‘I do find you rather fascinating, Emma. I have the distinct impression you’re hiding something from me, which of course makes you all the more intriguing. There’s nothing we journalists love more than unravelling a mystery.’

  My face tingled under her gaze. ‘I’m French; we are more reserved than Americans. There is nothing mysterious about me other than I’m much more comfortable thinking about philosophy than the nuts and bolts of life.’

  ‘Oh, do leave Emma alone,’ Florence scolded Cecilia as she helped me with my coat. ‘The poor girl has only been in New York a short time. She doesn’t need you pestering her.’

  A slow smile came to Cecilia’s face. I could hear her thoughts as loudly as if she had shouted them. ‘Florence, why are you always rescuing Emma? What are you protecting her from?’

  ‘Goodbye, Cecilia,’ I said, firmly shaking her hand and hoping she wouldn’t look out the window and see the carriage with the Hopper family crest on its door. ‘I hope we meet again soon.’

  ‘I’m sure we will!’ she answered.

  SIXTEEN

  Lucy, urged by Caroline, had confirmed a date with Douglas Hardenbergh for us to view his art collection.

  ‘Augusta will be breathing fire when she hears of the visit,’ Caroline said gleefully. ‘This will be the first time I have called on anyone related to her and been received.’

  ‘It will be an historic occasion,’ Lucy agreed. ‘Something like Cleopatra’s visit to Caesar.’

  I pondered Caroline’s and Lucy’s words as I dressed in the visiting ensemble Madame Bertin had made for me: a carnation-pink wool jacket and skirt decorated with cream corded braids and tassels. In Paris, I had chosen to associate with people I liked and hadn’t mixed with people I disliked, but here in New York society whether you liked or disliked a person had no meaning. Associations and social events were about power: gaining it or protecting it.

  I paused to admire my reflection in the mirror. It exhilarated my spirit to wear an outfit that sat so perfectly on my shoulders, flattered my arms and draped elegantly over my hips. I examined the emerald and pearl navette ring Caroline had lent me, which had once belonged to Catherine the Great. Only in Caroline’s world was it possible for me to wear a ring that had once belonged to a Russian empress!

  My mind drifted to Isadora and her comment about envying my lifestyle and apparent freedom. She would never understand the ability of luxurious things to transform someone because she had been born into this extravagant world. Could she ever be happy living a modest life like mine in Paris? Then another thought occurred to me: could I be satisfied with that life once I returned to it?

  Caroline gave a nod of approval when she saw how well my outfit suited me. ‘What a good investment you have turned out to be. I can see why Douglas Hardenbergh has invited us.’

  Rather than being flattered by Caroline’s rare compliment, I felt my stomach tighten. What did she mean about me being the reason Douglas Hardenbergh had invited us? Even if I felt the faintest spark of attraction towards him, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t be interested. Claude had my heart completely.

  Douglas’s Greek Revival home in Lafayette Street with its tall parlour-floor windows and temple doorway reminded me of pictures I had seen of genteel homes in New Orleans. A butler and a footman appeared on the doorstep, but Douglas rushed past them and down the front steps to open our carriage door himself.

  ‘What a charming delegation,’ he said. ‘The children are very excited to meet you.’

  Inside, the walls were painted with garlands, urns and busts edged with a Greek key pattern. A grand redwood staircase wound up to the first floor, its starting newels carved with an intricate olive-vine design. The decoration of the hall gave the effect of standing in a garden.

  ‘What a beautiful home,’ exclaimed Isadora. ‘So refined, so tasteful.’

  Douglas brushed his hand over the unusual satinwood wainscoting. ‘With all the development going on in this part of town, I’ve resigned myself that one day I’ll have to move further uptown like my aunt. But I’ll resist for as long as I can. This is the house where my children were born and it has many happy memories for me.’

  It was the second time since we’d arrived that Douglas had referred to his children. They obviously held an important place in his heart.

  ‘Where are the children?’ I asked him.

  ‘I thought I’d show you the picture gallery and then we could have some afternoon tea,’ he replied. ‘The children will join us then.’

  He guided us to a room beyond the staircase. Before we entered it, he bent his head to me and said, ‘I believe my son and daughter are working on a painting of the Eiffel Tower especially for you, Miss Lacasse.’

  Caroline overheard his comment and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

  I blushed and took a step away from Douglas. ‘How adorable!’

  From its high ceiling and generous length I had the impression the picture gallery had once been a ballroom. It had no windows, but was illuminated sublimely by a domed skylight.

  ‘What a collection!’ cried Isadora, looking around her. ‘How fortunate to have a room specially dedicated to it.’

  There were at least two hundred paintings in the gallery, the frames so tightly fitted together that the wall behind them was invisible. In the centre of the room stood several life-sized classical sculptures: Persephone and her mother, Demeter; Flora with a garland of flowers about her head; Eve being tempted by the serpent. I turned from them to the paintings and recognised some works by Jean-Léon Gérôme of ladies lounging around in Turkish baths, and several bathing nudes by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. I glanced up and down the walls for any depictions of men but the collection was dominated by women: Venuses; odalisques; women at their toilette.

  Isadora voiced what I was thinking. ‘This collection is certainly centred on beautiful women.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Douglas with a slight smile. ‘But not because women are far more pleasing to behold. My maternal grandfather believe
d that women represented the pinnacle of civilisation and men should worship them. I’ve tried to continue the theme of his collection.’

  After we had spent some time admiring the paintings Douglas moved us through to the music room, which was bright with golden plush draperies and chairs covered with flowered silk tapestries on a background of lemon yellow. Afternoon tea had been set out on a round table. The centrepiece was an iced orange cake that smelled deliciously fragrant. It was surrounded by platters of egg and gherkin sandwiches, shortbreads and blackcurrant buns.

  ‘I do like your use of yellow,’ said Caroline, touching one of the chairs. ‘I feel like I’m standing in a field of buttercups.’

  Douglas indicated for us to take seats at the table. ‘Yellow was Nancy’s favourite colour. This room makes me feel cheerful, as if she’s still here watching over us.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said Caroline, smiling pleasantly, but I could tell she was unimpressed by Douglas’s reference to his deceased wife.

  The door opened and in burst two small children — a boy and a girl who looked to be five and seven years old respectively — followed by a nursemaid. The little boy ran straight to his father, who hoisted him onto his lap, while the girl sidled up to me and sat the waxed doll she had been holding firmly in my arms.

  ‘What a beautiful doll,’ I said. ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘Arabella,’ answered the little girl.

  Douglas laughed. ‘You are privileged, Miss Lacasse. Arabella doesn’t get offered to other people very often, not even me.’

  The girl regarded him with wide open eyes, then laughed. ‘That’s because you play silly games with her. You make her dance and Arabella doesn’t like to dance.’

  ‘And do you have a name?’ Isadora asked her.

  She answered in a serious tone. ‘My name is Mabel, and my brother’s name is Auberon.’

  ‘Where is the painting of the Eiffel Tower you promised me?’ Douglas asked his children.

  ‘It’s upstairs in the nursery,’ said the nursemaid. ‘I thought it best to leave it to dry properly before we brought it down.’