‘She is more than a mere journalist,’ said Aunt Theda, raising her eyebrows at Florence. ‘Cecilia is a muckraker! She doesn’t report how things appear on the surface; she investigates a topic thoroughly.’
Now I understood something of Cecilia’s intensity. ‘I remember reading about Nellie Bly, who had herself committed to a women’s lunatic asylum so she could write about the shocking conditions there,’ I told her. ‘She was incredibly brave. What are you working on at the moment?’
‘Nellie Bly is a heroine of mine,’ said Cecilia, looking impressed that I knew who she was. ‘I’m writing a piece for McClure’s Magazine about how foreign-born labour is exploited here in New York. Those workers, both men and women, are too scared to protest against the dangerous work, low wages and wretched housing they are subjected to. I want to expose the employers who are misusing them while they themselves live in luxury beyond all —’ She broke off as Nora arrived noisily with a tray of tea things.
Florence jumped up and helped the maid distribute the cups, then she opened a box on a side table and took out some tobacco and began rolling it. I rarely smoked — Grand-maman hadn’t considered it ladylike — but before I could refuse, Florence had handed me a cigarette and lit a match for me.
‘I was arrested once in London for smoking,’ said Aunt Theda, taking a slow drag of her cigarette and letting out a steady stream of smoke. ‘All the men were smoking in the café where I was sitting, but as soon as I lit a cigarette the proprietor called the police.’
The room became heady with the jasmine scent of the tobacco. There was something deliciously subversive about three women smoking together, I thought, especially as it was usually an activity men did together, out of the sight of women.
‘Men have smoking jackets,’ said Florence. ‘Someone should invent “smoking dresses” for women.’
‘Oh, spare us,’ said Cecilia, tapping her ash into a tray and taking a sip of tea. ‘Up on Fifth Avenue they’re already changing their clothes several times a day. No woman needs yet another outfit to contend with.’ She put down her cup and nodded in my direction. ‘Where are you staying in New York, Emma?’
‘West 57th Street, isn’t it?’ interrupted Florence. ‘Not far from where I’m having my exhibition.’
Now I was sure that Florence was protecting me against too many questions from Cecilia.
‘How is that all progressing?’ I asked. ‘Please do make sure you send me an invitation.’
‘I certainly will. I’ve also got the mural to paint and have several commissions for portraits, so things have taken off. Spending all that time in Paris has given me cachet.’
I glanced at the cat clock on the mantelpiece. The hour I had allotted for my visit had passed.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave,’ I said, rising. ‘My sister is extremely punctual about dinner.’
‘Please return as soon as you can, Emma,’ said Aunt Theda. ‘Next time we’ll put a gag on Florence so she doesn’t interrupt you each time you try to tell us something about yourself.’
I laughed as if it was a great joke and Florence joined in.
‘Here, let me show you to the front door,’ she said. Out in the hallway, she helped me with my coat and added in a lowered voice, ‘I’m sorry about all that. Cecilia is a very loyal friend, but terrible to have as an enemy.’
I thanked her and promised to return as soon as I could. As I stepped towards the waiting phaeton, I mulled over Florence’s warning. I couldn’t fathom any reason why I should make an enemy of Cecilia, but something in her manner and the fact she was a ‘muckraker’, as Aunt Theda had put it, convinced me Florence was right to be careful.
When Teddy and I arrived back at the house on Fifth Avenue, Woodford rushed out to meet us, his face pale and grave. He assisted me down from the carriage and opened the door to the house, but instead of coming inside after me, he returned to speak to Teddy. The chauffeur’s expression changed from perplexed to deeply troubled at whatever Woodford was telling him.
The lights in the great hall hadn’t been turned on and the atmosphere was sombre. There wasn’t a servant in sight until Jennie came down the staircase to take my coat.
‘Do you mind going to see Miss Hopper straight away?’ she whispered. ‘She is distressed and has been asking after you.’
All the victory I had felt in my dash for independence drained away. I’d assumed Isadora would be happy working on her own on the sculpture, yet maybe I had upset her by disappearing without telling her where I was going. But when I entered her room and found her sitting by the window, gazing wanly out at the street, I realised her misery had nothing to do with me.
‘Oh, Aunt Emma,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m so glad you are back. Mother and Father have been shouting at each other fiercely. Now Father has retired to his room, and I’ve been told by Woodford that you and I are to eat dinner in our rooms.’
‘What were they arguing about?’ I asked.
‘Something to do with Father and his motor car. But really they have a serious row every few weeks. It’s been like that ever since Mother began planning this house.’
I recalled the ill temper Oliver had displayed during my first dinner in New York; it must have been a disappointment for Caroline that she had married a cantankerous man when he had appeared quite an amicable person in Paris. After all, it was Oliver who had promised her then that she could have anything she wanted.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told Isadora, ‘I’m sure it will pass. Why don’t I eat dinner with you here and you can tell me how your sculpture is progressing? Mr Gadley is delighted with you. He couldn’t praise your talent highly enough.’
My mention of Mr Gadley calmed her. Her shoulders relaxed and she let out a breath. ‘Until you came, Aunt Emma, Mr Gadley was one of the few people I could have a conversation with. I always feel better when he talks about art and all the great masters.’
‘Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?’ I asked.
She was about to say something but thought better of it. ‘No, it will be too cold down there now.’
‘Where?’
‘I left my art notebook in the studio. I don’t want to run into Mother when she’s in a temper. She’s likely to take it out on me and ban Mr Gadley from coming. Do you think you could get it for me? If I read over it tonight before bed I am sure it will settle me.’
‘Of course. I’ll fetch it now, and bring it with me when I dine with you tonight.’
The way to Isadora’s studio was along a stone hallway and past the kitchen, laundry room and servants’ dining room. I hurried, hoping nobody would notice me, and was relieved to find that the door to the courtyard was still unlocked.
I opened the door to the studio and searched for the light cord with fumbling fingers. During the day the studio was a welcoming place, flooded with light from the sky dome and tall windows. Now it was bone-chillingly cold and the only illumination came from a lamp shining in the courtyard, causing the statues to cast foreboding shadows.
As the interior light came on, I saw the clay model of my head on a pedestal in the centre of the room, covered with a white gauze cloth tied with a dark ribbon around the neck. I shivered and thought of Marie Antoinette ascending the scaffold to the guillotine, a white cap on her head and her hands tied behind her back.
I quickly searched for Isadora’s notebook and found it on the pedestal behind the clay model. I grabbed it, as if afraid the model might come to life and start talking to me. In my haste, the notebook slipped from my fingers and landed on the floor with the middle pages open. Large loopy writing filled every line.
A paragraph jumped out at me: I am weak, foolish and stupid! I know it and Mother knows it too. I am only pretty in a very average way and not in the least bit entertaining. Last night at dinner nobody paid me any attention when I tried to tell them about . . .
I had a strong belief that it was immoral to read someone’s private diary without their permission, so stopped immediately and sh
ut the notebook. But as I did I noticed the date of the entry: 12 May 1899. It seemed that Isadora being ignored was nothing new.
I held the notebook to my heart and sensed my niece’s loneliness. It pained me that she was so full of self-loathing. She needed a friend, a steady hand to guide her. Once again I was determined to be that person for her.
I was returning across the courtyard when I heard the clang of metal coming from the carriage house. The door was open and I caught a glimpse of a motor car. Curious, I stepped closer.
Teddy, no longer wearing his livery but a pair of grey overalls, was examining the front wheel of the car. He pushed back his hair and ran his hand over his face, clearly distressed. Had he been reprimanded for taking me out without Caroline’s permission?
He picked up a rag and dipped it into a bucket of water, then hesitated before wiping it over the wheel’s spokes and rim. After a few moments, he threw the rag to the floor and vomited into the bucket. I shuddered when I saw the rag. It was covered in blood and what looked like shreds of black hair.
I ran back into the house and hurried down the hallway, my heart beating furiously. Had I imagined what I had seen on the rag? Had my fancy about Marie Antoinette created a hallucination?
Woodford stepped out of the kitchen and I nearly knocked him over in my hurry.
‘Miss Lacasse, are you all right?’ he asked, gazing over my shoulder as if trying to ascertain where I’d come from. ‘You are terribly pale.’
I was too overwrought to play games. ‘Has something happened?’ I asked him. ‘Did Mr Hopper have an accident?’
‘I am afraid so, Miss Lacasse,’ he said, with a deep sigh. ‘A dog ran out in front of his motor car this afternoon. It came from nowhere and there was no chance for Mr Hopper to avoid hitting it. Unfortunately the dog’s spine was broken and a policeman had to come and shoot it.’
‘Oh,’ I said, lifting my hand to my mouth. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Indeed it is.’ He guided me in the direction of the great hall. ‘Mr Hopper is very fond of animals and I’m afraid the incident has upset him greatly.’ When we reached the staircase, he stared into my eyes in a way that might be considered impertinent. ‘Because of the distressing nature of the incident, it would be best if you didn’t mention it to him. Or anyone else.’
‘No, I won’t,’ I said.
He bowed slightly. ‘Mrs Hopper has requested dinner in her room. I believe that you are to dine with Miss Hopper in her room?’
I nodded.
He reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. ‘In the confusion of this afternoon I forgot to give you your mail,’ he said, handing it to me.
I climbed the staircase with trembling legs. I would need a few moments to compose myself before I went to see Isadora. What an unsettling day it had been.
I closed the door to my room, took off my hat and shoes and sat by the fire, then glanced at the envelope Woodford had given me. My heart lifted when I recognised Claude’s handwriting.
I unfolded the letter, smiling as I read about his progress with his paintings for his exhibition and the antics of our Montmartre friends. For a moment, I could forget the tension in this house and the poor creature that had met its end under the wheels of Oliver’s car.
Well, my lovely Emma, I’ll end my letter here. I miss you every day and look forward to your return to Paris.
All my love,
Your Claude
PS. I enclose a letter from your publisher. It is late, I’m afraid. It slipped between the counter and the wall at the café and Jean-François only discovered it yesterday when he was retrieving a coin that had fallen into the same gap.
The way he had signed off with ‘Your Claude’ warmed my heart. It made me think about Isadora asking why I had never married. Perhaps my answer had been more honest than I’d realised: because there hadn’t been any need to do so.
I opened the envelope from Monsieur Plamondon.
Dear Mademoiselle Lacasse,
It is my great pleasure to inform you that the translation rights for three of your short stories from Histoires de fantômes have been sold to New York City Magazine.
The stories will be published over three successive months, with accompanying illustrations, starting with the special Halloween edition published on 31 October. Although the payment for the stories is not large, this is a prestigious magazine with an expansive readership among New York society and intellectuals alike. As the magazine usually only publishes the most illustrious British and American writers, it is a great achievement for a French writer to be included. Hopefully this will allow me to sell the translation rights for A Tale of a Lonely House to an American publisher on favourable terms . . .
I took a deep breath. Monsieur Plamondon had encouraged me to become better with each piece I wrote and that advice had paid off. New York City Magazine!
I turned to my writing journal on the desk next to the picture of Grand-maman I had brought with me from Paris. I promised myself that I would rise early the following morning to work, and would do so every morning before breakfast no matter what took place the night before. Isadora was a committed artist, and I had to return to being one too.
TWELVE
Isadora greeted me cheerfully at breakfast the following morning, but I ached at knowing the inner revulsion she harboured. Ambra loomed in my mind again: the world could be harsh on gentle souls. Whatever Caroline deemed my role should be in preparing her daughter for adulthood and a place in society, I was determined to help Isadora value her unique qualities. Thinking well of herself, appreciating her resourcefulness and intelligence, would hold Isadora in good stead no matter what life threw at her.
Mrs Green, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway. She had always given me the impression of being a frosty woman with her hollow cheeks and thin lips, but this morning her manner was decidedly grim as she said, ‘Mrs Hopper has requested your presence in the morning room, Miss Lacasse.’
I was halfway through eating a slice of toast and presumed I would at least be allowed to finish my breakfast, but Mrs Green continued staring at me. I swallowed and stood up sheepishly.
My eyes met Isadora’s and I saw concern flash across her face. This time she didn’t make a joke about me being ‘summoned’. Although I did my best to hold my head up high and remember I was an adult, I scurried after Mrs Green like a naughty schoolgirl on her way to the headmistress’s office.
The morning room was on the east side of the house, across the great hall and next to the ladies’ reception room. When Mrs Green opened the door and announced me, it was as if I had been granted an audience with a queen. The room was filled with sunlight that illuminated the white and gold-leaf walls, gilded furniture, and the baroque-style ceiling depicting angels in flight.
Caroline was seated at a marble-top desk with bronze eagles mounted on each corner. Rather than displaying her usual commanding bearing, she sat slumped as if she was utterly exhausted. ‘Thank you, Mrs Green,’ she said. ‘That will be all.’
Mrs Green closed the door behind her, and Caroline indicated for me to take the chair opposite her desk. She studied me a moment before handing me a newspaper. ‘We have a problem. Please read the article I’ve circled.’
The newspaper was essentially a gossip sheet titled Town Topics: The Journal of Society that listed engagements, weddings, balls, dances, receptions, teas and at homes.
At last the identity of the mysterious lady who arrived by ship from Paris last week and stepped straight from the second-class gangway into the carriage of a notable Fifth Avenue family has been discovered. She is not a governess or a lady’s maid as first supposed, but an authoress of mysterious tales and a harpist. Perhaps the lady in whose house she is a guest is interested in writing her memoirs? We would not put such vanity beyond her; she is known for seeking attention with her monstrously large abodes. Or perhaps the daughter of the house needs some brushing up on her music lessons? In fact, my dear readers, the truth is far mor
e intriguing than that! This pretty young bohemian is the sister of the lady of the house! One can only wonder what other intriguing family secrets the lady in question is hiding.
I winced at the article’s nasty tone, vexed that my profession and harp-playing were treated as something disgraceful, as if I were a grave-robber or a murderess rather than a respected writer. My first thought was that Florence’s friend Cecilia had become suspicious and made enquiries about me. But she seemed far above writing for a scandal sheet like this one, and I knew Florence wouldn’t have said anything to her.
Caroline appeared so upset by the article that I was compelled to apologise. ‘I’m so sorry. And things may get worse as I’m about to be published in New York City Magazine. I only found out last night.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Caroline in a weary tone that implied this was only one of many problems she was addressing that morning. ‘That gossip could have come from anywhere — someone on the ship; even one of our own servants. That is why I emphasised you must not speak to anyone without my permission; and why I have been hesitant to take you out into society. I wanted to wait until you were more familiar with how things are here. The editor of that piece of garbage is Colonel William d’Alton Mann, a Civil War hero. He presides at a table at Delmonico’s and claims to be on a mission from God to expose the secrets and peccadilloes of New York’s millionaires. In reality he’s nothing more than a crook.’
‘At least he doesn’t mention anyone by name,’ I said, trying to sound encouraging.
Caroline shook her head. ‘Look at the article below.’
I turned back to the newspaper and saw an illustration of Caroline and Oliver participating in a motor car parade on Fifth Avenue. Oliver was at the wheel of the Daimler I had seen the previous night, with Caroline next to him in the passenger seat. Street vendors, office workers and mothers with small children were fleeing in all directions with expressions of terror on their faces. The caption read: Pedestrians used to rule the streets of New York. Now Mr and Mrs Oliver Hopper do: New York’s wealthiest abandon their horses for automobiles.
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