The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘Do you even know what religion your future husband is?’ Grand-maman continued.

  ‘I believe he attends the Episcopalian church, but what does it matter? He is not particularly religious and neither am I,’ replied Caroline.

  Grand-maman winced. In her eyes, a life without God was unimaginable. She believed that God was slow to anger, kind and loving, and she strived to emulate those characteristics in her life and encouraged us to do the same.

  ‘But Emma and I will not see you married!’ she protested.

  Caroline clamped shut the steamer trunk. ‘Oliver insists we wed quickly and so I must marry in New York. You know your health will not allow a long trip across the ocean, and Emma has school and her harp lessons. But I shall return every year to Paris to refresh my wardrobe and will visit you both then.’

  Grand-maman pursed her lips and a troubled look came into her eyes. ‘You will help Emma, won’t you?’ she said, her voice containing a trace of panic. ‘If something should happen to me . . . you will act as her guardian and help her finish her studies?’

  Caroline gave a sharp laugh. ‘You do worry so, Grand-maman. Nothing is going to happen to you.’

  Grand-maman shrank back, her face stricken. She did not look at Caroline again, but said in a strained tone, ‘Please take Emma with you this afternoon when you go for the final fitting of your wedding dress. So at least your sister can be part of the marriage ceremony in some way.’

  When we arrived at the House of Worth that afternoon, Caroline stepped from the carriage and swept towards the doors with her head held erect. I imagined a crown on her head and a sceptre in her hand: Caroline, Queen of New York.

  A clean-shaven young man in a frock coat opened the door for us and bowed deeply while two of the black-clad shop assistants curtsied. It was as if all who gazed upon Caroline recognised her pre-eminence.

  A woman in a black velvet dress with her silver hair fashioned into a magnificent pompadour greeted us. ‘Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Lacasse. Monsieur Worth will receive you immediately.’

  The woman led us up a grand staircase covered in crimson carpet so plush that my feet sank into it. When Caroline wasn’t watching I allowed my fingers to brush the vanilla orchids, parlour maples and other exotic plants that bordered the stairs.

  We were shown into a drawing room with walls lined in pearl satin and a bronze and crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling like a cluster of icicles. The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh-cut lilies. A middle-aged man was standing waiting for us, along with a young woman in a high-necked white blouse and black skirt. The woman was pretty with porcelain skin and her hair perfectly coiled on top of her delicate head, but her good looks were overshadowed by the extraordinary man. He could have stepped out of a Flemish baroque painting with his medieval velvet hat, walrus moustache and a floppy cravat tied in a bow. I bit my lip, wishing I had brought my notebook with me despite Caroline’s warning not to do so.

  ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ he said, taking Caroline’s hand and paying no attention to me. ‘Mademoiselle Cagnat will help you with the final fitting today. The dress is truly enchanting. It is everything we dreamed it would be.’

  He bowed and left the room, and Mademoiselle Cagnat tugged aside a heavy silk curtain and ushered Caroline into a fitting room. I sat outside on a settee and resisted the urge to pull faces in the mirror opposite. Half an hour later the curtain opened and there stood Caroline in an ivory satin and silk damask dress with a long train. I caught my breath. The skirt was embroidered with silver roses, and on her head she wore a diamond tiara with a delicate tulle veil.

  Caroline smiled radiantly and my heart swelled with pride, then suddenly my joy became tinged with sadness. I now understood the gravity of the conversation between Grand-maman and Caroline that morning. I would not be with my sister on her wedding day. She would be far away and marrying a stranger. I was seized by an impulse to get down on my knees and beg her to take me with her. I could please her guests by playing the harp.

  Caroline frowned at me because I hadn’t said anything yet. I didn’t want to incur her wrath so I held back my tears and told her, ‘You are more beautiful than a Boule de Neige rose!’

  Mademoiselle Cagnat smiled and pinched my chin. ‘What a charming young girl you are. You have a face like an angel.’ Turning to Caroline she asked, ‘Will your sister be your flower girl? Would you like us to keep some of the silk for her dress?’

  Caroline’s attention was on her reflection in the mirror. She posed with her eyes sparkling and her lips softly moving, as if she was standing before a circle of admirers.

  ‘No, my sister won’t be there,’ she said, smoothing the skirt of her dress and not looking at us. ‘Now let’s discuss my gloves.’

  Mademoiselle Cagnat seemed taken aback by Caroline’s frosty tone but quickly turned to business. ‘Certainly, Mademoiselle Lacasse. Won’t you step this way?’

  They went into an adjoining room, and I sat back down on the settee, overcome with foreboding that part of my life was coming to an end.

  My sense of unease grew worse the morning Caroline departed for New York. She insisted that it wasn’t necessary for us to accompany her to the port, but acquiesced that we could go with her as far as the train station.

  ‘You don’t have to tire yourself, Grand-maman,’ she said when we arrived at the bustling Gare Saint-Lazare, where three porters were required to take charge of her assortment of luggage. ‘You really shouldn’t be out in a crowd like this.’

  Her words sounded kind, but as we waited on the platform together she kept glancing over our heads as if imagining a better place somewhere in the distance. Her unconcealed eagerness to leave us made my heart sink. Perhaps she was caught up in the excitement of the future that was unfolding so brilliantly before her. I hoped that once she settled in New York she would remember us fondly and regret the offhand way she had treated us on leaving Paris.

  I was roused from my thoughts by the screech of wheels on the track. The train for Le Havre pulled into the station. The porters directed Caroline to the first-class doors.

  Before she boarded Grand-maman pleaded one more time on my behalf. ‘You will write to Emma, won’t you, Caroline? Often. You know how much she idolises you.’

  ‘I shall come back to Paris every year, and Emma and I can go to the House of Worth together. When she is old enough I will buy her a beautiful gown of her own. How about that?’ Caroline leaned towards me and straightened the collar of my coat. ‘But in the meantime, Emma, you must take good care of your grandmother, and you must keep up your writing and harp-playing because you are a very clever little girl.’

  My jaw dropped. They were the warmest words Caroline had ever spoken to me and I would treasure them. I resolved that each year she came back to Paris she would find me more grown-up and accomplished. I would make her proud of me yet.

  ‘Goodbye, Caroline!’ I said, as she entered the compartment and took her seat.

  She opened the window and waved at us as the train slowly moved out of the station. ‘Goodbye, Grand-maman! Goodbye, Emma!’ she called.

  After the train disappeared, I imagined the kind of dress from Worth that I would have when I was old enough. Maybe something in sapphire blue silk trimmed with beads and sequins. Everyone would tell Caroline that she had a very pretty sister and she would be pleased.

  I was lost in my daydream when Grand-maman squeezed my hand. I looked up to see her face was filled with pity. Maybe she had already sensed the truth.

  ‘Keep praying for your sister,’ she said to me. ‘Pray every day for her soul. That’s all you can do, Emma. That’s all either of us can do.’

  I browsed the newspaper cuttings I had spread out in my room. What Paulette had said was true: my debts were less than Caroline would spend on hats for the races or a new horse for one of her fine carriages. They were laughable for her and crippling for me.

  Caroline might be the only per
son who could help me, but I couldn’t forget how she had responded when Grand-maman was suffering and I’d appealed to her for help with the cost of the treatments. I’d torn up the letter containing her reply but the words burned in my memory: You need to stop persisting with this foolishness that Grand-maman’s illness can be treated or her pain relieved and accept that she is going to die. She is an old woman, Emma. You are only ruining yourself . . .

  If it wasn’t for Claude and Paulette, I would be utterly alone in the world. I may as well not have had a sister at all. Caroline hadn’t even come to Grand-maman’s funeral let alone helped with the burial costs.

  During her annual trips to Paris, she was usually too busy with dress fittings and social events to find time to visit Grand-maman and me. We sometimes received invitations to teas or musical events that were cancelled at the last minute. The last time I had seen my sister was five years earlier, when she had invited me to dine with her at the elegant restaurant Voisin’s. Although Grand-maman was already too frail then to join us, Caroline didn’t ask after her. Her self-absorption was tedious and I’d never cared to repeat the experience, although we did keep up a sporadic correspondence — until Grand-maman’s condition became grave.

  When Caroline failed to visit Grand-maman in her last days, or to help with any of the doctors’ bills, I would have cut her off entirely if Grand-maman hadn’t implored me otherwise.

  ‘My darling,’ she’d whispered on the last morning she was able to say anything at all. ‘Don’t hate your sister. She is the only family you have. I never had any siblings, and a life without the support and bond of a family is a lonely one.’

  Caroline was my only chance now. Perhaps another attempt would miraculously stir an inkling of compassion in my sister. I returned to my desk and wrote my appeal to her.

  I am not asking for charity; I fully intend to pay the money back. I am asking for a loan until I can get myself on my feet again. This last year since Grand-maman died has been the hardest I have ever known . . .

  After completing the letter and signing it, I was filled with a sense of relief — quickly followed by a dark foreboding.

  I glanced at the photograph of Grand-maman, then tossed the letter into the drawer with the demands from Roche & Associates and slammed it shut.

  FIVE

  The following day, the weather was warm with a kiss of autumn in the breeze but it could not lift my downcast spirits. I walked to Montmartre instead of taking the omnibus, although it was a false economy. The centimes I saved weren’t going to change my situation, and my shoes were already worn at the heel.

  Paris was preparing itself for the Exposition Universelle and my journey was interrupted by construction sites and the deep holes and dust that were part of building the new Métro underground system. Le style Mucha had blossomed in the city and I stopped to admire a tea shop’s sinuously carved cabinets and the stylised leaf pattern of the mosaic tiles on the floor. ‘So beautiful, so feminine, so charming,’ I sighed as I gazed at lamps in a shop window whose bases were long-tressed maidens in flowing gowns.

  Montmartre remained untouched by all the industrious activity. Its narrow streets and tree-lined squares, windmills and vineyards gave it the atmosphere of a place where time had stood still; and its steep slopes, and the craggy-faced men who sat on benches and watched the passers-by, were a stand against modernity. It was ironic then that the place should be a magnet for artists, writers, dancers and performers who were constantly reaching for the new and exciting, and through that pursuit had created a wild and vibrant nightlife.

  As I approached our usual café, Claude and Nicolas arrived from their studios at the same time. Claude kissed me as if he hadn’t seen me in years.

  ‘Don’t you have a pretty sister, Emma, who you could introduce me to?’ Nicolas said wistfully. ‘Why should Claude have all the luck?’

  I bit my lip and exchanged a smile with Claude. I was sure Nicolas would not appreciate me introducing him to Caroline.

  As well as Belda, Sophie and Robert, two friends we hadn’t seen for over a year were in the café: Julie and Marcel. Both talented artists, they had been away in Italy. Julie had been one of the first women accepted into the École des Beaux-Arts and Claude was constantly praising her work for its originality. It wasn’t only their talent that made the couple memorable but also their dress sense. Marcel wore his hair à la victime, cut very short at the back as if he had been prepared for the guillotine. Julie was dressed in a frilly puce frock with a red choker ribbon around her neck: her parody of Marie Antoinette.

  ‘I’m sure Jean-François is happy to have you back,’ I said, kissing their cheeks. ‘I don’t think we are eccentric enough to attract high-paying customers to the café.’

  Julie laughed good-naturedly. Her face was fuller than I remembered and her arms were plump. It must have been all that delicious Italian food she’d eaten while away.

  ‘We have some news for you!’ said Marcel, throwing his arm around Julie and looking at each of our faces in turn. ‘We got married in Rome.’

  For a moment you could have heard a pin drop. Julie and Marcel had never expressed the slightest interest in getting married.

  ‘Well, you’ve surprised us all with that news,’ said Nicolas. ‘But let’s have a drink to your health and happiness.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Sophie. She called over Jean-François and told him the news.

  ‘Tch-tch!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I was married once. Marriage is sealed with rings and ends with drawn knives.’

  Julie and Marcel just laughed at Jean-François’s rendering of the old French proverb.

  ‘How are your paintings coming along for the salon?’ Claude asked Julie, changing the subject. ‘You must have been inspired by the great artists of Italy.’

  ‘There will be no more of that,’ said Marcel, tightening his grip on Julie’s waist. ‘Two artists cannot live together happily. She cannot be my wife and my colleague. Imagine what would happen if she became “inspired” when I needed my dinner or a clean shirt? It is the role of the woman to spare her man from petty daily cares.’

  Claude’s face fell. I knew he was thinking about his mother. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Marcel. Julie was a superior artist to him. Why was it always the woman who had to sacrifice herself?

  ‘Are you so happy to give up all that you’ve worked so hard to attain?’ Claude asked Julie. ‘You know Vauclain had never taken a female artist into his studio before you.’

  Julie’s eyes misted and she touched her belly. ‘I’m going to have a baby. That is more important to me than painting.’

  My head spun. Marriage and a baby! Julie was getting what I most wanted, but she had to give up her art for it. I had an enlightened man who valued my talent and intellect and demanded no sacrifice from me. But then he didn’t want to be married and have a family.

  Marcel, sensing he was being viewed narrowly by Claude, quickly added, ‘Of course bringing a child into the world is more important. No artist can produce life. We can only imitate it!’

  Claude did not shy away from expressing his opinion, and I sensed an argument brewing.

  ‘I won’t be able to stay long. I have to get back to my writing,’ I whispered to him. ‘I’m at a crucial point in my new story.’

  Claude nodded, relieved that I’d come up with an excuse to leave. ‘Yes, I have to get back to a portrait.’

  We shared a drink with our friends, keeping the conversation to the designs for the new Métro stations and Toulouse-Lautrec’s poster art. Then we went inside to see Jean-François. Claude collected his payment for the postcards, and Jean-François handed me some more letters.

  ‘I’ll accompany you to the omnibus stop,’ Claude told me.

  We walked down the hill in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Julie and Marcel’s news couldn’t have been worse for my case that marriage between two artists could work.

  Claude stopped and turned to me. ‘Do you think Julie
and Marcel are doing the right thing? I have a feeling Marcel is purposely sabotaging Julie’s career out of jealousy. I can’t believe he managed to persuade her to give up her art. She always struck me as headstrong.’

  I shivered at his suggestion. But if I was honest, Julie and Marcel’s marriage did seem too spontaneous, as if neither truly cared about the long-term meaning of it. They were the type of people who could happily drift apart if it didn’t work out. That was different to how I felt about Claude. I wanted us to be married for life.

  ‘To have an illegitimate child is a terrible burden for a woman and the child,’ I said. ‘If Marcel cares about Julie at all, he did the right thing by marrying her.’

  Claude kicked the ground thoughtfully. ‘That’s why we must always be careful. I never want to put you in that situation.’

  His words drilled right into my brain. Sometimes it was as if Claude and I were speaking two different languages. I loved him, but I resented him too. Why did he have to be so stubborn about something that I was sure would bring more happiness for us?

  When we had stayed at Belda’s country home in Normandy over the summer, she’d taken me aside and told me, ‘Be patient with Claude. You two are so happy together, and I know you want a family. But he is struggling as all artists do to develop his own style. Let him establish himself. Otherwise his fear is that he will have to paint conventionally to support a family. If he does that, he will feel forever disappointed with himself.’

  There was much truth in what she’d said, but there was a problem too. Claude acted like we would be young forever, but we would not. I had witnessed Grand-maman die, and it had brought home to me that we would die one day too. I did not want to walk the path of my life alone.

  Grand-maman had been the one constant in my life. Now she was gone, and I was on the brink of losing the only place I had ever known as home. If Claude didn’t want me for a wife, there would be nowhere I truly belonged.