She was middle-aged with traces of a German accent, and primly attired in a black dress and white lace apron and cap. Her eyes glanced over each of us in turn before settling on me for a moment, then she looked back to Douglas. ‘Will that be all, sir? Would you like me to help the children with their meal?’
‘No, thank you, Minna. We’ll manage.’
She nodded and left the room.
‘I’m afraid Minna doesn’t enjoy the company of adults very much,’ Douglas told us. ‘She comes across as downright odd sometimes, but she’s wonderful with the children. I don’t know what I would have done without her after Nancy died.’
‘They are certainly beautifully behaved,’ Lucy told him. ‘My two little boys are terrors.’
It was the first time Lucy had mentioned her children and it surprised me. Were they with her in New York, or back in England with their father? If so, how could she bear to be so far away from them?
‘I’m sure your nursemaid does a fine job, but a nurse can’t replace the touch of a mother,’ said Caroline, glancing in my direction. ‘Perhaps in time you will marry again, Mr Hardenbergh.’
Caroline’s comment was so forward that even Lucy looked startled. I locked eyes with Caroline and shook my head, but she merely shrugged. Thankfully, Douglas was distracted by Auberon pointing to the blackcurrant buns and appeared not to have heard.
After we’d finished the tea, Minna returned to collect the children but Douglas seemed reluctant to let them go. He kissed their cheeks and watched them skip out of the room.
‘The “children’s hour” is my favourite time of day,’ he said. ‘No matter how busy I am, I never miss it.’ He invited us to sit in more comfortable chairs away from the table, then indicated a harp by the window. ‘I wondered if you might give us the pleasure of hearing you play something, Miss Lacasse?’
‘Of course,’ said Caroline before I could answer.
Isadora covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle. It appeared that I still wasn’t trusted to speak for myself.
Douglas moved the harp to the centre of the room and set a chair behind it. I ran my fingers over the strings and was surprised to discover the instrument was perfectly in tune. He had obviously intended my playing to be part of the afternoon’s events.
I played the same étude by Chopin that I had performed at the recital for Caroline’s friends.
‘So the stories I’ve heard were not exaggerated,’ said Douglas when I’d finished. ‘You are most accomplished, Miss Lacasse.’ He took a flute from its case and assembled it. ‘I’ve been studying the flute since I was a child, but it’s a melancholy instrument to play alone. Would you do me the honour of playing something with me?’
I didn’t dare look at the others, but glimpsed Caroline out of the corner of my eye. Her face was as bright as a bonfire as she watched us.
Douglas suggested Saint-Saëns’ Romance Op. 27, which fortunately I knew well. His playing was elegant and clear: his phrasing was perfect, and unlike other flautists I had performed with he didn’t try to dominate my harp. Our duet was the delightful interaction of two musicians in empathy with each other, but when his gaze rested on me longer than made me comfortable I looked away.
At the end of the afternoon, Douglas thanked each of us for coming, then handed me two books. The first was a novel by Oscar Wilde: The Picture of Dorian Gray. The second was my short story collection in French. How had Douglas obtained it so quickly? He must have had it sent from France the day after Augusta’s dinner.
‘The first is for you to read; the second is for you to sign,’ he explained. ‘Your tales kept me awake for many nights.’
I took the pen he handed me and signed the book: With pleasure, Emma Lacasse. As I wrote, I was aware of Caroline peering over my shoulder, watching everything like an eagle eyeing its prey.
Dearest Emma,
I enjoyed the story about the escaped bear immensely. You are in your element when you write fantastical fiction. How is your novel progressing? Have you considered making your detective character female? Although women aren’t officially recruited by the French police, historically they have been employed as undercover agents. A female character would create a delightful combination of subterfuge and logical deduction.
Please send me your entire draft when you complete it. The last time you gave me only the first half of one of your mystery stories, I found myself lying awake wondering who killed the maid.
I have been keeping myself busy painting but I too miss our supper talks . . . among other things.
All my love,
Your Claude
PS: I have some exciting news. Maignat is talking about organising an exhibition of French artists in New York. If he does, he has promised that I will be included. So you and I may get to explore New York together after all!
Claude’s letter greatly pleased me. I was glad he was missing me, and it would be wonderful to explore New York with him. I was sure the city he and I discovered would be vastly different from the one I had seen with Caroline and her friends.
In the same post, I received a note from Florence inviting me to join her for an event in Greenwich Village, which she told me was known as ‘the Montmartre of New York’. I was intrigued, and asked Isadora when we were alone in her studio whether she thought Caroline would disapprove.
‘Of course you should go,’ said Isadora. ‘Mother will be at her bridge night, and Father won’t notice that you’re gone; or if he does he won’t say anything. Besides, if you go I can live vicariously through you. I’ve heard that all sorts of interesting people gather in the Village — Mr Gadley and his students from the League often go there.’
For a daring moment I was tempted to suggest Isadora come with me, but we both knew that if Woodford found out and told Caroline, the consequences could be devastating.
‘Thank you, Isadora. I’ll tell you all about it.’
She smiled. ‘Watch out for Mother, by the way. Ever since we visited Douglas Hardenbergh’s home, she’s been concocting plans to marry you off to him. Not that I would mind you staying in New York permanently, or that Mr Hardenbergh isn’t a nice man. But it wouldn’t be the life for you.’
I had suspected Caroline was scheming something. She had ordered more clothes for me from Madame Bertin, and had started to show me off to her friends when they paid calls or came for lunch. While I was flattered that she was paying me attention, I knew it was out of self-interest rather than familial love. What revenge it would be if her sister married Augusta Van der Heyden’s favourite nephew!
‘I haven’t told your mother this,’ I said to Isadora, ‘but I have someone back in Paris. His name is Claude. He’s an artist.’
Isadora’s eyes flew open and she let out a laugh of delight. ‘Well, you’re going to have to tell me all about him!’ she said, putting down a lump of clay and sitting on the stool opposite me.
I told her about Claude and his studio and his family, and our little group of artists at the café. Isadora’s face beamed brighter with every detail. It was good to be able to talk freely about Claude: it made me feel close to him, even though we were so far apart. The only thing I didn’t tell her was that he didn’t want to marry me; that still hurt me too much.
When I’d finished, Isadora shook her head in wonder. ‘He sounds like the perfect man for you. If I have to marry someone, I can only imagine being happy if we’re in sympathy with each other like you and Claude are. You don’t know how much I envy you and your freedom, Aunt Emma! My life is so boring; and it’ll get worse after my debut — one tedious formal dinner after another, visits, luncheons, balls, and more visits. It’s not really living, is it? I never get to experience anything important firsthand. Not even life.’
I squeezed her wrist. ‘I have faith in you, Isadora. Wherever life takes you, you will always carve out a place of your own — just as you have here. You are much stronger than you think.’
That evening, I instructed Teddy to drop me outsi
de a stately Georgian house in Washington Square as Florence had suggested on the hand-drawn map she had included with her note. It wasn’t where Cecilia’s apartment was located, but Washington Square was a respectable part of the Village where the heirs of the old rich lived in the residences their grandparents had built before the Civil War. Florence had probably guessed how Caroline would react if she learned I was venturing to an ‘unsavoury’ part of the city. The other advantage of Teddy leaving me in the square was that Cecilia’s prying eyes wouldn’t see me arrive in a Hopper family carriage.
I walked the short distance to Cecilia’s apartment building near Waverly Place. When I knocked on the door it was opened by Violet, the artist I’d met at Aunt Theda’s house at Thanksgiving.
‘Hello,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘So Cinderella has returned!’
Florence was already there, lounging on a sofa in the pie-shaped parlour and chatting with Cecilia. The apartment walls were shamrock green and, along with the heat provided by an iron stove and the abundant ferns, palms and heliotropes that crowded the bay windows, I had the impression of having entered a tropical jungle. A slender woman, who Violet introduced as Edna, was playing a Hungarian folk song on a piano, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
‘You’re right on time,’ Cecilia said, handing me a glass of sweet vermouth. ‘Florence and I were discussing how male novelists portray women who live independently as always coming to a bad end and requiring a man to rescue them from their folly. What is needed is for women writers to create a new type of heroine for the younger generation to emulate.’
‘I was thinking about that myself today,’ I told her. ‘I’m considering a story with a female detective and I don’t want to make her the typical meddling woman that lady sleuths are often portrayed as. I want her to be intellectually rigorous, disciplined and efficient.’
‘Perfect!’ said Florence. ‘I’m so tired of frivolous fictional women.’
While we were chatting, more women arrived. They were Jane, an editorial assistant at The Outlook; two proofreaders for Scribner’s named Myrna and Theresa; another reporter called Edith; and a shy woman named Mary, who was employed by the US Postal Service and wrote poetry in her spare time. They were all dressed in the same tailored suit-dresses that Florence and Cecilia favoured. I felt like an overblown rose in my purple silk two-piece dress, but it was the plainest outfit I now owned. After Madame Bertin had made my new wardrobe, Caroline had instructed Jennie to get rid of the clothes I’d brought with me from Paris without asking my permission. Hence I had nothing to wear that didn’t make me look as if I belonged on Fifth Avenue.
When everyone had a drink in her hand, Cecilia raised her glass. ‘The Confirmed Bachelor Girls’ Club social night is now underway.’
‘All right, ladies,’ said Florence, ‘let’s go enjoy our food.’
Rather than make their way to the dining room as I expected, the women undid the buttons of their jackets and took off their blouses. What was this? My mind jumped to a certain nightclub in Montmartre. Did ‘bachelor girl’ have a different meaning in New York?
The women slipped off their corsets and flung them onto the sofa, before redressing themselves.
‘Come on, Emma,’ said Cecilia, ‘get rid of that garment of oppression.’
Because I had hesitated, everyone’s eyes were now on me. I didn’t want to take my corset off in front of a strange group of women, but it seemed I didn’t have a choice. I gingerly undid my blouse, hoping the others would find something else to occupy themselves with, but they continued to watch me. To make matters more awkward, my corset was nothing like the utilitarian beige and white garments the others had discarded. Mine was a magnificent peacock blue with green contrasting trimmings and embroidered with pink roses, and had been hand-sewn by Madame Bertin’s best corsetière.
‘Goodness, Emma,’ said Florence, helping me undo the ties, ‘how can you breathe in that thing?’
The truth was: not very well. Ever since I’d started wearing the elaborate corset I’d found it difficult to exert myself, and when I sat down I had to perch on the very edge of the chair or I’d become light-headed and faint.
Once Florence had undone the garment and tossed it on the pile with the others, the relief of air moving freely in and out of my lungs and the enlivening sensation of my blood circulating properly made me giddy. At the same time, it was like losing a piece of armour and being thoroughly exposed. I quickly rebuttoned my blouse and bodice.
We filed out of the apartment and down the stairs to the ground floor.
‘Why did everyone take off their corsets?’ I asked Florence when we reached the street.
‘Because we’re going to indulge in a feast and we don’t want indigestion and constipation tomorrow. Besides, if you always wear a corset your back and abdominal muscles never develop strength of their own, and your internal organs get compressed and possibly become misshapen. Those garments badly affect women’s health, but if we don’t wear them when we go to work we’re hounded by men and women alike. It’s difficult enough to move in a man’s world without being accused of being a woman of loose morals.’
The Village was different from anywhere else I’d been in New York. The grid system hadn’t reached here, and the maze of crooked streets and narrow alleys lined with tearooms, saloons and restaurants did indeed remind me of Montmartre.
We came to a brownstone house that had been converted to apartments, and took the stairs down to the basement level. When Florence opened the door for us, the delicious aroma of garlic and butter frying wafted out. The restaurant was a bare space with unplastered walls, curtainless windows and bare wooden floorboards, but it was crowded with people of every description. A clean-cut businessman conversed with a man with a wild beard and a Russian accent; an actor still wearing his theatre make-up shared a joke with a companion whose flat nose and muscular body resembled those of a prize fighter. When the fighter threw back his head and laughed, he revealed a mouth full of gold teeth. Workmen rubbed shoulders with artists and dancers, and everywhere there were women without male companions.
We jostled our way to a long wooden table already occupied at one end by what looked like the male equivalent of the Confirmed Bachelor Girls’ Club: clean-cut young men in utilitarian suits and wearing reporter badges. One of them was a Negro. From what I’d read about the United States, this restaurant must have been one of the few places that made a virtue of cosmopolitanism. Student clubs and artists in Paris made a point of being inclusive, so racial mixing was nothing new to me, but Caroline would have been shocked.
Within minutes of taking our seats, an Italian woman placed a bowl of minestrone soup in front of each of us along with a thickly sliced piece of bread. The main course was a choice of either spaghetti bolognese or pasta mixed with olive oil, garlic and fresh parsley. The food was aromatic, flavourful and remarkably cheap. I was glad I had discarded my corset so I could fully enjoy it.
Our group toasted each other with the syrupy red wine that tasted like black cherries, and my ear tuned in to the conversations around me. The place was fermenting with ideas, often about subjects that were taboo: anarchism, socialism, free love, birth control. ‘Women are too reliant on men for their survival,’ I heard one woman say to another. ‘Sex should be as pleasurable for them as it is for men.’
An older woman wearing a turban plonked herself down next to me. She had a triangular-shaped face like a Siamese cat and stared at me with searching eyes. ‘You’re new,’ she said above the din. ‘I haven’t seen you with the Confirmed Bachelor Girls before.’
‘I’m not quite a bachelor girl,’ I told her. ‘I have a beau.’
She let out a husky laugh. ‘And I suppose you believe your beau is going to love you forever, although the evidence is all around you that marital bliss doesn’t last. You think you and he will be different, right?’
Her words pierced my mind and numbed my thoughts. What she’d said was exactly what I believed: Claude and
I would love each other forever.
Her words flowed endlessly on despite my lack of a response. ‘Those heady early days won’t last. If that’s all you believe in, you’ll be yearning for those times for the rest of your life and inventing ways to recapture them. But when they’re gone they’re gone. Your beau will be free to spend your inheritance, and you’ll be trapped by limited resources, limited interests and limited opportunities because you handed over your fate to a man.’
I did not like my treasured beliefs being challenged by a stranger. ‘What’s the alternative?’ I asked, trying to deflect the conversation away from me. ‘What’s your philosophy?’ Then I realised she had manoeuvred me into getting her to explain the direction she had intended to take all along.
‘My philosophy?’ She squinted at me. ‘Why, I’m experimenting with a completely different type of womanhood. I don’t belong to a man as his wife or mistress, and I’m certainly not the mother of some holy terror. I am enjoying a life lived for me and only for me.’
I regarded her with a mixture of trepidation and wonderment. I couldn’t imagine a life of not belonging to anybody. To belong to a husband and a family was what I wanted more than anything else in the world.
‘But what about loneliness?’ I asked her. ‘Isn’t that a high price to pay for freedom? And what about your natural maternal urges? Don’t you have any at all?’
The woman regarded me as one might a very dull child. ‘You think loneliness is a high price to pay for freedom? I’ll tell you what real loneliness is. It’s to be trapped in marriage with a man who continuously finds fault with you, makes demands of you, and claims superiority over you.’ Satisfied from my silence that she had unsettled me, she added, ‘The trouble with young women like you is that you’re too earnest. Give up your earnestness and put your effort into being great. Live your life outside a cage.’
Having had the final word on the subject, she moved on to talk to somebody else, leaving me feeling like a bottle of milk that had been shaken violently. My skin was hot, and my head was light and full of bubbles.
The Invitation Page 20
