‘Not even your mother?’
My niece shook her head. ‘Least of all her.’
Our lessons were to take place in a sitting room off Isadora’s bedroom. According to Caroline’s instructions they were to consist of two hours of French language tuition, then one hour of deportment practice before lunch. I found it amusing that Caroline was instructing me to conduct myself with ‘decorum’ one minute and the next entrusting me with her daughter’s behaviour and manners. There really was no consistency in how she viewed me.
She’d also assigned me to take over from one of the maids supervising Isadora while she took her art lesson with a Mr Gadley three afternoons a week, and then we were to finish with a harp lesson. I rubbed my forehead. If this was to be a regular routine, it didn’t leave me much free time for writing or for exploring New York. I sighed and resigned myself to the commitment I’d undertaken: Caroline hadn’t invited me to New York for my own pleasure. Besides, I was enjoying getting to know Isadora and would do everything in my power to help her. Perhaps I would have to take my cue from Florence and learn to write on the run.
Isadora’s sitting room wasn’t what I’d expected. Instead of being decorated with gilded mirrors and bowls of roses, it was lined with black walnut bookshelves that held volumes of books about Italian art and history. I examined them closely. Unlike the near-perfect books in the library, the wrinkled spines of these books showed they had been read many times. I picked out a copy of Goethe’s Italian Journey. The pages were marked with copious notes and comments. ‘Goodness!’ I said, ‘You are a meticulous scholar!’
‘Mother hates me writing in books,’ said Isadora, sitting down in a wingback chair, ‘but I can’t see the point of simply reading a book. I want to absorb the writer’s knowledge and commit it to memory.’
I was seeing Isadora with fresh eyes. This was no simpleton sitting before me in her tea-rose pink dress. I scanned the bookshelves and found several volumes on the history of the Medici family. It occurred to me that the reason Caroline and Lucy might not understand Isadora was because my niece was exceptionally bright.
‘If you have read all these books, Isadora, you must be an expert on Italy!’
She laughed. ‘I’ve been passionate about Italy since I took my first trip there as a child with Mother and Father. I’m not like a typical American when I travel, always boasting everything is better at home. When I go to Italy, I feel as if I have gone home.’
‘How wonderful! The greatest thing in life is to be passionate about something.’
Colour rose in Isadora’s cheeks and she sat up straighter. ‘Do you think so, Aunt Emma?’ Then she shook her head. ‘I’m afraid my passion for Italy has eclipsed other things, which is why my French is so poor although I’ve had tutors for years. Don’t misunderstand me: I loved our annual trips to Paris, but those visits were always about shopping — while Italy was about art, about history . . . about life.’
I flinched. Not because Isadora hadn’t taken to my beloved Paris as well as she had Florence or Rome, but because her comment drove home that Caroline had been in Paris regularly with Isadora and hadn’t once brought her to meet Grand-maman.
‘I wish you’d had a chance to get to know your Great-Grandmother Sylvie,’ I said. ‘She was cultured and would have spent hours talking with you.’
Isadora fidgeted with her hands. ‘I would have liked that. What a great pity she died before I was born.’
A chasm opened up in my heart. Was that what Caroline had told her? What other lies and deceptions would I uncover? What had she told Isadora about me?
‘But how lovely to have you here, Aunt Emma,’ Isadora continued. ‘You will be able to tell me all about Great-Grandmother Sylvie and I will get to know her through you.’
I buried my fury as best I could and turned my attention to the bookshelves again. The bottom rows were stacked with dozens of plain-bound notebooks.
‘What are those?’ I asked.
‘Oh, Mother refers to those as my “lunatic books”. Ever since I was a child I’ve been mad about recording things. I write about what’s inspired me, what I’ve thought about people I’ve met, things I’ve learned . . .’
‘So they’re journals you’ve kept since childhood?’ I was impressed.
‘Oh no,’ said Isadora with a wave of her hand. ‘Those are stored in the attic. The journals on the shelves are only from the past year.’
I was dumbfounded and struggled for something to say.
Isadora giggled. ‘I have a lot of ideas in my head.’
After luncheon Isadora led me to a room near the stables and carriage house that had been converted into a studio for her. I was expecting her art classes to be in oil painting or sketching, but when we entered the studio it was crowded not only with stands, easels and pedestals as all artists’ studios were, but also a mounted toolboard on which hung callipers, crafting knives, clamps, mallets and cutting wire. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with plaster busts and casts of horses, dogs, birds and other animals, and everything was covered with grey dust.
‘You’re a sculptor?’ I was surprised at Isadora’s choice of medium. She had such delicate, soft hands.
She lifted a cover from the bench to show me her works in progress. The figures were mainly animals but there were human busts and some angels too. Some were worked in clay, others in plaster or stone. The breadth of the works was impressive — from full-round sculptures to bas-reliefs — and all displayed excellence in line, form and style.
‘These are magnificent!’ I told her. ‘You truly are an artist.’
‘She is my most talented student,’ said a male voice behind us.
I turned to see a man of about thirty years of age stepping into the studio. He was thickset with broad shoulders and a moon-like face, and wore a suit with the sleeves of the jacket short enough to reveal his cuffs. When he shook my hand and introduced himself as Isadora’s modelling teacher, Mr Thomas Gadley, he left a film of plaster dust on my fingers.
‘Mr Gadley teaches at the Art Students League of New York,’ explained Isadora. ‘But he comes here three times a week to tutor me.’
I caught the whimsical note in her voice when she mentioned the school, as if she was describing a faraway exotic land. I had heard of the Art Students League and was sure that they admitted female students on an equal footing with men. I wondered why Isadora didn’t study where she would have the company of other artists to inspire her. Without our little group of artists at the café in Montmartre, I would have found writing a lonely occupation.
‘Let’s begin on that hare we were talking about last week,’ said Mr Gadley, sitting down on a stool. ‘Have you made the armature?’
Isadora nodded. She put on an artist’s apron and went to the shelf, returning with a basic wire skeletal structure mounted on a board and a sketch of a hare covered in gridlines. For the next couple of hours I watched with fascination as, under the direction of Mr Gadley, Isadora added clay to the wire piece by piece and the hare began to take shape under her skilful hands. I was there as a chaperone, but from the way the teacher and student worked together there was nothing but respect and an excellent rapport between them. They took a great deal of time to get the long ears perfect, clearly not content to settle for less. As the hare’s facial features came to life it was as though I was witnessing creation itself. When Isadora etched the details of the fur so realistically, I wanted to give her a standing ovation.
‘That’s unbelievable!’ I said when she showed me the final product. ‘I can picture him sitting in the grass, his nose twitching.’
‘Miss Hopper is equally talented in carving so I am keen to see how she handles this in stone,’ said Mr Gadley, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. Then he grinned as an idea came to him. ‘Why don’t you do a bust of your aunt, Miss Hopper? You have a patient model there, I can tell, and she has a graceful neck and jawline. But we’ll need to set aside a whole day to do the basic clay model.’
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‘What a brilliant idea!’ said Isadora, regarding me with keen eyes. ‘Please say you will, Aunt Emma. You will look beautiful in white marble! I’ve never had a live model to work from before. Mother says the servants don’t have time to sit all day for me.’
I had modelled for Claude and the other artists in our Montmartre group many times and found holding a pose uncomfortable, but Isadora was so excited I could hardly refuse her. As a sculptor, she needed the practice of modelling from life.
‘Of course I will,’ I told her.
After Mr Gadley had left, and Isadora had scrubbed her hands and changed her clothes, we went to the music room for her harp lesson. I tuned the gilded harp, which sounded as though it hadn’t been played in months.
After an excruciating rendition of Handel’s Air in B-flat major, it became apparent that Isadora hadn’t mastered the harp as well as she had sculpting. Thankfully it was a forgiving instrument and after going through the piece phrase by phrase, Isadora began to produce a reasonable sound.
I expected she would become tired of it after an hour but she urged me to continue. ‘Oh, please let’s go on, Aunt Emma. I’m getting the hang of it now.’
I sensed it wasn’t so much a desire to learn the harp that was motivating Isadora, but rather that she was enjoying having my company. Before I could agree, Jennie appeared at the door.
‘Mrs Hopper wishes to see you, Miss Lacasse,’ she told me.
‘You’ve been summoned,’ said Isadora.
I smiled as if it was a joke between us, but that was exactly what it felt like. My whole journey to New York was about obeying Caroline’s orders. As I followed Jennie to the drawing room I had to suppress my anger by thinking about my apartment in Paris with all its sentimental meaning, and about Paulette whose welfare depended on me. The satisfaction I would get from berating Caroline could mean losing the things I most treasured.
Caroline was sitting at a table that held a silver tea set and a layer cake. She dismissed Jennie with a nod and gestured for me to sit down with her.
‘How have you enjoyed the company of your niece?’ she asked, pouring the tea herself and smiling warmly at me.
A hollow feeling of melancholy clutched my heart. How much a smile or a kind word or gesture would have meant to me as a child. Now I crossed one arm over my chest as if to protect myself from any arrows Caroline might fire my way. I was still furious that she had told Isadora that Grand-maman had died before she was born.
‘She’s charming,’ I answered. ‘And very bright.’
Caroline sipped her tea and watched me over her cup. ‘One must be careful with a girl like Isadora,’ she said. ‘That she doesn’t get any ideas.’
‘Ideas?’
‘About being independent or living from her art.’ Caroline’s tone had a hard edge and I assumed she was alluding to me and how I earned my living. But to my surprise she qualified her statement with a compliment. ‘Isadora’s not strong like you, Emma. She might appear that way now because she wants to impress you. But she’s been bedridden twice with nervous exhaustion and she’s not yet even eighteen.’
I caught my breath. ‘You mean she’s suffered nervous collapses?’
In Montmartre, a beautiful, delicate dancer named Ambra had once been part of our group. I had always enjoyed speaking with her and hearing her perceptive insights into life and people. But one day she stopped coming to the café, and we found out that she had thrown herself in the Seine. If Isadora had similar melancholic tendencies, I would have to be vigilant with her.
Caroline shrugged. ‘Isadora has always been fragile, so putting her out in society the right way and finding a suitable husband for her is my priority. That is why I asked you to come. I can trust you to lead her on the right path. I don’t trust anyone as much as I trust you.’
‘Why do you trust me?’ I asked her, surprised. Her attitude towards me had always suggested the opposite.
‘Because you genuinely care for her — I could see that the moment you started talking to each other in the café in Paris. And because you are selfless, Emma, and have a great sense of responsibility.’
I would have been flattered by anyone else’s recognition of my positive attributes. But when Caroline cited them it sent a chill through me. Isadora had said that her mother took careful note of the tiniest details about people. I was sure that far from admiring me, Caroline was figuring out how to use those positive traits to her advantage.
‘It’s true that I would never hurt my niece,’ I told her. ‘And I have every confidence that she will pick up all the skills you wish her to before her debut. But her chief disadvantage is her sheltered life. She would benefit from spending time with people her own age.’
Caroline shuddered. ‘But that’s impossible, Emma! Young Americans these days don’t know if they are coming or going — they’re always chasing the latest fad. Isadora doesn’t have the constitution for that kind of frenetic activity, which is why I keep a close watch on her. I intend to find her a husband with a sense of duty; someone who demonstrates steadiness and who she can look up to.’
I couldn’t see Isadora benefiting from being married to a man who didn’t view her as an equal, but given my own situation with Claude I wasn’t in a position to advise others on their nuptial arrangements. Still, something inside me wanted to protect Isadora, and to do that I had to maintain Caroline’s confidence in me.
‘I would like to see Isadora happy in life. If I can contribute to setting her on the right course, it will be my pleasure,’ I said.
Caroline nodded, pleased with my answer. She picked up a knife to slice into the cake. ‘I don’t know if you remember this,’ she said. ‘We used to eat it on the plantation. It was Maman’s favourite.’
‘I don’t remember it, but I do remember you telling me about it. The sponge layers are light, but the filling is chopped pecans, raisins and coconut.’
Caroline smiled girlishly. ‘It’s silly what we keep from childhood, isn’t it? Our French chef can whip up the most fanciful cakes and yet I like this old southern one the best.’
We fell into a contented silence as we enjoyed the cake. The filling was sweet and the sponge was fragrant with banana and pineapple. If only Caroline and I could be like this more often, perhaps our relationship would improve.
I breathed deeply and drew up my courage. This was a better time to raise the matters that burdened my heart than when I was angry.
‘Caroline, why were you so reluctant to have anything to do with me and Grand-maman after you married? I would have so liked us to stay in regular contact. It hurt us both greatly that you didn’t.’
Caroline’s mouth twitched and she stared at her plate in silence for a full minute. It was as if she was trying to avoid answering me in the same way a young child thinks they become invisible by hiding their face behind their hands.
‘Caroline?’
‘Oh, Emma, you must know,’ she said, looking up at last. ‘You must have seen how much Grand-maman detested me. We could barely be in the same room.’
‘What? Grand-maman loved you very much!’
That there had been tension between Caroline and Grand-maman could not be denied, but it had sprung entirely from Caroline’s side. I couldn’t recall any incident that would lend truth to Grand-maman being unkind towards my sister.
‘Sweet Emma, of course you would think that. Grand-maman adored you. You were her angel who could do no wrong. But I reminded her of Maman. I was too strong-minded and had to have my own way.’
‘But she loved Maman too!’ I insisted. ‘After all, she took us into her home after our parents died.’
Caroline pursed her lips. ‘She most certainly did not love Maman! That’s why Maman ran away to New Orleans. And Grand-maman didn’t like my influence on you. It broke my heart the day I left you at the train station, but I knew how attached you were to her. I couldn’t come between the both of you.’
What Caroline was saying couldn’t be true. She
was twisting reality as she always did, trying to poison my mind against Grand-maman. Well, she wouldn’t succeed!
‘You could have come to see her when she was dying at least. Whether you got on perfectly or not, she did take us in when we were young.’
Caroline lifted her chin defiantly. ‘I was the last person Grand-maman would have wanted to see then. She would have wanted you there, Emma, and only you. I didn’t intend to intrude.’
I was about to protest again but a niggling doubt stopped me. Had my childish perspective back then allowed me to miss something obvious?
‘Were you so cold to me when I was a child because you were jealous?’ I asked her. ‘Did you truly believe Grand-maman preferred me to you?’
‘I was never jealous.’ Caroline paused for a moment, as if fighting tears. ‘And I was never cold to you, Emma. I sewed you clothes, I took you for walks, I encouraged your music and your little stories.’
I winced, wishing I’d never said anything. Now I was questioning if perhaps I’d been too self-righteous to perceive that I was partly to blame for our estrangement.
Caroline tugged a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her eyes although they were dry. ‘Can’t we put all that in the past, Emma? You’re here now. Let’s not speak of things we can’t change. Let’s begin again.’
Listening to her was like hearing the words of a fairground trickster: you knew you shouldn’t trust him, but you allowed yourself to be seduced anyway. I couldn’t imagine dismissing a past that had haunted me for so long. But the chance to build a bond with my sister was very tempting.
‘All right,’ I said, taking her hand. ‘We won’t speak of the past again. We’ll begin afresh.’
Caroline’s shoulders relaxed. She peered into my eyes and gave me one of her enigmatic smiles. ‘Yes, we shall begin afresh, Emma. You and I will be the sisters I always wished we could be.’
ELEVEN
Despite the new rapport I believed I’d built with Caroline, she didn’t take me out with her when she paid her afternoon calls, and showed no understanding that I might like to see something of New York. At first I assumed it was because she wanted me to keep an eye on Isadora when she wasn’t home. But on Monday evening Caroline, Oliver and Isadora went to the opera with Harland and Lucy, and I was left alone to have dinner in my room.
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