The following morning, as Isadora set about modelling my face and shoulders in clay, she complained, ‘I can’t understand why we go to the opera on Monday night. Nobody is there for the music, just to see and be seen. Last night we arrived during the second act and left before the opera was over. It’s quite ridiculous. It was much better when I used to go with my governess on Saturday afternoons.’
Was Caroline hiding me like some sort of shameful secret, I wondered. Was being an authoress really so déclassée in her social circle? Harland made his living as an architect but seemed to be accepted into New York society.
I wanted to ask Isadora about her mother’s attitude towards me, but each time I went to open my mouth it was as if an invisible hand clamped itself over my lips. Caroline and I had made peace, but given my sister’s volatile nature that could change in an instant. If she thought I was putting unfavourable ideas about her into Isadora’s head, I would be on the ship back to Paris the next day. Besides, I was no longer confident my view of Caroline was entirely accurate. She had, after all, been clear that introductions in New York had to be done properly. Perhaps she was waiting for the right moment before presenting me to her circle.
I forgot my vexation when Isadora prepared to sculpt me. I had expected Mr Gadley would be here to supervise, but he was only coming later to check on Isadora’s progress.
First she took detailed measurements of my facial features with a caliper.
‘You have a beautifully shaped head,’ she said, writing down the measurements in a notebook. ‘But the most important part of this work is that I capture your essence. So please relax and let whatever thoughts go through your mind show on your face. This isn’t like posing for a painting. You don’t have to sit absolutely still or hold the same expression for hours.’
When Isadora laid out her knives and modelling tools on a piece of cloth, I flinched as if she was about to perform surgery on me.
Sensing my discomfort, she smiled and said, ‘Aunt Emma, I promise you that this won’t hurt at all.’
She kneaded the clay and rolled it out into a slab. ‘I love the sensation of soft sticky clay under my fingers. Our hands are such beautiful instruments. You must feel that way when you play the harp.’
I watched with fascination as she rolled the slab into a cylinder and marked out the placement of my facial features with a knife. Could that primitive thing ever resemble me? But when she pressed in the eye sockets and formed the nose, I averted my gaze. It was as if the clay was coming to life.
‘It must be wonderful to be a writer,’ she said, looking from me to the clay model and indenting a jawline. ‘I read your collection of short stories five times, and each time I marvelled at your imagination. Surely you must live within the worlds you create?’
‘To a degree,’ I said. ‘I’m always careful what I write in first person. I find those stories can often escape from the fictional realm into real life.’
‘Really?’ Isadora’s eyes were wide with interest. ‘Do you write every day? I sculpt or sketch every day. I can’t bear to go for long without engaging with my work.’
Guilt pinched me. I was usually an obsessive writer, always needing to record things I’d seen — like Isadora and her notebooks. I wrote down observations about the ways people walked, the feel of a dog’s fur under my fingertips, the quality of a particular person’s voice, and then enlivened those descriptions with emotions, and further enriched them with colours and sounds. But after a few days in New York, my senses had deadened and my imagination felt frozen. The writing journal Claude had given me sat untouched on the same desk where Marie Antoinette had supposedly penned her letters. Was it because I found my new circumstances overwhelming? Or had I taken on the shame Caroline had expressed at my profession?
‘How is it that you never married?’ Isadora asked me after a while.
She turned from the clay figure to me, waiting for an answer, but I was wary of sharing my burdens with someone younger and even more sensitive than myself. Was all hope of marriage gone? It was true I was approaching an age when women were relegated to spinsterhood. I loved Claude, and had been raised to believe that if you loved someone, you married them — but he provoked such anguish in me over the issue.
‘There wasn’t any need,’ I said.
They were Claude’s words, not my own, but I noticed how Isadora’s face lit with curiosity and stopped myself explaining further. Caroline had warned me not to put any ideas in Isadora’s head about being independent or living from her art. Besides, my niece had been brought up with every privilege anyone could want. I couldn’t imagine her shivering in some studio in Montmartre, or wondering where her next meal was coming from.
‘Mother wants to put me on the marriage market after Christmas,’ Isadora said. ‘But with all the building going on in New York I am sure I could make a living from sculptural commissions. Harland could help me obtain them.’
Isadora’s secret desire was dangerous ground and I was relieved when Mr Gadley strode in the door. ‘Be careful not to work too quickly,’ he warned her, ‘or the model could collapse. Let’s wait for the clay to stiffen slightly.’
‘I’ll ask Woodford to organise some sandwiches for us,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’
While Isadora was gone I questioned Mr Gadley if it would be possible for a young woman to make a reasonable living as a sculptor in New York. His eyes opened wide and his manner became lively, as if he was thrilled that someone in the family was taking an interest in Isadora’s art.
‘For someone of Miss Hopper’s immense talent it certainly would be! But she needs to study and perfect her art in Europe. The real masters are there. After that, the world would be her oyster. I can see it all — the exhibitions, the commissions, the fame.’
Mr Gadley regarded me hopefully, as if I might be able to persuade Caroline to take her daughter’s talent seriously. But I doubted I could be any influence at all. Caroline was determined to marry Isadora off next year.
After we’d eaten our Swiss cheese sandwiches, the work on the clay model continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening. Mr Gadley and Isadora spent as much time perfecting my ears as they had the hare’s, then they sculpted my eyes and lips. Isadora’s graceful hands moved over the model, shaping the cheekbones and adding clay to fill out the features. The resemblance between it and me was unsettling. As she touched the model and smoothed the browline, I twitched as though she was caressing my skin.
She worked at the features with her wire tools and brushes as a painter does. Then she and Mr Gadley created the hair, and Isadora rubbed over the surface with a sponge to even it out.
‘I’ll make some more refinements over the next few days. I’m quite enjoying observing you, Aunt Emma.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Mr Gadley, admiring the model from all angles. Turning to me he added, ‘Most of my students could only create an impressionistic model in the amount of time it takes Miss Hopper to produce a fairly detailed one.’
A flush crept across Isadora’s cheeks. ‘Well, Mr Gadley, I did have you to help me,’ she told him.
When I looked at the model it was as if I was staring at my reflection in the mirror. Far from being impressionistic, it was hard to believe Isadora had rendered me accurately in clay so swiftly. My eyes and mouth were serene, but my brow was slightly furrowed.
Dearest Claude,
Although my niece, Isadora, is excellent company I feel like a prisoner in this house . . .
I put down my pen, reread the words I had written, and screwed up the piece of paper. If I was a prisoner it was my own fault. What was to stop me from going out and exploring New York? Why did I have to wait for Caroline’s permission before I could do anything?
Now that Isadora had completed the clay model of me she was busy in her studio, preparing to carve it in marble. She no longer required me to sit for her, and given her passion for her art, she would be content on her own for hours. I searched my purse
and found the card Florence had given me when we parted ways at the dock. I would pay a call on her at her aunt’s house.
I picked up my hat and gloves and went downstairs. Woodford was in the great hall supervising two maids who were dusting the jardinières. When they finished each object he ran his white-gloved hand over its surface to test they hadn’t missed anything. He bowed when he saw me and the two maids curtsied.
‘I’d like my coat, please,’ I told him.
‘Are you going out, Miss Lacasse? Perhaps for a walk in the park? I will arrange for Jennie to accompany you.’
The confidence I had summoned a few moments before wavered under his penetrating gaze, but I was determined to have my way. ‘No, thank you, Woodford. I’m going to pay a call on a friend.’
His face remained composed, but he rolled back and forth on his feet. I had the impression he was searching for some excuse why I couldn’t go.
‘I was not aware of your need for a carriage, Miss Lacasse,’ he said, his voice all politeness but with an edge to it. ‘Would you like to take some tea in the drawing room while I speak to the coachman about what is available? I’m afraid that Mr Hopper is driving the Daimler today, and Mrs Hopper has taken the landau to pay her calls. Her Grace, the Duchess of Dorset, has been given the use of the barouche while her own brougham is being repaired. But perhaps there is a horse and phaeton available for you. Will you allow me a moment to check?’
Getting out of the house was becoming so difficult that I was tempted to give up on the idea. Perhaps that was the effect Woodford was hoping for.
‘Truly, I don’t wish to be any trouble,’ I told him, maintaining an air of ease that I no longer felt. I gestured towards the wide glass panels on either side of the front door. ‘I can see a hansom cab waiting by the park there. Perhaps you could ask the driver if he will take me?’
I was proud of myself for sticking to my purpose, and a hansom cab was surely a reasonable compromise. I hated to think what Woodford might say if I told him I had intended to walk, or to take the elevated train if it went in the direction of Gramercy Park.
‘Oh no,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘A hansom cab isn’t a vehicle for a lady, Miss Lacasse. I will speak to the coachman immediately and find out what can be arranged for you.’
I waited almost an hour before Woodford appeared in the drawing room with my coat.
‘The driver, Mackinnon, is awaiting you,’ he said. ‘I apologise for the delay. As the phaeton wasn’t expected to be used today it hadn’t been cleaned properly.’
He was doing his charming best to let me know that I had put him and the coachman to some trouble. I doubted he would have treated Lucy the same way.
‘Thank you, Woodford,’ I said as I stepped out the front door and into the open air for the first time since I arrived. My legs trembled as I walked towards the elegantly curved phaeton with its driver in his formal livery and the two white ponies standing to attention. I was like a prisoner who had made an escape, checking over my shoulder and hoping no one would catch me.
The driver stepped down to help me up into the seat, then got in beside me and took the reins. ‘So we’re heading to Gramercy Park, Miss Lacasse,’ he said, reading the card I gave him. ‘I’m Ted Mackinnon, but everyone calls me Teddy.’ He was young and clean-shaven like the footmen, but seemed more earnest in his manner.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve put you to any trouble,’ I told him.
‘Oh, no trouble at all, Miss Lacasse. I was free today, and it’s been a while since I’ve taken out one of the horse carriages. I’m Mr Hopper’s chauffeur, but he wanted to drive the Daimler himself today. He’s quite the motor car enthusiast.’
‘Horseless carriages do seem popular here,’ I said, nodding in the direction of a man driving a carriage with a steering wheel and no horses, which looked very strange. ‘I’ve seen quite a few of them in France too.’
‘Oh, those things,’ said Teddy with a laugh. ‘I call them park benches on wheels because that’s what they feel like to drive. Mrs Hopper has a small electric car that is not much faster but Mr Hopper’s Daimler is a real automobile. It runs on gasoline and has a four-cylinder engine with an output of six horsepower at seven hundred revolutions per minute.’
‘That sounds impressive,’ I said, although it was all Latin to me.
‘He’s ordered a new car that will be even faster and more powerful — a racing model.’ His voice rose with excitement, then he smiled sheepishly. ‘Mr Hopper is something of a speedster — that’s why he gets me to drive him around the city. But Mrs Hopper wrote in the daybook this morning that the master would be taking the motor car out himself. I must say it was a little out of character. On fine days like this, Mr Hopper often likes to stroll to his office so he can see the developments that are going on in the city.’
We lapsed into a comfortable silence as we made our way down Fifth Avenue and past the rows of brownstones I’d seen when I’d first arrived.
‘Is this your first time in New York?’ Teddy asked me after a while.
‘Yes, indeed it is.’
‘Well, I’m going to make a slight detour for you.’
He turned off Fifth Avenue into a street congested with carriages of every description, from hansom cabs to broughams and coupés. Then we turned onto Sixth Avenue, where the pavements were crowded with smartly dressed women. Some were carrying packages, while others had stopped to admire the enticing window displays of the numerous stores that lined the avenue. Every item attractive to women seemed to be available, from fabrics to home furnishings, from jewellery to pet accessories.
‘This area is known as the Ladies’ Mile,’ Teddy explained, and indicated a gigantic Beaux-Arts building of glass and cast iron with a tall central tower and grand marble entrance. ‘That’s the Siegel-Cooper department store — the largest in the world. When it opened three years ago it was absolute mayhem. The glass front doors were shattered in the crush, and women had their dresses torn and their hats ripped off.’
‘Women like their shopping,’ I said, gazing at the building in awe and imagining all the gorgeous treasures inside. It was the biggest store I had ever seen, occupying an entire block. It eclipsed Le Bon Marché in Paris.
‘They sure do,’ agreed Teddy. ‘In fact, this is a place a lady such as yourself can come without an escort. It would be quite proper. Just ask Woodford to speak to the coachman, and one of us will drive you here and wait to collect your packages. But you’ll need to set aside an entire afternoon, and even then you won’t have covered half the store. It has fifteen and a half acres of selling space.’
I smiled gratefully at his suggestion. If only leaving the house was that simple!
Florence’s aunt’s house was one of a row that overlooked a gated private park. It was a brownstone in Italianate style, with a high stoop and cast-iron handrails leading to a recessed doorway and double-leaf wooden doors. I turned the ringer and a maid in a white apron and cap answered. I told her I was calling on Florence and she led me down a walnut-panelled hall to a parlour at the rear of the house.
‘Emma!’ cried Florence when she saw me. ‘How splendid of you to come!’
‘I’m sorry to intrude on you — and your companions,’ I said, smiling in the direction of the two women sitting on a crimson sofa who were regarding me with curiosity. ‘But this was my first opportunity to visit.’
‘You are not intruding at all,’ said the older of the two women, giving a throaty laugh. She had a plump face, ample bust and unnaturally bright red hair for a middle-aged woman. ‘This house doesn’t run on formality. Never has, and never will.’
Her comment amused me because the parlour’s decor was highly formal. The windows were hung with lace curtains and velvet over-curtains that looped to a golden border, a heavy crimson Axminster rug covered the floor and the furniture was all rosewood. But the conservative décor highlighted the humorous painting of kittens raiding an elegantly set tea table that hung above the fireplace, and the
row of porcelain cat ornaments lined up on the mantelpiece below it.
‘Emma, this is my aunt, Mrs Theda Husing,’ said Florence, ‘who will no doubt insist that you call her Aunt Theda.’ Then she indicated the younger woman, who wore a neat pinstriped dress with a small cameo brooch at her neck as her only embellishment. Her ash-blonde hair was parted in the middle and pinned in a knot on top of her head. ‘And this is my good friend Miss Cecilia West.’
‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ Cecilia said, standing. She was no more than five feet tall and bony, but her handshake was firm and confident. Her body seemed filled with a latent energy, as if she were a coiled wire that could spring at any moment.
‘Won’t you please sit down, Emma,’ Aunt Theda said, indicating an armchair. She reached to a cord next to her and pulled it. ‘I’ll ask Nora to bring us some tea.’
I sat and stroked Minette, who was asleep by the chair, curled up on an embroidered cushion. ‘I’ve missed her company,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ said Cecilia, casting her eyes over me as if she was trying to sum me up. ‘You’re the friend who travelled with Florence from Paris, aren’t you? The writer? Your stories are a great success in France, I believe.’
Her manner was friendly but her scrutinising gaze had me squirming in my seat. ‘Hardly a great success. But I am starting to obtain some recognition.’
‘Cecilia is a writer too. A journalist,’ said Florence, so quickly that I got the impression she was trying to warn me in some way. ‘We are working together on an essay competition for schoolchildren. The topic is why it’s important to be kind to animals.’
The Invitation Page 12