The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  Florence touched my arm. ‘I see you’ve been speaking to Berenice. She has a gift: whatever your greatest insecurity, she homes right in on it and stirs up a hornets’ nest in your mind. After a while you get used to it and start to appreciate it. It’s good to be challenged sometimes. It prevents complacency.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps if I came here every night I would never be sure of anything again.’

  Later, when we all took a stroll to relieve our full stomachs, Florence walked next to me. ‘So Claude is coming to New York? That will be exciting. He’ll need you, no doubt — he doesn’t speak a word of English, does he?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, but Claude is Claude — he always manages on his own somehow.’

  ‘Men are encouraged to be self-sufficient,’ Florence replied. ‘But from the moment a girl can talk she’s taught to always see herself in relation to others — what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling, what they need. We are trained to be servants from the cradle.’

  Was that true of me? I thought Grand-maman had raised me to be self-sufficient, but also to be loving and kind. Yet I did question sometimes why I gave in to Claude’s views on marriage when they conflicted so strongly with my own.

  Although it was late, the street was filled with vendors selling buttons, cloth, olives and cheese. The accents were predominantly Italian.

  ‘New York has more Italians than Rome,’ Cecilia said, catching up with us. ‘Twice as many Irish as Dublin, and it’s home to the largest Jewish community in the world. Right here in the Village we’re a mix of all those cultures, plus a large number of working and middle-class Negroes who came up here after the war.’

  ‘Until tonight, almost everybody I’ve met in New York has been of Dutch or British descent,’ I said.

  Cecilia glanced at me curiously and I reminded myself not to say too much to her.

  ‘Over the past thirty or so years New York’s population has increased two hundred and fifty per cent, mainly because of immigration,’ Florence explained. ‘The old-stock Americans aren’t too happy about it. The editor of the Saturday Evening Post claims that New York has become a foreign city with “an American Quarter”.’

  We turned into a street where the old row houses had been replaced by factories producing everything from artificial flowers to chocolate tins.

  ‘Very few of us like change,’ I said. ‘When things have been a certain way for a long time, we feel safe with that. We usually only change when we are forced to, or when it becomes too painful not to.’

  Cecilia smiled. ‘So true, Emma. And succinctly put. You’re a perfect addition to the Confirmed Bachelor Girls’ Club.’

  A ‘confirmed bachelor girl’ I definitely was not. But later, travelling home in the plush interior of Caroline’s carriage, I reflected on the conversations I’d had that evening. I’d been challenged, informed and shaken, and my mind was buzzing with ideas. For the first time I felt I was participating in the world around me rather than simply plotting a course.

  My hand slipped into the large interior pocket of my cloak and fingered the silky material hidden there. I hadn’t put my corset back on after we’d returned to Cecilia’s apartment. I laughed to myself that such a simple thing as not wearing a piece of clothing should take on the proportions of a delicious secret.

  SEVENTEEN

  Since my reply to Claude telling him how excited I was that he might be coming to New York, I hadn’t heard anything further. Every day I checked with Woodford but no letters arrived. Was he frantically painting for the New York exhibition? But even if that was the case, it wasn’t like him not to write at all.

  I sent him an elaborately gilded Christmas card with a two-fold door on the front that opened to reveal some rabbits singing by a fireside. I thought he would find it amusing enough to respond with a similar card of his own. But the only correspondence I received from Paris was a letter from Paulette.

  Dear Emma,

  In your last letter you asked me if Mrs Nettleton and her daughter were good tenants. I must say your question made me chuckle. When Mrs Nettleton wasn’t harrying her daughter, she was scolding and criticising me. Then one week she developed such terrible headaches she was sure she had caught the plague from washing her face with Parisian water. Doctor Sourzac was called. He examined Mrs Nettleton, then glanced at me and her poor put-upon daughter. ‘You must drink no less than one bottle of French champagne per day, Madame Nettleton,’ he told her. ‘It is the only thing that will cure you.’ After that, the daughter had a wonderful time in Paris and Mrs Nettleton and I got along well!

  I burst into laughter at Paulette’s story of Doctor Sourzac’s very French prescription for all ills. I wrote back saying that I hoped the new boarders, two young women from San Francisco, would be pleasant company for her. I pictured Paulette laying out a delicious supper of salade niçoise and gratin dauphinois for the Americans and hoped they would appreciate her kindness and warmth.

  I was tempted to ask her if she had heard from Claude, as he had promised to check on her while I was in New York. But I didn’t want to worry her.

  Instead, after I’d finished my letter to Paulette, I wrote another one to Claude.

  Dearest Claude,

  I haven’t heard from you in a while. Please send me even a short note to let me know you are all right.

  I await impatiently for news of when you are coming to New York . . .

  I could only imagine what the Confirmed Bachelor Girls would have thought of the way I spent the weeks before Christmas. My days were swallowed up by a round of formal dinners, parties and daily afternoon parading in Central Park, which was more about being seen than getting fresh air. It involved Caroline, Lucy, Isadora and myself being driven out in an open carriage by a coachman. We drove along a carriageway through the park, waving — or not, depending on the passengers — to the other paraders in their barouches, phaetons and landaus. One afternoon we passed Augusta Van der Heyden and her granddaughters several times and each time we all looked in the opposite direction.

  ‘When it starts snowing, we’ll ride in a sleigh with bells and red aigrettes on the horses’ heads,’ said Caroline. ‘How I love the Christmas season!’

  One afternoon, something whooshed past us at lightning speed, whipping up chunks of dirt and sending it flying into our faces and over our coats. Our horses whinnied and reared. The vehicle that had overtaken us was a Russian troika with three white horses; it came to a halt and waited for us to catch up with it. There was no coachman in the troika, and as we got closer I saw that it was driven by a woman wearing a white ermine coat and a matching bonnet decorated with beads and ostrich feathers from under which a few curls of blonde hair dangled.

  She turned and flashed us a smile. She was very beautiful, with crystal blue eyes and a sharp chin with a cleft in it.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ hissed Caroline.

  The woman flicked the reins and the horses took off again.

  ‘The gall!’ said Lucy. ‘How dare that upstart overtake us?’

  Our afternoon ride came to an abrupt end when Caroline ordered the coachman to take us home. She and Lucy disappeared to the library, telling Isadora and me to amuse ourselves. We went to Isadora’s sitting room and had Jennie bring us some hot tea and a jar of lanolin for our chapped cheeks and lips.

  ‘No doubt battle plans are being drawn up downstairs,’ Isadora said, dabbing her finger into the lanolin.

  ‘Who was that woman? An actress?’

  Isadora shook her head. ‘But she may as well be. Her name is Permelia Frances and she’s married to Father’s fiercest competitor. He recently swindled Father on a business deal worth ten million dollars so clearly she wanted to show off.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, now understanding Caroline’s indignation.

  ‘Apparently she’s vulgar too,’ added Isadora. ‘Rebecca’s aunt heard that Permelia has a gold chandelier in her bedroom that releases twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of r
ose perfume each time she pulls a cord.’

  I dropped the glob of lanolin I had balanced on my fingertip. It was a sum of money too enormous for me to fathom. One puff of Permelia’s chandelier and not only would I have been out of debt to Roche & Associates, I could have bought two other apartments as well.

  The following Monday evening we went to the opera. I was surprised when Oliver joined us, and even more surprised when he sat next to me in the private box and not with Caroline. I’d got the impression that he didn’t enjoy social activities.

  While everyone else chatted, Oliver studied the program book with great interest, not only the main cast but the members of the orchestra. He took out a fountain pen from his pocket and made notations next to several of the names.

  ‘So you are an opera aficionado?’ I asked in astonishment.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m one of the odd few who prefer to stay until the end of the performance instead of rushing off to dinners and balls.’

  Although I’d been in New York nearly three months, I still didn’t know what to make of Oliver. I couldn’t put out of my mind his ill-temper with Caroline or the room that displayed the animals he’d shot. Yet, the concern he showed for Isadora and his politeness to me made it impossible to dismiss him entirely. The man was a puzzle.

  ‘Do you know the story of Faust?’ he asked me.

  ‘I do. An ageing scholar sells his soul to the Devil in return for renewed youth and a second chance.’

  Oliver nodded, and studied me for a moment. ‘What would you sell your soul for, Emma? I’d sell mine for a second chance — I’d do everything differently if I could go back to being the man you first met in Paris. But it’s too late now. My course has been set and there is nothing I can do but hold to it.’

  What was it that troubled Oliver so? A bad business decision? The loss of his mother and sister? His marriage to Caroline?

  He peered into my face, waiting for my answer.

  I frowned. ‘What would I sell my soul for? Nothing! I don’t think there is anything that is worth burning in hell for.’

  His pitying expression reminded me of the look Berenice had given me in the Italian restaurant in the Village, as if to say that one day my naïve optimism would desert me and I would see life as it really was.

  Before we could say more, the orchestra began to play and the curtain rose. Normally I would have lost myself in the lush, elegant music and the sentimentality of the story, but Oliver’s question and my answer haunted me. What about Grand-maman? Wouldn’t I have sold my soul to spare her the agony of her last few months, or to find a cure for her cancer? The memory of that time sliced my heart like a cold, hard knife. I’d mortgaged our home to try to help her. Yes, I probably would have sold my soul too if I could have. I blinked my tears away and glanced with compassion at Oliver. Perhaps we all had a price.

  During the interval, Caroline took Oliver and Isadora to visit the Harpers’ box, while Grace came to sit with me.

  ‘So Caroline brought you here at last,’ she said, fanning herself against the stuffy heat.

  Now the interval lights were up I spotted Augusta Van der Heyden seated in the box opposite us. She was staring in our direction, ignoring Mrs Williamson next to her who was desperately trying to gain her attention.

  ‘Augusta is glaring at us,’ I said to Grace.

  ‘I’m not surprised. This ball your sister is organising has the whole town talking. Is she really planning it for the third Thursday in January?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Tch-tch,’ Grace said, gesturing towards the auditorium. ‘All these people are faced with such a conundrum should they be invited. Should they go to the Hoppers’ exciting ball, or stay faithful to Augusta and sit through another of her wearisome dinners?’ A smile came to her face. ‘But you know, the dilemma will even be worse for those not invited to Isadora’s ball. How will they deal with the humiliation of being excluded from the biggest event of the new century? They will have to pretend they received an invitation but pressing events mean they can’t attend. Just think how many mysterious illnesses, ailing aunts and dying grandmothers will have to be invented!’

  ‘So Caroline has set a cat among the pigeons?’ I said, imagining how pleased my sister would be by that. The old elite would have to come calling on her now. She was as ruthless in her tactics as Napoleon.

  On Christmas Eve, Caroline, Isadora and I, helped by two footmen, set about decorating the tree in the dining room. It had taken ten servants to raise the twenty-foot fir tree the previous day and now the room was filled with the alpine scent of balsam. While the others added lights and filigreed glass ornaments to the tree, I decorated the table and mantelpiece with garlands of pine and pomander balls, which gave off a delicious citrus, clove and cinnamon fragrance.

  The following morning, as we got into the carriage to drive to church, I thought of Claude and his family. They would have already been to the Christmas Eve midnight Mass and would now be gathered for le réveillon of stuffed goose. I still hadn’t had any reply from Claude to my recent letters. Surely he could understand I would be worried until I heard from him? Equally as strange, I hadn’t heard from Madame Tremblay. Claude’s mother had made a tradition of sending me a hand-painted floral bookmark each Christmas with a line from one of her favourite poems written on the back. If she had done that when I had been close by in Paris, surely she would have understood how much I would appreciate the gift now I was far away in New York?

  Luncheon was a light meal of broiled oysters and consommé royal in anticipation of the larger meal we were to have that evening. Grace and Harland arrived at seven o’clock, along with the Grahams, the Harpers, the Potters and the Bishops. It was the first time I had met the husbands of Caroline’s friends and I found it as difficult to distinguish between them as I had their wives. They were all grey-bearded, stooping men dressed in tailcoats and expensive patent shoes, and all appearing worn out by life. Harland, with his glowing skin, vitality and gaiety in his eyes, stood out among them like the star on top of the Christmas tree.

  ‘Did you hear the Millers are divorcing?’ he offered, once the soup had been served. He said it as cheerily as if he were talking about the post-Christmas sales.

  ‘No!’ said Bessie Graham, putting down her wine glass. ‘Why?’

  ‘Apparently Buford wants his favourite horse to sleep in the bed with them,’ answered Harland.

  Franklin Harper nearly choked on his bread. ‘Did I hear you correctly? He wants his favourite whore to sleep with them?’

  His mishearing of the word brought peals of laughter from the others. But I didn’t laugh, and neither did Isadora, nor Grace, who stared at her lap.

  ‘Another woman would be better,’ said Caroline, dabbing at her eyes. ‘A horse, for goodness sake! The man is mad. He loves those thoroughbreds more than he does his wife and children.’

  ‘Having met his wife and children, I fully understand,’ said Newton Graham. ‘Natica is quite obsessed with Eastern philosophy — she has the children meditating and practising yoga!’

  His comment elicited more laughter.

  ‘It seems Buford is done with the company of people altogether,’ continued Harland. ‘He’s approached me to build him a castle in North Carolina where, instead of reception and drawing rooms, he will have luxurious stables for his horses, with ceilings of moulded plaster and Louis XV fireplaces to keep them warm in winter.’

  Isadora spoke up. ‘I can understand that some people might prefer the company of animals to humans. I know I prefer to sculpt them.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Caroline scolded her.

  Isadora turned pale and stared at her plate. I wished my sister wouldn’t be so harsh; it didn’t do Isadora’s confidence any good.

  ‘If the tombstones in Le Cimetière des Chiens in Paris are anything to go by, Isadora has a good point,’ I said. ‘Sometimes a person’s bond with an animal is much closer than with any human.’

  Caroline igno
red my comment. ‘Well, if Natica is seeking a divorce I will have no choice but to strike her off my invitation lists,’ she said. ‘And I imagine others will do the same.’

  Grace’s eyes flashed. ‘Why her and not him? It sounds as if it’s Buford’s behaviour that’s caused the trouble. Surely Natica will win her case based on insanity or mental cruelty?’

  ‘Divorce is bad for everyone, Grace,’ Elsie Bishop said with a sigh. ‘But it’s a woman’s duty to keep the marriage and home together no matter what. Men get on with things, but every married woman will be suspicious that Natica is after her husband. It’s simply the way things are.’

  Charlotte nodded in agreement. ‘Natica’s divorce will ostracise her, no doubt. It’s a pity because I’ve always found her rather interesting company.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Harland, glancing at Grace. He was smiling, but I saw malevolence in his eyes. ‘Divorce always reflects badly on the woman.’

  The jangle of clattering metal brought the conversation to a halt. Grace had accidentally knocked her cutlery to the floor. One of the footmen rushed in to retrieve it.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said as Woodford placed a new set down for her.

  ‘I’m always telling Grace not to wave her hands about like an Italian,’ Harland said with an odd note of triumph in his voice. ‘But when she’s excited by something there’s no stopping her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, with a carefree air that I could tell was false, ‘I do get clumsy sometimes.’

  Something was upsetting her, and I attempted to catch her eye. But she turned her face away from me, as if everything Bessie was telling her was highly interesting. Whatever was troubling Grace, she didn’t want me to know.

  The second course of Spanish mackerel and cucumber salad arrived and the conversation turned to Christmas.

  ‘What a blessing it is to spend this evening with you all,’ said Helen. ‘We’ve been with the family all day, and I tell you: my daughters are the most ungrateful women I have ever met. Gideon gave them two hundred thousand dollars each for Christmas this year and do you know what they said? “Is that all? The Perrys gave each of their children one million!”’