‘Florence,’ I asked, ‘did you get someone to show you the engine room?’
‘Of course,’ she answered, not looking up from her current piece.
I shook my head in admiration and wondered when she had gone down there. Perhaps while I was in the library writing letters to Claude; or napping on the promenade deck? Florence was a genius. She seemed able to write solidly while using only snatches of time. A writer who wrote in the midst of life, not separated from it. It usually took me a while to settle into my writing. Often when I came home in the evening, I needed to wash my face and hands, change into my slippers and have a cup of tea before I could re-engage with my work.
I hadn’t heard from Monsieur Plamondon yet about whether he would publish The Mysterious Cat. I remembered the excitement I’d felt when the woman at dinner had recognised my name. If only I could become as well-known as she’d assumed, I could earn a decent living and wouldn’t be beholden to Caroline. I wouldn’t be beholden to anyone.
It was on the last day of our trip that things turned awkward between Florence and me. We were packing our trunks in preparation for arriving in New York the following morning when she turned to me.
‘I’ve been so excited to have met such a talented writer that it’s only just occurred to me that I haven’t asked you a thing about your family. You mentioned you are visiting your sister and niece in New York; and Claude told me you are originally from New Orleans? I never would have guessed it. You are as French as a piano accordion. What is your sister’s married name? I might know her.’
I was searching through my papers for the ticket for my harp, which had travelled in the baggage storage as there was no room in our cabin for it. If my mind hadn’t been so preoccupied with that I might have thought more carefully before answering.
‘Mrs Oliver Hopper. She and my niece live on Fifth Avenue.’
The ticket had slipped between the pages of the book I had brought for the journey: The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. I looked up to find Florence staring at me. Her face had turned grey as if from shock.
‘Your sister is married to Oliver Hopper?’ she asked. ‘You mean your sister is Caroline Hopper?’
I thought she must be surprised that the sister of such a wealthy woman was living on limited means and travelling in second class like a servant, and resolved to tell her the whole story at dinner. But once we were seated at our table, it was as if a gulf had opened up between us. While Florence remained polite, she avoided meeting my eye, which made it difficult to engage her in a personal conversation without drawing the attention of the others.
When we returned to the cabin, she went immediately to bed and seemed to instantly fall asleep, so there was no chance to talk to her then either.
The following morning when I awoke, Florence’s packed trunk stood in the hall but she and Minette were gone. Had she gone somewhere to write? Was she investigating another of her stories before we disembarked?
I dressed and went to the promenade deck. It was crowded with passengers braving the biting cold and eager to catch their first glimpse of New York Harbor. I couldn’t see Florence among the scarf-wrapped faces and coated figures.
A loud cheer rose from the group when the Statue of Liberty emerged through the mist. Some of the passengers burst into tears at the symbol of their homeland. The statue was an impressive sight: an enormous goddess raising a torch in her right hand and holding tablets of law in her left. She looked as though nothing could daunt her. But I couldn’t participate in the excitement. I had expected that Florence and I would be sharing this moment together.
Even when the doctor boarded the ship to check the passengers before disembarkation, I couldn’t find her. Was she going to leave without saying goodbye? It was such an odd way for her to behave.
Finally, after the first- and second-class passengers had been herded through the perfunctory customs inspection on the dock, I spotted her. She’d already acquired a porter and was directing him towards a line of hansom cabs.
‘Florence, please stop!’ I called to her.
She turned but didn’t smile, regarding me as if I were a stranger. My stomach sank and I wondered if our friendship was fated to end with our journey.
‘I thought we might travel into the city together,’ I said.
She pointed towards an elegant carriage with a coachman and footman in frock coats and black silk hats. Two black horses stood in front of it, their coats groomed to gleaming perfection. On the door was a family crest with a falcon at the centre of it.
‘That’s your carriage,’ Florence said.
I gasped in genuine surprise. After Caroline’s treatment of me so far I had expected to make my own way to her address.
‘May I take you to your aunt’s home then?’ I asked Florence. ‘At least after making you travel second class I can offer you comfortable transportation for this part of the trip.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll make my own arrangements. I’m only questioning why you didn’t tell me. Were you playing a game with me?’
I burned with shame. I had never set out to deceive Florence. ‘If you’re wondering why my sister only arranged a second-class cabin for me, I can assure you I don’t know the reason for it myself. Her treatment of me has always been unpredictable. Since she married and came to live in New York nearly twenty years ago, she hasn’t really been part of my life. I don’t know much about her, her husband or even my niece. I didn’t tell you about it because, frankly, I’m ashamed. I’m hoping this trip will allow me to get to know my niece better.’
Florence frowned. Then her eyes widened as understanding dawned. ‘So you don’t know much about your sister’s life in New York?’
‘The barest of information. She practically disowned me and my grandmother when she left Paris. She didn’t even return for Grand-maman’s funeral.’
Florence rubbed her chin. ‘Now I know why Claude was so concerned about you.’ She reached into her purse and took out a card from a silver holder, then pressed it into my hand. ‘This is my address in New York. Emma, if you need anything, any help at all, please come and see me.’
Most of the passengers had dispersed by now. The footman stepped down from the carriage and walked towards us, clearly assuming that one of us must be the person he was waiting for.
‘Please, Florence,’ I begged her, ‘let me make up for the misunderstanding.’
She glowered at the carriage as if it was the most disgusting thing she’d ever looked upon. ‘No, thank you.’ She sent me a final worried glance before directing the porter towards the line of hansom cabs.
The footman approached me and bowed. He cast a striking figure with his clean-shaven face and thick eyebrows. He was as handsome as the horses.
‘Miss Lacasse?’
I nodded, and he directed the porter to lift my battered trunk and harp case onto the carriage. Then he opened the door and assisted me into the blue silk-upholstered interior. As he closed the door, a huddle of people stared in my direction as if speculating who I must be to be getting into such a grand vehicle. I stifled an urge to giggle. The carriage, the footman and horses, the curious onlookers — none of these things were part of my world.
By the time we passed the rank of hansom cabs, Florence had already departed. It struck me how desperate her parting words had sounded. Emma, if you need anything, any help at all, please come and see me. From the way she had acted it was as if I was Jonathan Harker off to see Count Dracula; I could almost picture her pressing a crucifix into my hand rather than the card with her address. An unsettling notion that she was warning me about my sister and her husband prickled me.
NINE
I soon forgot my misgivings when I laid eyes on New York. At first the streets near the port were crooked and narrow, and the air was rank with the stench of rotting fish. Women walked with their handkerchiefs to their noses, examining the goods the pushcart vendors were offering. ‘Shelled nuts! Potatoes! Onions!’ they cried. But soon
the streets opened up and a substantial and elegant city unfolded before me. Some of the buildings were more than ten and twelve storeys high. I’d heard that New York office buildings, hotels and even some of the homes had elevators. I couldn’t imagine being pulled up to the top floor in a cage attached to a cable. I promised myself that if ever I should find myself in such a building, I would use the stairs.
We passed piano-makers and mattress stores. Flower-sellers were everywhere, perhaps even more than in Paris. On every corner there seemed to be a street vendor with their wares spread out on a blanket. We passed one toy-seller demonstrating a spinning top, with a crowd of businessmen in suits crouched around to watch. The vendor pulled the top’s string and sent it into motion. The men’s faces lit with fascination and they handed over their money for a top of their own. Was it for a child at home, I wondered, or for themselves?
We turned into Fifth Avenue, where the cross streets had numbers instead of names and led off at regular intervals. Commercial activities gave way to a procession of churches and row upon row of elegant brownstone mansions, their stoops, doorways and window lintels all identical. The further along the street we travelled, the brownstone houses gradually became interspersed with mansions of marble and light stone.
Up ahead an expansive park came into view, its trees showing their bronze and gold autumn colours. A number of sightseers stood on the pavement next to the park, staring at something across the street. One man was sitting on a box and sketching what he saw. I turned to the other window to see what the people were looking at, not noticing that the carriage had come to a stop, and found myself face to face with the footman who had opened the door and was offering his hand to assist me down the step.
I alighted before a grand French Renaissance-style palace that could have been plucked straight from the Loire Valley. It was enormous, spanning almost the entire block, with a three-storey tower dominating the entrance, and gargoyles, flying buttresses and oriel windows. From the gleaming limestone walls and the untarnished blue slate roof trimmed with copper, it was obvious that the building had only recently been finished.
‘Is this a hotel?’ I asked the footman.
‘No, Miss Lacasse,’ he answered, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. ‘It is the residence of Mr and Mrs Oliver Hopper. It was completed only a few months ago and is the grandest home in all of New York.’
So this was the house Caroline had told me about in Paris. It had sounded lofty but I hadn’t imagined something so like a palace.
The footman directed me to the front door, where we were greeted by a butler in a high-buttoned black waistcoat and tailcoat. The footman jumped back on the carriage and it started to move off.
‘Oh,’ I said, panicked. ‘My trunk and harp are still on it!’
‘Do not worry, Miss Lacasse,’ the butler said in a well-articulated British accent. ‘They are taking your luggage to the carriage entry, where it will be promptly delivered to your room.’
He showed me into an entry vestibule, where a maid in a black dress and white apron helped me remove my coat. From there, the three of us moved into a grand hall. I had to catch my breath because I had entered another world. The hall was at least seventy feet long and faced in Caen stone. Italian tapestries adorned the white walls; and a double fireplace, its marble mantelpiece decorated with porcelain jardinières, kept the space at a comfortable temperature despite the high ceiling. At the end of the hall, a grand stairway with bronze railings divided into two at the first floor.
The butler stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘Jennie will show you to your room, Miss Lacasse. Mrs Hopper is away with Miss Hopper at a luncheon, but they will return to greet you at five o’clock. Meanwhile, shall I have the cook fix you something to eat?’
I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’ I was hungry, but I was out of my depth. I didn’t know what to ask for in a house such as this. Would a soup put the cook to too much trouble? Would a sandwich seem woefully humble?
I followed Jennie up to the first floor, and along a wide corridor decorated with life-sized Greek statues and a painting of Cupid and Psyche by Boucher. Jennie opened a door and showed me into a glittering room decorated in rococo-style with white walls trimmed in gilt. The chairs, the curtains and bed canopy were all silver-blue satin. A fire was burning in the Louis XVI fireplace.
‘Mrs Hopper thought you would like this room the best,’ Jennie said. She indicated an escritoire near the window. ‘That originally belonged to Marie Antoinette. That’s why this is called the Marie Antoinette Room.’
A male servant arrived with my trunk and placed it on the bench at the foot of the bed.
‘My harp?’ I asked him.
‘It’s been put in the music room, miss,’ he said with a bow before leaving the room.
Jennie looked dubiously at my battered trunk. ‘May I help you unpack, Miss Lacasse?’
Considering the kinds of guests Jennie was probably used to taking care of, I didn’t want to cause either of us embarrassment by making her unfold my linens. I also wanted to locate my harp as soon as possible. I hated to be separated from it. Having it travel in the baggage compartment on the steamship had been bad enough.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I told her. ‘But please tell me where the music room is.’
‘On the left of the grand hall. You go back the way we came.’
After Jennie left, I sat down in a chair near the fire, closed my eyes for a moment and thought of the sumptuous grandeur of the house. Just moving from the front door to this room had been an overwhelming experience. But this was what Caroline had always wanted and now she had it. A queer sensation ran through me. I was inside Caroline’s dream. She’d gathered me in.
After unpacking my trunk, I freshened up in a bathroom that dazzled me with its gleaming white tiles, marble bath and sink, and stained-glass windows. Not only cold but hot running water was available from the solid gold taps.
It was only half-past two in the afternoon and it would be a while before Caroline and Isadora returned. I went in search of my harp.
A maid carrying bed linens gave me a curtsy before disappearing into a room. Further along, a male servant was standing on a stepladder fixing a clock. His eyes widened with surprise to see me but he bowed politely. How many servants did it take to run a house as large as this? Besides those I’d already met there was sure to be at least thirty others including a valet, lady’s maid, housekeeper and chef. As I made my way along the corridor I was conscious of doors opening and gently closing again. Did Caroline expect her servants to be invisible? The feeling that dozens of eyes were watching me stiffened the hairs on the nape of my neck and encouraged me to hurry my step.
The music room was cooler than the rest of the house because the fire was unlit, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. At the end of a cream Aubusson carpet stood a grand piano with a gilded harp next to it. It wasn’t my harp; that was still in its case by the piano stool. I stepped forward to examine it. Its pillar was decorated in gold leaf with motifs of Egyptian pharaohs and winged lions. It was beautiful and must have cost a fortune. Did someone actually play it, or was it meant for decoration only?
Although two ormolu and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, at this time of day there was no need for artificial light. Three full-length windows looked out to a parterre courtyard, while on the other side of the room the light was reflected in a grand Venetian mirror. The fluted Corinthian columns with bands of gilded foliage twisted around them added to the sparkling atmosphere. The overall effect was sublime. Caroline had always had extravagant taste and now she had the money to express it.
I lifted my harp from its case and, after folding down the pedals, began to tune it. It hadn’t fared well on the long journey. I was so intent that it should be perfect that I didn’t notice the daylight fading around me.
‘Aunt Emma!’
I looked up and through the gloom saw Caroline and Isadora standing in the doorway.
�
�My goodness,’ said Caroline, ‘nobody lit a fire for you or turned on the lights? They are electric, you know.’
She tugged a cord and the chandeliers’ golden light illuminated the room, making everything shimmer even more magically than it had in the early afternoon.
Isadora ran forward to embrace me. ‘I wrote to you every day as I promised,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘But Mother said my French was too embarrassing to send the letters to you.’
‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘We will work on it together.’
Isadora was so warm and familiar with me that I was loathe to let go of her. But dutifully I turned to my sister.
Caroline came towards me with open arms too, but stopped short at my harp case, which was shabby compared to the ethereal beauty of everything else in the room. Then she enfolded me in an embrace so stiff that if I’d closed my eyes I could have had my arms around a statue.
She let me go and pointed to my harp case. ‘I’m so glad you kept it up. Isadora needs help with her playing. I’ll ask Woodford to acquire a more suitable case for you. I trust that your trip across the Atlantic was comfortable?’
I’d only been in her presence five minutes and already Caroline was riling me. But I took a breath and reminded myself why I was here. I would have to develop the fortitude of a prisoner-of-war during my stay and concentrate on working towards my freedom. ‘Yes, it was very pleasant,’ I replied.
Caroline studied me with those piercing eyes and smiled. ‘I must apologise for sending you second class, but I knew some of the Van der Heyden family would be on that ship and I didn’t want you to cross paths with them until you’ve been properly introduced into New York society.’ She sighed. ‘Things are so different here, not at all like Paris. Everything must be done correctly and no wrong step is forgiven. You must follow my instructions to the letter, Emma. We cannot put a foot wrong while we prepare Isadora for her entry into society.’
The Invitation Page 9