She tugged on another cord and the butler appeared.
‘I would like you to give Miss Lacasse a tour of the house,’ Caroline told him. Turning to me, she smiled again. ‘I must attend to some matters with my lady’s maid and the housekeeper, and Isadora needs to rest before dinner. Woodford will show you around. Tonight at dinner you shall meet Oliver again and some guests who you will find most interesting.’
We all moved into the hall, and Caroline headed towards the grand staircase. Isadora squeezed my hand and gave me a secret smile before hurrying after her.
‘Won’t you please come this way,’ Woodford said, directing me to the next room. ‘The library has been decorated in Italianate and Second Empire styles . . .’
I barely heard him because my mind was jumping from one thought to another. Could there be two women more unlike mother and daughter than Caroline and Isadora?
Dinner in my Paris apartment with my American guests had always been elegant but modest affairs. The only dress I had for more formal occasions was a lilac and white tulle gown with dots of black appliqué and balloon sleeves. I had no jewellery other than a pair of pearl earrings and a gold locket that held a picture of Grand-maman. As I descended the grand staircase of the house on Fifth Avenue, I knew I was a fish out of water.
Jennie led me to the salon where we were to gather for sherry before dinner, and when she opened the door I discovered my prediction was right. The first thing that struck me was the Florentine tapestry bearing the coat of arms of the Medici family above the marble fireplace. The second was the elaborate evening dress of the four people who turned to look at me.
‘Well, here she is!’ said the only man among them.
It took me a moment to recognise Oliver, so much had he changed in the intervening years. His face had been distorted by a triple jowl and his body was greatly misshapen by a bulging paunch. If it wasn’t for his red-gold hair and the giant black opal ring he still wore, I may not have known him at all.
‘So lovely to see you again, my dear,’ he said, walking over to take my hand and kissing it.
There was something more than his figure that had changed since I had last seen him. In Paris, he had been vital and dynamic, but there was nothing optimistic in his expression now. His movements appeared lacklustre, like a man worn out by life.
Oliver led me to the divan where Caroline and Isadora were sitting with a third woman.
‘Good evening, Emma,’ said Caroline. She looked resplendent in a dress of Nile-green silk, and a necklace of round brilliant-cut diamonds and matching earrings that sparkled each time she moved. ‘I would like you to meet my very good friend, the Duchess of Dorset.’
The Duchess was an attractive woman of an indeterminable age: she could have been thirty or she could have been forty. Her jaw and brow were heavy but there wasn’t a line on her face. The deep blue of her dress flattered her cinnamon-coloured hair, and her fine eyes and small mouth gave her face the appearance of a doll. But there was too much vitality in her smile to ever mistake her for an inanimate object.
‘None of this “Duchess” nonsense,’ she protested. Her accent was English but the force of her voice was bold and gave me the impression she might actually be American. ‘When I am in New York among my dearest friends, I insist that you all call me Lucy as you have always done.’ She took my hand and squeezed it, then withdrew it to touch the gold and lapis lazuli necklace she wore. It looked as if it might have once belonged to an Egyptian queen. ‘Well, at least within the walls of this house. I suppose outside you had better address me as “Duchess” otherwise what was the point of me marrying a duke?’
Her comment brought peals of laughter from Caroline. Lucy laughed too and clasped Caroline’s hand. The obvious bond between them sent a twinge of envy through me. It was how I imagined sisters who were close would be together.
I glanced at Isadora. She was studying me with a pleasant expression. I smiled back, glad to have an ally in my niece at least.
Caroline checked the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘We are waiting for Harland,’ she said. ‘Then we will proceed to the dining room.’
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Woodford, in evening livery of a black waistcoat and white shirt, opened the door. He was about to announce the guest when a figure in a tailcoat ensemble and white bowtie pushed past him into the room.
‘Hello, everyone, I’m here!’ he said, smoothing back a wisp of blond hair that had fallen across his forehead. His smooth tanned face gave the impression of someone well-pleased with himself and with life. He took out a diamond and emerald pocket watch and glanced at it. ‘And only fifteen minutes late tonight! I had to listen to all Marion Fisher’s woes about her unmarried son.’ He let out a hearty laugh that rang through the room. ‘But I did manage to persuade her to buy those Scottish suits of armour I obtained from Blackness Castle last year, which have been gathering dust in my warehouse!’
‘Oh, Harland, you are such a delight!’ said Caroline, rising from her chair. She slipped her arm into his and led him towards me. ‘I would like you to meet my sister, Miss Emma Lacasse, who arrived in New York today.’ To me she said, ‘Emma, this is Mr Harland Hunter, the architect who created this magnificent house.’
‘Ah, Miss Lacasse,’ said Harland, taking my hand and smiling at me with straight white teeth. ‘So pleased to make your acquaintance.’
He greeted Lucy and Isadora with the warmth of familiarity, but his handshake with Oliver was brief and both men avoided each other’s gaze.
‘I trust that you received the first-class pass for the railway you requested through my wife?’ said Oliver. The words were polite enough but held an undertone of resentment.
Harland hesitated a moment, then quickly recovered. ‘Yes, thank you, Oliver. The pass will be convenient when I don’t have the use of the Clement-Madens’ private railcar.’
‘So Marabel has succumbed to your charms too,’ said Oliver, smiling through gritted teeth.
Harland’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, she had to, my friend. She has no one else to escort her midweek. Her husband’s nerves are so wrecked by Wall Street that he falls asleep in the middle of dinner.’
Oliver bristled and was about to say something else when Woodford returned to inform us that dinner was ready.
‘Let us eat,’ said Caroline, looking grateful for the distraction. ‘Harland, won’t you escort my sister to the table?’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ Harland said. He plucked a purple rose from a vase on a side table and handed it to me. ‘Here, carry this in with you, Miss Lacasse. It goes perfectly with your dress.’
The dining room spanned almost the entire length of the house and was decorated in the English style with a panelled oak-wood ceiling and walls of deep crimson. Polished brass fittings sparkled in the Gothic fireplace. The oak dining table could have accommodated perhaps a hundred people, but we sat in a section closed off by a movable screen to create a more intimate atmosphere, if an intimate atmosphere was possible while we were waited on by Woodford and three footmen. I sighed inwardly each time a new dish was presented to us — oysters, crabs, a tureen of green turtle soup, duck, lobster, steak and a serving of terrapin. It was going to take a lot of walking around New York to work off all this food. No wonder Oliver and Caroline had grown round with age.
‘Now we have conquered Fifth Avenue,’ Caroline said to Harland, ‘we must start talking about a new residence for Newport.’
Harland dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘I have some brilliant ideas —’
‘Because the house we already have isn’t grand enough?’ interrupted Oliver.
‘Well, you did promise me that I would be queen of New York society,’ Caroline said, sweeping his protest away like dust. ‘So the new house must eclipse all others.’
‘Queen or not,’ said Harland, cutting into a piece of rare steak that bled into his potatoes, ‘your wife is a smart woman, Oliver. I couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes if I wanted to. I have
never known a woman to immerse herself in every detail of a house as Caroline did when we were building this one.’
‘Yes, I believe she was up to her knees in mortar!’ said Oliver with a sarcastic laugh.
Oliver was surlier than I remembered him. Although he had been welcoming to me his manner towards Harland was antagonistic. With combative parents like Caroline and Oliver, it wasn’t surprising poor Isadora was so shy. I looked around the grand room. My brother-in-law had risen from poverty to amass all this wealth, which would have taken tremendous determination and perseverance as well as business acumen. For that I admired him. But what had it done to his personality?
Lucy nodded to Harland. ‘Tell Caroline your story about Winthrop Carrington.’
He took a sip of wine, and grinned. ‘Oh yes, Carrington wanted something different for his Newport house. I’ve had for some time a baroque vaulted ceiling that I bought at a steal from a palazzo in Florence. The fresco, panels and bas-reliefs are all truly exquisite but it’s such an awkward shape with such unusual dimensions that I couldn’t find a client’s home where it would fit. So when I designed Carrington’s dining room I did so in a way that only one possible ceiling could fit there, then convinced him to pay for my trip to Italy to find “the right ceiling”. After a month of enjoying myself as the guest of the Countess Carraresi, I returned to New York and fitted the ceiling I already had. Carrington was none the wiser and more than happy to pay five times the price I paid for it. He’s been telling everyone what a genius I am ever since!’
‘Poor Carrington,’ said Oliver, shaking his head.
‘Oh, don’t be so soft!’ Caroline told him. ‘You can’t stand fools any more than I can. You always say anyone gullible deserves to be separated from their money.’
‘Speaking of fools,’ said Lucy, leaning forward with excitement, ‘guess who I met the other day? May Satterfield! It seems that old husband of hers isn’t any closer to dying than the day she married him. He suffered a haemorrhage last Christmas so severe that May was sure it was finally the end of him and she ordered a dozen mourning outfits from Worth, but then the old man pulled through. Now she’s distraught because she’s convinced that by the time he does eventually die, all her mourning clothes will be out of fashion!’
‘Oh, she’s jinxed herself,’ said Isadora. But nobody seemed to hear her except me.
Caroline laughed into her napkin. ‘What was dear old Satterfield thinking to marry a young girl like that? A shopgirl of all people!’
‘I know what he was thinking,’ said Harland with a sly smile.
Caroline and Lucy roared with laughter. Even Oliver allowed himself a grin, although he glanced in Isadora’s direction, perhaps concerned the joke was too fresh for her young ears. It touched me that at least he seemed to have a soft spot for his daughter.
Isadora put down her knife and fork. ‘I have an amusing story too,’ she said.
‘Pray do tell!’ said Harland, turning to give her his complete attention.
‘Well, when I went to call on Rebecca Clark, her aunt was there. I hadn’t seen her for some time and there was something odd about her face. It was an unnatural shade of pink and didn’t move at all when she spoke, nor could she smile or frown. When her aunt left the room, I asked Rebecca what was the matter with her aunt’s face.’ Isadora giggled. ‘Do you know what she told me? Her aunt had her face enamelled! First the skin is prepared with an alkaline wash and any wrinkles are filled in with a paste. Then the face is painted on the same way a doll’s face is painted, only using a mixture of arsenic and water. Apparently it costs twenty-five dollars a week to have it done.’
‘That’s called embalming!’ said Harland.
‘Apparently it’s very popular among the royalty of Europe,’ insisted Isadora.
‘I very much doubt that,’ replied Lucy. ‘They aren’t anywhere near as vain about appearance as we Americans.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Caroline. ‘It was probably an advertising ploy to take in the gullible and the vain.’
Isadora’s face dropped, disappointed that her story hadn’t elicited the same delight as the others. She was on the verge of telling another when Caroline gave a nod to Woodford.
‘Let’s retire to the drawing room for a digestif,’ she said to us. ‘Emma and Isadora must rise early tomorrow to begin their lessons.’
Although Caroline had alluded to me tutoring Isadora in preparation for her debut, she hadn’t discussed her exact plans with me. I wondered when she intended to do so as it was already late.
On our way to the drawing room, Lucy drew close to me. ‘You have been put in charge of someone who is very undeveloped for her age and frankly a bit odd, I’m afraid,’ she whispered, nodding in Isadora’s direction. ‘You might have observed her attempts to make conversation were . . . awkward. She is very naïve too. Last year a footman convinced her to take a walk with him in Central Park — a kidnap ploy of course. Oliver discovered the plan just in time. Caroline is loath to put her out into society until she matures a bit and has more poise.’
I stared at her. I didn’t like her talking that way about my niece. I was about to tell her so but she continued on before I had a chance.
‘Caroline said you were also rather odd as a child but you must have grown out of it because you now give etiquette lessons to young ladies from middle-class families. Apparently one of your students married the Earl of Norwich? That makes you the perfect person for Isadora. You might understand her better than we do. Lord knows, I’ve tried to help the girl. It’s unbelievable that she is the daughter of such a glorious mother.’
I was too shocked by Lucy’s lack of tact to know whether to be humiliated or furious. For a supposed duchess she could certainly do with an etiquette lesson herself.
That night, before turning out my light, I sat down to write a letter to Claude.
My arrival in New York has been full of surprises. Caroline’s house has to be seen to be believed. I feel as if I’m living in a city within a city. There was a lot of laughter over dinner this evening, but her friends, Harland Hunter, an architect, and the Duchess of Dorset, have a falsity about them. It’s as though nothing here is as it seems . . .
Their bantering voices filled my head again. Their merriment had always been at someone else’s expense. I recalled Lucy’s insult to me. Had Caroline really said I’d been an odd child? Or was Lucy jealous that I might come between her and my sister so was trying to divide us from the start?
I stared at the writing paper. The situation was confusing and I didn’t know how to explain it to Claude. I sighed. It would only make him worry anyway. Instead I changed tack.
There is an original Boucher on the first floor that you would appreciate. The house has been decorated in a mixture of styles, and many of the original pieces have an interesting history, including the desk I am writing at now. Apparently, it once belonged to Marie Antoinette . . .
TEN
It was clear the following morning that the house ran to a strict routine. Jennie entered my room at eight, opened the curtains and left me with a schedule for the day written out in Caroline’s hand, starting with breakfast in the dining room at nine o’clock.
Isadora and I ate together. Oliver, I understood, had already left for his office.
‘Is your mother going to join us?’ I asked my niece, eyeing the spread of food. Poached apples with raisins and cranberries, eggs, pancakes and muffins were all elegantly displayed on silver platters.
Isadora shook her head. ‘Mother has breakfast in her bed. Then she will meet with the housekeeper and her lady’s maid to give them their instructions for the day. No matter how late we go to bed, she always begins her day early. She’s never been one for sleeping late.’
I thought back to our years in Paris and recalled that Caroline had always been self-disciplined. Her clothes and toilet articles had to be perfectly laid out, so much so that she had refused to let Paulette touch them.
‘Mother is meticulous,�
� Isadora continued. ‘She keeps a card file on everyone: their birthdays, their friends, the names and ages of their children, their favourite roses, their favourite drinks, and their brand of tobacco. She’s like a detective — she notices the tiniest details about everyone she meets.’
One of the two footmen who were waiting on us stepped forward to refill my coffee cup. While the female servants I had encountered had been quite ordinary-looking, the house’s male staff were uniformly tall, with even features and athletic physiques. I could understand how a young girl might be tricked by one of them, but Isadora didn’t come across as foolish or gullible. However, from the way her mother and Lucy so easily dismissed her, I realised her life in this household must be quite lonely.
‘How are your Grandmother Hopper and Aunt Anne?’ I asked her. ‘Are they keeping well?’
‘My grandmother died when I was a child and I don’t remember much about her,’ she replied. ‘Aunt Anne passed away a few years ago. I miss her. I used to go and visit her every day to watch her bake — I was fascinated by how skilfully she blended ingredients and decorated her creations. Even though Father employed servants for her, she insisted on cooking everything herself. She never was one for saying much, but she expressed herself through food. Sometimes when I catch a whiff of bread baking or stewed apples, I think, “Oh, Aunt Anne is talking to me!”’
‘That’s a nice memory,’ I said. ‘But didn’t your aunt ever live with you?’
Isadora shook her head. ‘She and Mother couldn’t get along. But I liked her place in West 52nd Street. She lived there with her three dogs: Dandie, Picco and Flash.’
How different Anne was when described by someone who loved her. I could only remember how uncomfortable she had been when she’d visited our home in Paris with Oliver and her mother.
‘Your father was very devoted to your grandmother and his sister, wasn’t he?’
Tears welled in Isadora’s eyes. ‘He was. He used to visit Aunt Anne every evening before returning home so he could talk to her about his business dealings and worries. Now he has no one to talk to about those things.’
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