The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  I glimpsed Grace’s copy of Laelius De Amicitia on a side table: A true friend is honest, outspoken and caring. When I picked up my teacup my hand trembled, and as much as I tried to control myself, tears burned my eyes.

  Grace peered at me. ‘You know, don’t you, Emma? You’ve found out about Caroline and Harland and you came here to tell me?’ Hearing the gentle tone of her voice, someone witnessing the scene might have believed that it was my husband who was being unfaithful and that Grace was comforting me.

  ‘You already know about them?’ I asked her.

  The slightest frown flickered across her forehead. She averted her eyes.

  Augusta tutted. ‘I told you they were becoming reckless, Grace. Until now, only a select few were aware of their liaison, but last night even May Satterfield asked me if the rumours were true. And who tells her anything?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Oliver has noticed their lack of discretion as well. He is worried about what it means for Isadora. Instead of admiring her entry into society, everyone will be gossiping about her mother’s behaviour.’

  ‘Oliver knows?’ I asked. I was feeling increasingly foolish. I had thought I’d stumbled across some terrible secret, but it was apparent that I was one of the last to know about my sister’s affair.

  Augusta raised her eyebrows. ‘Of course he knows. But such affairs can be accepted as long as everything is arranged quietly and no one oversteps the rules of good taste. I’m afraid Caroline is losing her head.’

  She sounded as if she was quoting from a rule book — perhaps one she’d written herself. I remembered the bleak tenement buildings she owned on the Lower East Side and wondered how she reconciled her mightier-than-thou attitude with her exploitation of desperate people.

  Grace took my hand. ‘You are a good friend, Emma. It was a risk for you to come here today to tell me.’

  I stared at my lap. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so ashamed of Caroline.’

  ‘I don’t blame Caroline,’ Grace said with a shrug. ‘She’s a victim to Harland’s diabolical charm, as I was, and all the other women he’s broken over the years. And believe me, there have been many.’

  ‘Many?’ I echoed, horrified.

  Grace’s expression was fatalistic. ‘Emma, my marriage to Harland was a sham from the beginning. He was the most adoring suitor any woman could hope for, but on our wedding night, after the guests had left, he turned into a different person. He announced that I was not his type and he had never loved me. Then, not even waiting for me to recover from the shock of that declaration, he went on to say that while he was prepared to play the part of a loving husband publicly, he intended to continue to see whoever he wished.’

  Grace was beautiful and elegant. What did Harland mean that she wasn’t his type? Then again, she was also educated, gentle, moral and cultured, so perhaps there was truth in the statement.

  ‘Why did he marry you?’ I asked her.

  ‘For her name and her money,’ Augusta answered on Grace’s behalf. ‘Both could open doors for him. It was the same with me. He uses people.’

  ‘I’m living with a stranger,’ Grace added. ‘The man I thought I’d married never existed. He was a fabrication created by Harland to snare me.’

  ‘So why not divorce him?’ I asked.

  Grace shook her head. ‘It would kill my mother; she’s already in frail health. She’s also a strict Catholic and turned away her own sister along with her two young nephews after her sister got a divorce from a violent man. My mother would feel compelled to disown me, and I’m all she has left. I don’t care what Harland and Caroline do as long as the rumours don’t reach my mother’s ears. She thinks Harland is the perfect son-in-law.’

  I imagined him turning on the charm for the elderly lady, bringing her flowers and books while appearing devoted to Grace.

  ‘I was young and desirable when I met Harland,’ she went on, ‘and I had many richer suitors. But I thought he was fun and carefree and life with him would be a merry affair. How wrong I was.’

  ‘Life can still be merry,’ I prompted gently. ‘It’s not too late. Surely your mother would come to understand.’

  ‘The only way I’ll ever be rid of Harland,’ Grace said, meeting my gaze, ‘is if he dies. If I try to imagine the future I can’t see anything. He has destroyed me inside.’

  ‘Harland is like a vampire who sucks the life blood out of you and discards you when he’s finished,’ Augusta added. ‘Yet we go on, as the living dead.’

  ‘You are both well-educated and cultured women with positions in society,’ I protested. ‘How could you be the living dead? It’s only that Harland has convinced you of it. At least Caroline is strong enough to stand up to him. She will destroy him before she’ll let him destroy her.’

  ‘Nobody can outsmart Harland,’ Augusta replied. ‘He studies people for a long time. Believe me, he will be aware of Caroline’s Achilles heel, whatever it may be. People assumed I would swat Harland away like an annoying mosquito once I saw him for the upstart he was. But he swatted me aside.’

  ‘Why is he so intent on destroying people?’ I asked. ‘It’s one thing to be a careless cad, quite another to be a predator.’

  ‘After his father lost the family’s fortune, Harland was snubbed by society,’ Grace explained. ‘He had to take a job in a men’s suit store to put food on the table and felt enormous humiliation. He’s been intent on revenge ever since.’

  ‘Much of this is my fault,’ said Augusta. ‘I raised him up from the dust. I should have left him there.’

  ‘If it wasn’t you, he would have found somebody else to do it,’ Grace told her. ‘But I’m worried for Caroline — she might be his most ambitious target yet. He’s pleased with the idea of making a cuckold of one of the most powerful men in the country.’

  But it wasn’t for Caroline that I feared. My sister was indomitable. Taking her on would be like attacking an iron-clad warship. But her ‘Achilles heel’ might be her sweet and sensitive daughter.

  TWENTY-THREE

  When I was worried about something, reading with intense concentration was often a good way to restore my calm. While Isadora and Mr Gadley worked on a sculpture, I absorbed myself in an article in New York City Magazine about Newport, Rhode Island, the seaside town where New York’s rich went in summer to escape the city’s oppressive humidity.

  During summer the atmosphere is soft, balmy and refreshingly tinged with salt. The prevailing breeze is southerly and brings with it air cooled by leagues of water. The natural beauty of the town gives way to artifice as one travels along Bellevue Avenue. Stone walls and tall gates open onto sweeping driveways lined with beech and pine trees that artistically frame the mansions beyond them. It’s Fifth Avenue by the sea, with an array of European-style palazzos, chateaux and manor houses.

  Seacliff, the Hopper family’s ‘holiday cottage’, is the most astonishing in terms of grandeur. A shimmering white Italianate palace on eleven acres of lawn with the sapphire waters of the Atlantic as its backdrop, it is set on the highest point of Bellevue Avenue. The cliffs that edge the perfect lawns drop dangerously to the ocean below. The gardens are bordered by carefully clipped privet hedges and exotic trees and shrubs, and the air is heady with the sweet fragrance of the hundreds of roses that line the drive.

  After passing through a grand porte-cochère, and entering the glass and wrought-iron doors of the great hall, one is immediately taken by the marble walls and Ionic pilasters adorned with sculptured reliefs of mermaids and fish. A twin staircase of Caen stone leads up to a landing, where a tall arched window reveals a view of the ocean.

  From there one’s gaze travels up to the immense ormolu and crystal chandelier and white coffered ceiling, its entire expanse dotted with silver stars. The effect is light and airy and one can almost hear the strains of heavenly harps . . .

  I breathed in sharply. The house sounded magnificent. Was Caroline truly intending to abandon it for an even grander one? Wher
e would her excess and ambition stop?

  The foul odours and horrors I’d seen in the tenements on the Lower East Side rose in my mind. The glory that was Seacliff had been built on the suffering of New York’s poor.

  Woodford entered the studio, rousing me from my musing. ‘Miss Lacasse, Her Grace, the Duchess of Dorset has come to call. Mrs Hopper requests that you join them.’

  Lucy came to the house regularly, and Caroline only asked me to take part in their conversations when she wanted something of me. What was it now? Or was I being summoned because Caroline had found out I’d gone to see Grace to tell her about Harland?

  Both women smiled at me as I entered the room, so I knew the reason for the summons couldn’t be my visit to Grace.

  ‘We’re having an English afternoon tea,’ said Caroline, gesturing towards the table. ‘Lucy brought everything.’

  An array of silver platters were adorned with sandwiches, shortbread, tiny meringues and preserved ginger. Lucy herself measured out the tea leaves and added them to the pot. After a few minutes she nodded to Woodford to pour the tea into rosebud-patterned cups that were so fine they were almost translucent.

  Caroline watched the operation with fascination. ‘I do like the way the English do things. It’s as if everything is a ritual that has been practised to perfection.’

  I shifted in my seat. What had brought about this sudden fascination with England? Now that I had discovered my sister was having an affair, I found myself questioning everything she said.

  She smiled at me. ‘Things have taken an exciting turn! A remarkable opportunity has presented itself for Isadora’s happiness.’ She nodded to Lucy to explain.

  ‘The Duke of Bridgewater is here in New York,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve had my eye on him for some time, and now that he’s out of mourning for his father and has inherited the title, he has written to ask me to assist in finding him a suitable American wife. He was very keen when I wrote to him about Isadora. For a long time it was expected that he would marry his childhood friend Lady Mariam, daughter of the Earl of Essex, but now the Duke is responsible for his various estates and the beautiful Lyndale Palace, he will be pressed financially. Lyndale is held in entail, which means he cannot sell or mortgage any part of it, so he will need to marry a bride with a substantial dowry — and of course he is eager to produce a son and heir.’

  I waited for Lucy to describe why this young man would be a good match for Isadora in temperament or interests, but she had finished speaking. I glanced at Caroline, expecting her to baulk at the idea of someone whose only interest in Isadora was her money.

  But my sister nodded enthusiastically. ‘Quite understandable. His family heritage is at stake.’ She turned to me. ‘The Duke is coming here for dinner tomorrow night. Before word gets out about his visit, we must make sure he is impressed by Isadora. I will seat her next to him, but I need you nearby to supervise, Emma. I don’t want her to say anything silly and she’s more confident in your presence.’

  I eyed her levelly, rankled by her comment. In the last few months Isadora had matured beautifully. All it had taken was for her to be able to express herself and have someone take an interest in her.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any risk of that,’ I said. ‘Her poise at her debutante ball was much admired.’

  Lucy waved her hand as if to dismiss my comment. ‘That’s true, but she can still be a little . . . odd. The American heiresses who successfully break into English society are those who can adapt quickly to the British way of life. We don’t want Isadora doing anything to ruin her chances.’

  ‘The right suitor will recognise Isadora’s good qualities,’ I protested. ‘She is honest, kind, intelligent and witty.’

  Caroline flicked her eyes upward. ‘Oh, Emma! We can’t let this opportunity pass us by. The London season is fiercely competitive, much more so than New York. Isadora wouldn’t be able to compete in that environment. Here we have a chance for the Duke to meet her before all the other mothers find out he is available. Tomorrow night is of great importance for Isadora’s future happiness. Simply nothing can go wrong!’

  ‘But there were so many nice young men at Isadora’s ball,’ I said. ‘If the Duke doesn’t find her to his liking, I’m certain there will be someone among them more suited to her.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘Who do you mean?’ she asked testily. ‘One of the frivolous Potter or Graham boys? No one from any of the important old families has shown any interest in her. The Duke has a title, a name and a history. No one in New York can offer Isadora that.’

  I suspected the reason none of the old New York families were putting their sons forward to court Isadora had more to do with rumours about Caroline’s behaviour than my niece’s personality.

  ‘There are only twenty-seven dukes in the entire United Kingdom,’ Lucy added. ‘Isadora would be doing so much better than a lowly viscount or lord.’

  ‘A title and a grand country house in England is the stuff of dreams,’ said Caroline. ‘And we need you to help make Isadora ready to take up her role as a duchess.’

  The stuff of Caroline’s dreams perhaps, but not my niece’s. I remembered Isadora telling me how doors that had been shut to Lucy because of her background had been flung wide open when she became a duchess. Was this evaluation of the Duke about Isadora’s marital happiness at all, or purely my sister’s ambition?

  As I dressed for dinner the following evening, I tried to allay my fears that Isadora might be forced into a marriage that was unsuited to her; and also resolved to reserve any judgements about the Duke until I met him. He might turn out to be an amiable man, and the headaches, nausea and anxiety I had suffered all day would have been for nothing.

  Isadora had simply been told we had an aristocratic guest for dinner. I hadn’t wanted to make her nervous by revealing the true purpose of the evening. When I met her at the door to her room, I was filled with pride: she was more beautiful than ever. She wore a white crêpe de Chine Empire-style gown trimmed with fringed ruching. Her hair was styled in elegant waves on top of her head and decorated with a pearl headband. Caroline and Lucy had implied Isadora was odd and awkward, but if anything went wrong tonight it would not be my niece’s doing.

  We arrived in the salon to find, as well as Caroline, Lucy and Oliver, three young men and a slim girl with auburn hair. I hoped the blond gentleman with the warm brown eyes was the Duke of Bridgewater, or perhaps the distinguished young man with the high cheekbones and dimpled chin, but to my dismay it was the gauntest and palest of the three who carried the title. The blond man was Lord Randolph, the Duke’s younger brother, and the other man was his friend, Charles Whitlock. The young woman was the Duke’s sixteen-year-old sister, Lady Clara.

  The Duke’s nose was long and straight above a wispy moustache, and his thin lips formed only the barest of smiles when Lucy introduced Isadora and me to him.

  ‘Welcome to New York,’ said Isadora cheerfully. ‘What brings you to the city at this time of year? It must be as cold here as it is in England, and just as foggy too.’

  ‘We’ve come for the Madison Square Garden automobile parade,’ answered Lord Randolph. ‘We are all motor car enthusiasts, including Lady Clara here.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only mastered a small gasoline runabout so far, but I’m learning,’ the young woman said, smiling shyly at Isadora.

  While Clara was pretty, she wasn’t wearing an expensive gown by Worth like my niece. Her silk voile dinner dress wasn’t the latest fashion and the lace around the neckline was slightly worn, but it wasn’t in Isadora’s nature to care about such things.

  Instead, she sat down next to Lady Clara and said, ‘I should very much like to learn to drive a motor car. Is it difficult?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Lady Clara.

  From the way the two young women chatted together, I sensed a friendship had sprung up between them.

  After a pre-dinner sherry, during which Lord Randolph and Mr Whitlock regarded Isadora with
admiration, while the Duke studied her with a cooler, more appraising eye, we moved to the dining room. A twelve-course dinner of hare soup, plovers’ eggs, roast beef, turkey in aspic, pigeon pie, grouse, snipe, partridge, pheasant and woodcock was served. They were all English dishes and I wondered why Caroline hadn’t given the guests a typical Manhattan society dinner of turtle soup and lobster. Was the Duke one of those people who refused to eat ‘foreign food’?

  I studied him, desperate to find something admirable that would reassure me he would be a good match for Isadora. Did he have a steady and constant heart beneath that cool exterior? Was he well-educated? Did he appreciate art and especially sculpture? Was he a model landlord, known for his goodness to his tenants? But try as I might I found nothing outstanding or charismatic about him. All I could discern was a tremendous air of entitlement.

  It was Lord Randolph who kept up the conversation. ‘All three of us have De Dion-Boutons,’ he said, indicating his brother and Mr Whitlock. ‘But we’re hoping to purchase an American racing car while we’re here.’

  ‘The American car industry is gaining momentum,’ Oliver told him, ‘but the few people who are driving here have European cars. My wife and I both have Daimlers now. In my opinion, they are the finest cars manufactured yet.’

  I thought of Angus Dempsy and shivered. How could Oliver speak so easily of motor cars after what he’d done? Did he truly feel no remorse at all for killing a man?

  ‘We competed in the Hudson Valley obstacle course last year and enjoyed ourselves immensely,’ Caroline told the guests. ‘The Daimlers are easier to manoeuvre than the De Dion-Boutons.’

  ‘You see, Charles,’ Lord Randolph said with a wink to Mr Whitlock, ‘this is a civilised and modern country!’ Turning to us he explained, ‘My dear friend imagined all Americans lived on plantations and spent their time fighting off Red Indians and stampeding buffaloes.’