The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  We all stood at our places until Augusta finally entered the room with an elderly gentleman on her arm. I wondered who he was. A war hero perhaps? A former diplomat? His steps were slow and unsteady and it took some time for them to reach the centre table, but not a guest stirred or fidgeted. I sensed I was taking part in an elaborate performance that had been repeated time and again for years. Even the arrangement of the polished-to-perfection silverware and the five crystal glasses of varying shapes and sizes at each setting created a sense of ceremony.

  When Augusta and her guest of honour were in their places, Douglas announced the dinner had commenced and the guests sat down in unison. We had no sooner settled into our chairs and placed our napkins and gloves on our laps when a procession of food and drink was brought before us: green turtle soup served with amontillado sherry, followed by salmon with potatoes and chicken cutlets, accompanied by glasses of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

  ‘It’s such a pity Augusta had to move from her beautiful home in Lafayette Place,’ Mrs Williamson said. ‘I remember that house from my childhood. But they were building around her, and if she didn’t want to end up surrounded by warehouses and department stores she had to relocate.’

  Mrs Chaser shook her head. ‘It’s much more fashionable to live uptown anyway these days —’

  Her mother interrupted her. ‘It’s a blessing Augusta brought her old paintings and furniture with her. I can’t imagine what a horror this room would be if she had employed one of those fashionable architects to design her interiors, as all those parvenus do these days.’

  Was she aware that I was Caroline Hopper’s sister? Perhaps her comment had been a deliberate jab. Her use of the term parvenu irked me. Caroline and I had both been brought up by a refined grandmother; and Isadora was grace personified. But as the conversation continued, it became clear to me that the old elite were more envious of the newly wealthy than they cared to let on.

  ‘Oh, but that Rhinelander mansion on Madison Avenue is so beautiful,’ Mrs Chaser exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard that the ballroom has one hundred electric lights and can hold a thousand people. I’d be very curious to see inside. Besides, the French Renaissance style suits this city very well. It’s much prettier than sombre brownstone.’

  From the uncomfortable glances around the table, it seemed that Mrs Chaser had uttered a blasphemy.

  ‘I don’t believe the strange heiress has even moved into that house,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘I heard from my real estate man that the ballroom you so wish to see, Mrs Chaser, is occupied by crates of precious European furnishings that have never been unpacked.’

  ‘Indeed,’ chimed in Mr Beaker. ‘I happen to know that Gertrude Rhinelander has chosen to live with her sister across the street in a brownstone row house! Which only proves that a grand statement does not necessarily make a home a person can live in.’

  ‘What do you think, Mademoiselle Lacasse?’ asked Mrs Williamson, pointing her lorgnette at me. ‘The Europeans understand taste. They don’t mistake frivolous parties and grandiose mansions for class as those arrivistes do. I heard that Mrs Fishburn hosted a dinner for toys at which everyone had to speak in baby language; and on another occasion gave a birthday party for her poodle where the guest of honour wore a diamond collar costing thousands of dollars.’

  Mrs Warburg laughed, a sound like a macaw. ‘We mustn’t judge, my dear. Those newly rich coal miners, fur traders and share croppers don’t have the breeding to know any different.’

  Now I was sure the sanctimonious comments were directed at the Hopper family. As for Europeans being superior in culture and taste, one only had to look to the French royal family for a display of extravagance and vulgarity. But I remembered the warnings Caroline and Lucy had given me about not being drawn into a trap.

  I gave them my most charming smile and said, ‘I am a poor judge, I’m afraid. I believe what my grandmother used to tell me: When we are grateful for what we have, we don’t envy other people and are content with our own lives.’

  My answer seemed to mystify them, as if Grand-maman’s simple wisdom was beyond their grasp.

  I was relieved that any further comment on the subject was rendered impossible by the footmen serving the next course: roast beef accompanied by peas and sweet potatoes, along with four varieties of champagne. The conversation changed to horseracing and hunting — two subjects that repulsed me although I was careful not to show it. I took the opportunity to withdraw into myself and gather my wits.

  The beef course was followed by terrapin served with a Château Lafite Bordeaux; and still the dishes kept arriving. A game course of quail was followed by a beetroot and potato salad, which in turn was followed by a selection of cheeses. Just as I thought there couldn’t be any more food in the kitchen, a dessert of ices and fruit was set before us.

  Mrs Chaser leaned towards me and touched my arm. ‘You seem to have caught the attention of a certain man,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve seen him sneaking glances at you all evening.’

  I followed her gaze to the centre table where Douglas Hardenbergh was indeed looking in my direction. He wasn’t embarrassed and smiled in a friendly manner, not turning away until the man across the table engaged him in conversation.

  ‘He is a fine specimen of a man,’ Mrs Chaser said with a sigh. ‘He dotes on his two children.’

  ‘So he is married?’ I asked.

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘What a tragedy that poor man has suffered. His wife died only a year after the youngest child was born. Tumours everywhere apparently — they say the disease ate her away in the end. Augusta doesn’t believe Douglas will ever get over his grief, although he is too much a gentleman to wallow in it around others.’

  My heart ached for any human being who had watched someone they loved suffer. But to be left a widower with two small children was especially tragic.

  The end of dinner was signalled with coffee, candies and cognac. When the guests seemed to have had their fill, Augusta nodded to the lady nearest her and they stood up in unison. Everyone followed suit, and Mr Beaker took my arm again. In a procession of pairs, following Douglas and Lucy, we all went into the drawing room.

  The men took leave of the ladies in order to return to the dining room to smoke and drink more cognac. The women settled into small groups, and Mrs Chaser invited me to sit with her and three other women. Lucy, the female guest of honour, was required to stay with Augusta’s group, and was soon deep in conversation with a dowager dripping with so many diamonds she resembled a chandelier.

  Coffee and a rose-scented liqueur were served. I found it curious that although Augusta had made a point of inviting me to her dinner, she hadn’t spoken a word to me apart from her initial greeting. Yet she constantly glanced in my direction as if evaluating my gestures and behaviour.

  After about a quarter of an hour, she stood up and approached me. Under the electric lights of the drawing room her skin appeared mottled beneath a dusting of lavender-tinted powder. The sour-sweet scent of her bergamot fragrance filled the air as she moved.

  ‘I’m very glad you were able to come this evening, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ she said with a stiff smile. ‘It’s so rare that one meets a true artist.’ I caught the note of derision in her voice. ‘I would be delighted if you would perform a reading of one of your stories for the ladies before the gentlemen return? I have a copy of the French journal in which it was published. I will send one of the servants to fetch it.’

  Neither Caroline nor Lucy had warned me that this situation might arise. I wasn’t an artist and didn’t pretend to be. I was someone who wrote entertaining tales that were deemed of high-enough quality to be published in literary journals. My cheeks felt as if they were on fire, but if I didn’t answer her quickly I’d look like a fool. The best course of action, I decided, was to refuse diplomatically.

  ‘I am flattered, Mrs Van der Heyden, but I would not insult your guests by performing a reading unprepared. I would need to translate the story for th
e ladies who do not speak French fluently. But I would be more than happy to read for you on another occasion after some time to prepare.’

  Augusta’s eyes burned with steely determination. She raised her voice theatrically. ‘I understand your perfectionism, Mademoiselle Lacasse, but I am disappointed. I am enchanted by that particular story and hoped you would read it for us tonight.’

  I caught the look of horror on Lucy’s face as she realised what was unfolding. She was too far away to come to my rescue. My mind raced. Which story was Augusta talking about? I’d had dozens of them published over the years. She’d caught me off guard and I stumbled straight into her snare.

  ‘Which story is that, Mrs Van der Heyden?’

  Her eyes never left my face. ‘The one about the two queens: the rightful one, born to her role; and the illegitimate one who wishes to usurp her. It doesn’t end very well for that second queen, does it? It’s a delightfully imaginative story, Mademoiselle Lacasse, but it makes an important point. You either belong or you don’t.’

  Mrs Williamson and Mrs Warburg tittered, but Mrs Chaser bit her lip, embarrassed on my behalf. Some of the other women exchanged nervous glances. Not everyone in the drawing room was under Augusta’s spell, it seemed, even if they were afraid to stand up to her. What would Caroline want me to do?

  Suddenly I was seven years old and back at school at the convent in Paris. One of the older girls there was a bully and she’d once dumped the contents of a flowerpot on my head, pouring dirt into my hair and over my face. ‘Now you are a normal colour,’ she’d said. ‘Your paleness was blinding me.’

  When I’d cried to Grand-maman and Caroline about what had happened, Grand-maman told me to never stoop to the low behaviour of others and to always hold my head high.

  Caroline, however, had berated me for being weak. ‘An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth,’ she’d said. ‘That’s how the world works, Emma.’

  ‘Then you didn’t read the second part of that story, Mrs Van der Heyden?’ I said, matching her stare. ‘It was published in La Plume the following issue. The second queen creates her own alternative realm: a thriving one, free of oppression.’

  Augusta’s mouth pinched.

  The tension in the room was as thick as the liqueur we’d been drinking. Offending one’s hostess was unthinkable, but so was offending one’s guest. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

  The men burst into the room, laughing and merry, accompanied by a striking-looking woman with dark hair and wearing a brocaded emerald-green dress with a Spanish shawl draped over her shoulders. I recognised her immediately: she was Arlette Boulay, the famous French soprano. If she was the entertainment for the evening, her fee must have cost a fortune.

  Augusta turned her attention from me and rushed to greet the diva.

  The men settled into chairs, and Douglas sat next to me. He glanced around, then whispered, ‘You ladies don’t seem to have enjoyed yourselves quite as much as we did. Did my aunt make a scene?’

  ‘Does she make a habit of scenes?’ I asked, more sharply than I’d intended.

  ‘Ah, so she she cut you? Don’t take it to heart, Mademoiselle Lacasse. She cuts every newcomer before she accepts them. Consider it a rite of passage. She was downright hostile towards my late wife, Nancy, when we first got engaged. But Nancy could win anyone over. Her bright smile and cheerful manner were too hard to resist.’

  My quarrel with Augusta had been more than a ‘rite of passage’ but I didn’t want to make things unpleasant for Douglas. Although he’d spoken fondly of his late wife I’d caught the note of bereavement in his voice. He’d been through a terrible ordeal, and to carry on about his aunt’s treatment of me seemed trivial.

  ‘I’ve heard Madame Boulay perform in Paris several times,’ I told him. ‘She is superb.’

  ‘Then you must make sure you go to the opera on Monday night. She is singing the lead in Roméo et Juliette.’

  My mind calmed when Madame Boulay began to perform Violetta’s aria from La Traviata. Her perfect technique and purity of tone were mesmerising, and the richness of her voice soothed my cares. Despite the beautiful music, I was glad when the evening came to an end and the guest of honour got up to leave. I wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep.

  As we gathered in the great hall to receive our coats, Lucy whispered to me, ‘You certainly didn’t let Augusta Van der Heyden get the better of you. You are full of surprises, Emma. I’m sure that little bit of controversy is going to be the talk of the town.’

  I forced myself to meet Augusta’s gaze when our time came to farewell her and Douglas at the front door.

  ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Lacasse,’ she said, her face taut with tension. ‘I trust you enjoyed yourself.’

  Douglas glanced at her, then said to me, ‘I noticed you admiring my aunt’s art collection during dinner, Mademoiselle Lacasse. I have quite a collection of old masters myself. My grandfather started it and I have humbly continued. Should you and the Duchess wish to see them you would be most welcome to pay me a visit.’

  Augusta stared at him stonily, no doubt furious her nephew was extending an invitation to me. Could my first meeting with her have gone any worse?

  Lucy answered for me. ‘We would be most honoured to see your collection. I know Mademoiselle Lacasse’s sister and niece are great art lovers as well. I hope they will be welcome too?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  I didn’t dare look at Augusta again, and hurried after Lucy towards our waiting carriage. I could only imagine the daggers the doyenne of New York society was sending in my direction.

  It was three in the morning when we returned, but Caroline was waiting up for us in the library. She ordered a maid to bring us tea, then urged us to recount the evening’s events.

  ‘Augusta put Emma in a spot,’ Lucy said, explaining the situation. ‘Emma didn’t handle it the way I would have chosen, but she tried her best.’

  ‘How dare Augusta be rude to Emma?’ Caroline cried. ‘My sister did exactly the right thing!’ Her mouth twitched between a frown and a smile. ‘So Augusta didn’t know about the second part of your story?’ she asked me. ‘Where the rival queen created an alternative society?’

  ‘There isn’t a second part of that story,’ I said.

  Both women fell silent. For a moment Caroline and Lucy resembled one of the paintings I’d seen on Augusta’s dining room wall: a Samuel van Hoogstraten portrait of two women caught in the middle of a conspiracy. Their expressions were both intrigued and stunned.

  Caroline recovered first. ‘My goodness, it has been an evening of surprises!’ she said, her voice full of admiration. ‘Emma, you are a little devil. You made that up?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, you will have to write that part of the story now! Imagine Augusta’s face when she reads it in New York City Magazine.’

  I smiled to indulge her, but I had no intention of using my writing to wage a battle between the old Knickerbockers of New York and the newly rich. I couldn’t imagine a subject any less engaging.

  Caroline seemed to be turning something over in her mind. At first her expression frightened me: it was angry and distorted. Then it vanished and was replaced by a wide grin.

  ‘Why not an alternative society?’ she said, a new note of excitement in her voice. ‘For years I’ve put up with Augusta’s snubs. Not once has a member of the Van der Heyden family called on me, although they have gradually accepted the Clement-Madens and the Harpers. I’ve not retaliated for Isadora’s sake, but now I’m going to force those people to come to me. I’ll do something so deliciously different that they won’t be able to resist.’

  ‘What on earth are you planning?’ asked Lucy, intrigued by Caroline’s tone of mischief.

  My sister played with the rings on her fingers. ‘You both said that the guests at Augusta’s dinner were wildly curious about this house?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy, tilting her head. ‘
Mrs de Graaf kept plying me for details. They are dying to know how Harland has decorated it.’

  ‘Of course they would be,’ replied Caroline, a glint in her eye. ‘They all live in houses that are exactly like those of their neighbours. If they accidentally walked into the house next door they probably wouldn’t even realise! How long can people go on doing the same repetitive things? Attending the same parties; repeating the same dreary platitudes? Every Thursday night at Augusta Van der Heyden’s for a reception, a musical evening, a bridge game. Every third Thursday of the month for a formal dinner. Every day of their lives they are expected to live up to Augusta Van der Heyden’s set of rules if they want to remain members of her elite society. If they so much as paint their front door an unusual colour or add a different sort of braid to their clothes, they could find themselves ostracised.’

  I had been tired in the carriage but now I was wide awake. What a monotonous existence Caroline was describing. But hadn’t she told me she hoped to find a husband for Isadora among the old elite? At the time I had thought the company of people who valued education and culture even more than money would be a good environment for Isadora. Now I wasn’t so sure. My niece had too much vitality to be condemned to an uninspiring life. Would she be strong enough to stand up for herself if she didn’t like her mother’s chosen suitor?

  ‘I shall throw a ball they will never forget,’ Caroline continued. ‘I will invite all of New York’s old elite and they will come.’

  ‘They may not,’ said Lucy, taking a sip of tea. ‘They snubbed Addie Fishburn.’

  Caroline shook her head. ‘This won’t be some tasteless toys’ party, Lucy. This will be the most elegant, the most luxurious, the most spectacular ball this city has ever seen, and I’m going to spend half a million dollars to do it!’

  ‘Caroline, that’s absurd.’ Lucy sat bolt upright. Her tea splashed on the saucer when she put down her cup. ‘Nobody spends that much money on a ball! Besides, it would be vulgar if you went around telling people how much money you were intending to spend.’