The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘It’s a ploy of Mann’s,’ explained Caroline, ‘to avoid being sued for defamation. He doesn’t give any names in his scandal articles, but places a seemingly innocuous social note under each one so everyone can be clear who he’s talking about. He’s tried to blackmail us before by saying he wouldn’t print a certain article if Oliver bought advertising or stocks in the news-sheet. Oliver refused, but most of the millionaires in New York give in to him.’

  Before Caroline could say any more, an excited female voice burst from the great hall. The next moment Woodford showed Lucy into the room.

  ‘Caroline!’ she cried, stretching out her arms to embrace my sister. ‘I came as soon as I read the article. How terrible for you, my dear! And what unfortunate timing for Isadora’s debut. You were being so cautious!’

  She turned to me and grimaced in a way that made me feel instantly guilty for being the subject of the article.

  Lucy pulled a chair for herself closer to Caroline and took both her hands in hers. ‘On my way over I racked my brain for what we can do to solve this. Of course we can’t pay off the Colonel because then he’ll fill that rag of his with flattering accounts of you and everyone will know you’ve bought him off, which will only make the whole thing worse.’

  ‘That’s what I think too,’ said Caroline.

  Both women turned to look at me then and I shrank back into my chair. I seemed to have opponents coming at me from every direction. Colonel Mann sounded like a truly awful person; and I couldn’t forget Florence’s warning that Cecilia West could be a formidable enemy. At that moment, I would have willingly boarded the first ship back to France if it didn’t mean being in debt again to Roche & Associates.

  ‘Emma is to have a short story published in New York City Magazine,’ Caroline informed Lucy. ‘So there is no hiding who she is now.’

  ‘New York City Magazine?’ Lucy blinked. ‘The impression you gave me is that she writes penny dreadfuls and dime novels. New York City Magazine is quite a different thing altogether!’

  I was too affronted to reply. Penny dreadfuls and dime novels? Why was Caroline always either demeaning me or greatly exaggerating my accomplishments? I went up and down in her esteem like a volatile stock on the New York Exchange.

  Lucy glanced from me to Caroline as something ticked over in her mind. She released one of Caroline’s hands and, to my surprise, took mine so we were sitting like three girls about to play ring-a-ring-o’roses.

  ‘Emma being an authoress is the cause of this problem,’ she said. ‘And Emma being an authoress is its solution.’ She closed her eyes as if savouring her own genius.

  Caroline and I stared at her.

  She opened her eyes again and cleared her throat. ‘I have the perfect plan. Everyone will be curious about Emma now. Why has no one ever heard of this mysterious sister? Why were you separated? Who is Mademoiselle Emma Lacasse exactly and why is she here now?’

  Caroline was enthralled by Lucy’s theatrical manner. ‘What shall we do?’ she asked.

  Lucy released our hands and sat back in her chair, a self-satisfied smile on her face. ‘We will host a very exclusive luncheon for some of the best-connected ladies in New York. No more than five of them. We will dress Emma in Doucet and she will give a harp recital. Each guest will receive a copy of New York City Magazine signed by Emma, along with a specially designed pearl bracelet with a single gold harp charm inscribed with the date of the luncheon. They will feel like members of a privileged club.’

  Caroline came to life at Lucy’s idea. The vitality returned to her countenance and she laughed out loud with delight. ‘Lucy, that’s brilliant! The others will be kicking themselves that they weren’t invited!’

  They giggled like two schoolgirls as they hatched their plans. The more excited they became, the more uncomfortable I grew. Rather than being introduced into New York society with dignity as Caroline’s sister, I suspected I was about to be launched as some sort of curiosity from the Continent.

  ‘We will get Maria de Amaragi to write the invitations. Her delicate calligraphic work will add prestige to the occasion,’ said Caroline, writing notes for herself on a sheet of paper. ‘And we should invite Grace Hunter. She always adds sophistication to an event.’

  ‘Oh yes, Grace for sure,’ agreed Lucy.

  I excused myself to return to Isadora and my breakfast, but they were so involved in their plans they barely noticed me get up to leave.

  As I shut the door behind me, I heard Lucy say to Caroline, ‘You know, all this time we’ve been thinking of your sister as a liability when in fact it might be Emma who gets you entrée into old New York society.’

  When I told Isadora what had taken place, her face filled with dismay. ‘Oh, you are a lamb about to be thrown to a pack of wolves.’

  I cringed at the image.

  Isadora took my hand and squeezed it. ‘You must be bold. You must remain utterly yourself no matter what Mother and Lucy tell you.’

  I looked at my niece in amazement. I was supposed to be encouraging her, but it seemed she was encouraging me.

  On the day of the luncheon and recital, Jennie helped me dress. When she left the room, I stared in the mirror, unable to believe my transformation. The dress Lucy had obtained for me was beautiful. The fitted bodice was red velvet with puffed shoulders and tailored sleeves. The skirt was red and gold brocade.

  I touched the seven-strand pearl choker around my neck with its ruby centrepiece. It was dazzling, and I guessed more expensive than anything I could have dreamed of wearing. Woodford had brought it up from the strongroom along with an emerald-cut ruby and diamond ring.

  ‘Wear that on your right hand,’ Lucy had instructed me when we’d surveyed Caroline’s impressive array of jewellery in the strongroom the previous day. ‘When you play the harp nobody will miss it.’

  Everything I wore, from the dress to the jewellery to the silk shoes embroidered with rosebuds, made me feel different: elevated somehow. I had always liked to dress well, but had never imagined such a sumptuous outfit could make me see myself so differently.

  There was a knock at the door. Isadora stepped in, a vision of loveliness in a violet silk foulard dress with a lace yoke and high neck.

  ‘Do you mind if we go downstairs together?’ she asked. ‘I don’t much enjoy these social functions.’

  ‘Of course. Truth be told, I’m feeling quite apprehensive myself.’

  ‘At first I was worried for you,’ she said. ‘But you are so interesting, and all those women are so bored, and that will be your great advantage. You will be a novelty to them in their otherwise monotonous rounds of social functions. Harland’s wife, Grace, is different. She’s exquisite. And of course Lucy will be there to make sure everything runs smoothly.’

  Harland had a wife? I was surprised: he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would be married. As for Lucy, there was something about her that I couldn’t put my finger on. How had she grown so close to my sister that Caroline was willing to trust her completely?

  ‘Who is the Duchess of Dorset exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah,’ said Isadora, with a nod of her head, ‘you might have noticed that she is the only person Mother takes advice from? The Duchess is in fact Lucy Dyer-Ripley, born right here in New York. Her father was James Dyer-Ripley, the extremely successful speculator; and her mother was a beautiful theatre actress before she married. Despite their wealth, the family wasn’t welcomed by the old elite — until Lucy Dyer-Ripley married the titled heir to a prestigious but impoverished English estate. Now she is welcomed everywhere. Even Augusta Van der Heyden invites her to her exclusive dinners and balls.’

  ‘Who is Augusta Van der Heyden?’ I asked. ‘Your mother has mentioned that family name before.’

  As we reached the grand staircase, we heard excited voices pouring from the ladies’ reception room. Isadora grabbed my arm as if to steel herself.

  ‘Augusta Van der Heyden is Mother’s arch-enemy,’ she said in a low voice. ‘
She is a descendant of an old Knickerbocker family, one of the original Dutch inhabitants of New York, and views herself as the gatekeeper to what she calls “The Great American Aristocracy”. A cut or snub from her is enough to keep you out of that exclusive club. Of course there is no real aristocracy in the United States, which is why people are so enamoured of European titles. I told you they are all extremely bored.’

  For someone who had been brought up in such a sheltered environment, Isadora showed remarkable astuteness.

  ‘If Augusta Van der Heyden has accepted Lucy, why not your mother?’ I asked. ‘Caroline is hardly a barbarian. Your grandparents came from respectable French families, and owned one of the finest plantations in Louisiana before the Civil War.’

  Isadora shrugged. ‘She senses Mother’s ambition. Most of the newly rich fawn over Augusta and are grateful simply to sit next to her. But Mother wants more than that. She wants to be the queen who presides over everyone else. Augusta won’t allow herself to be displaced as the arbiter of New York society, so she does all she can to keep Mother out all together.’

  We had to stop our conversation as we had reached the bottom of the staircase and Lucy had slipped out of the reception room to meet us. She looked every part the elegant English duchess in a dress of lightweight blue wool with a black satin collar and insert in the square neckline.

  ‘Everyone is here,’ she said. ‘They are very excited to meet you, Emma. Did you memorise the list I gave you?’

  I nodded although her condescension nettled me. I had memorised eight pieces by Chopin, Bach, Handel and Mozart for the afternoon’s recital; it had hardly been an onerous task to learn the names of five ladies, what their husbands did, and one or two facts about them.

  Woodford opened the door to the reception room and there was a flutter of excitement as Lucy swept inside, followed by me and Isadora.

  Caroline, wearing a teal dress with gold passementerie trimming on the front and sleeve cuffs, flashed me a smile that conveyed she was delighted at my transformation. Suddenly the ridiculousness I felt at allowing myself to be pulled into this farce left me.

  ‘Ladies,’ Lucy announced, ‘may I present to you Mademoiselle Lacasse, who will personally sign your copies of New York City Magazine before we proceed to luncheon.’

  She directed me to a bureau plat with a vase of sweet-scented lilacs on it. Caroline brought each guest to the table one at a time to have their magazine signed. I was glad now that Lucy had given me that list as it was difficult to distinguish one expensively dressed matron from another. But these women were somehow important to Caroline and I didn’t want to let her down.

  First came Bessie Graham, the wife of an oil magnate; followed by Charlotte Harper, who came from a family of successful oilcloth and linoleum manufacturers. Helen Potter’s husband was a banker; and Elsie Bishop’s family ran a meatpacking business. Each woman was already wearing the pearl bracelet with the harp charm that they’d been given with the magazine. How eager they were to feel they were part of something special.

  The last woman to have her magazine signed was Grace Hunter, Harland’s wife. She was willowy and raven-haired with almond-shaped brown eyes, skin the colour of fresh cream, and a small rosy mouth with a perfect cupid’s bow. Dressed in a fitted black bodice with a gold skirt decorated in appliquéd hyacinths, she stood out among the rest of the women. I should have known Harland would have a stunning wife; but unlike him, she was softly spoken and polite.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ she said. ‘But I must confess, I have been reading your stories for some time. A French friend sends them to me. I love a good supernatural or fantasy tale, but your stories are more than that. Many of them are poignant as well.’

  ‘I hope you will tell me what you think of the English translation,’ I replied. ‘Sometimes nuances are lost, and sometimes heightened, when translating from one language to another.’

  ‘Your stories are so good I am sure they will be wonderful whatever language they are translated into.’

  Grace was charming and elegant, and it was impossible to imagine her being married to someone as loud and crass as Harland. But before we could speak further, Woodford announced luncheon was served.

  In the salon, a table had been set up with a jacquard tablecloth and a centrepiece of crimson and pink roses. The service was à la française, so all the food was on display at once. My gaze drifted over the platters of devilled crabs, whitebait, clams, beef, vegetable fritters, artichokes and salad in jelly and I wondered if a small group of women could really consume so much food.

  During the meal, I remembered to adhere to Lucy’s instructions about smiling graciously and saying little. But when these wealthy women kept sneaking intrigued glances in my direction I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. I had never been the centre of attention in my life, and certainly never around Caroline. However, Lucy manipulated the conversation away from questions directed at me, in the same way Florence had intercepted whenever Cecilia West had asked me anything at Aunt Theda’s.

  ‘Where did you study music, Mademoiselle Lacasse?’ Bessie Graham asked me. ‘Lucy says you are a skilled harpist of the highest calibre.’

  ‘She was taught by the Comtesse de Genlis,’ answered Lucy on my behalf. ‘The Comtesse instructed only the finest pupils.’

  I squeezed my hands together under the table to prevent a grimace from breaking out on my face. The Comtesse de Genlis had taught various members of the French royal family, but she had also died in 1830.

  The only guest who seemed perplexed by Lucy’s reply was Grace Hunter, who glanced at me with a puzzled expression. My eyes met hers and we exchanged a secret smile. From that moment on, I felt we were conspirators.

  ‘I believe you come from a long line of French aristocratic writers, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ Grace said, raising her eyebrows in order to keep a straight face. ‘Writing has always been considered a worthy occupation among the nobles of France, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed it has,’ agreed Lucy before I could answer. ‘You are quite right there, Grace.’

  As the luncheon went on and my fictional life grew more fantastic, I began to understand how this gathering of women was a world within a world. Although they were some of the wealthiest people in the wealthiest city in the wealthiest country, they knew very little about anything outside their circle: not of history, music, or perhaps even life. I glanced at Isadora, who was sitting quietly between Charlotte Harper and Elsie Bishop. My niece was an observer. Caroline had said Isadora would not survive outside this protected little world, but I doubted that was true if she was only given a chance.

  I was roused from my thoughts by Elsie asking me a question. ‘Have you been to the Ladies’ Mile yet, Mademoiselle Lacasse?’

  I had become so used to Lucy answering on my behalf that I hesitated, before realising that she, Caroline and Grace were engaged in a conversation of their own. At last I had a chance to speak for myself!

  ‘I have driven through it,’ I said. ‘I believe the Siegel-Cooper department store requires an entire afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, more than an afternoon!’ exclaimed Charlotte, as if relieved we were finally on a topic she could understand. ‘They have everything there: silverware, linens, china, even pets and hardware.’

  Helen Potter nodded enthusiastically. ‘I bought a Vanda sanderiana orchid from the conservatory on the roof. Do you know how rare they are?’

  Caroline and Lucy exchanged a glance when they finally realised I was holding a conversation of my own.

  ‘It’s time we moved to the music room for dessert and a private recital by my sister,’ Caroline said, signalling to Woodford to open the doors that led from the salon through the library to the music room.

  I heard Lucy whisper to Bessie, ‘Mademoiselle Lacasse only plays for the most exclusive audiences. She never gives public recitals.’

  ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Bessie, obviously delighted to be considered one of
the esteemed few. ‘Then we are privileged indeed!’

  I had practised my pieces with all the dedication I would have applied if I was about to play with the Paris Opera, but I needn’t have tried so hard. Usually when giving a recital I played four pieces, took a break, then played another three or four. But I could see from their drooping eyelids that the women weren’t used to listening attentively to music for long periods of time, so I stopped after every second piece so they could chat and pick from the table of mince pies, biscuits glacés, chocolate éclairs and peaches in chartreuse jelly. Only Grace Hunter listened to my performance like someone with a passion for music. She closed her eyes as if savouring the phrases, and opened them again slowly as if waking from a dream.

  Despite their lack of attention to my harp-playing, when it came time to leave it was evident that the guests had enjoyed themselves.

  ‘Your sister is utterly charming!’ Bessie told Caroline. ‘We will send you a dinner invitation shortly. It’s a while since we’ve seen Oliver — I know Newton will be happy to talk with him again.’

  The other women chimed in with similar compliments and invitations.

  Grace lingered behind as Caroline and Lucy farewelled their guests. ‘Your performance was superb,’ she told me. ‘I played the harp for many years, but sadly I have neglected it since I got married. I would be delighted if you would give me some lessons while you are in New York.’

  I wanted to get to know Grace Hunter better; there was something more to her and I was intrigued. Lucy was signalling me to turn down the invitation but I pretended not to see her.

  ‘That would give me great pleasure,’ I told Grace. ‘Would Wednesday afternoon be convenient for you?’ I was eager to confirm an exact date in case Lucy or Caroline tried to stop me.

  ‘I’ll send my carriage for you,’ Grace replied, as if she understood my position perfectly. ‘Then you won’t have to worry about bothering the coachman here. This household is far busier than mine.’