The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘When I was a child,’ chimed in Bessie, ‘we were lucky if we got candy for Christmas. I saw how hard my parents worked for every little thing. Our children don’t know that struggle.’

  ‘My grandfather had a policy whereby no matter how successful our family business became, each one of his children and grandchildren had to spend a month working in the factory when they came of age,’ Franklin Harper said, ‘or they would be cut out of their inheritance. It’s a good policy and Charlotte and I have kept it up. It prevents young men and women from becoming spoiled better than any other method I know.’

  ‘What a marvellous idea,’ said Caroline, glancing in Isadora’s direction. ‘Sometimes our children have no idea how lucky they are.’

  ‘We are very fortunate with our daughter,’ cut in Oliver. ‘She is naturally unspoiled. I’m very proud of her.’

  Isadora’s face lit up at her father’s compliment. They exchanged a brief glance of mutual sympathy that thankfully Caroline didn’t notice. A secret thrill stirred up in my heart. Was this the beginning of Oliver standing up for his daughter at last?

  The following day, after breakfast, Oliver called me into his study. ‘I hope your first Christmas in New York has been a pleasant one?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him, but I was stretching the truth. Christmas dinner had been a disappointment: the intimate family celebration I’d anticipated had been shared with a group of Caroline’s friends who had nothing better to do than gossip.

  The hesitation in my voice brought an expression of commiseration to Oliver’s face and he made no further mention of the evening. Instead, his eyes drifted to the notepaper and pen on his desk.

  ‘I would appreciate it if you could do something for me,’ he said. ‘My mother and sister were simple women. They disliked the fuss around Christmas and spent the season volunteering at the Salvation Army Christmas dinner and making visits to the hospitals for the poor. Since Anne passed away, I’ve regretted not keeping up donations to those organisations in their memory.’ He sighed. ‘But here’s my problem: with those reporters hounding me all the time, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. If I make a donation myself, they always suggest I have some ulterior motive.’

  He wrote on a piece of notepaper, reread it, then handed it to me. ‘I’d like you to take that to my banker, Mr Howell, tomorrow. He’ll arrange the payments anonymously.’

  I glanced at the paper. Each charity was to receive one hundred thousand dollars. It was incredibly generous. But why wasn’t he entrusting Caroline with the task?

  He must have guessed what I was thinking because he quickly added, ‘I would appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves. Caroline . . . isn’t particularly altruistic.’

  Although he was asking me to deceive my sister, something about Oliver’s earnest manner compelled me to help him. ‘It would be my honour,’ I said.

  I thought that would be all to the conversation, but Oliver stood up, opened a cupboard and took out a large roll of paper. He spread it out on his desk and indicated for me to join him.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said.

  On the paper was an architectural drawing for a colossal house. There were forty-five bedrooms, thirty bathrooms and over eighty fireplaces! Included in the plan were an indoor swimming pool, and a bowling alley in the basement; and all the rooms were double the size of those in this house on Fifth Avenue.

  ‘Is it a resort or something?’ I asked, knowing that Oliver had some interests in commercial property.

  He gave a dry laugh. ‘It may as well be. Four acres of floor space! It’s the new house Harland Hunter and Caroline have dreamed up for Newport.’

  My mind was stilled by shock. Nobody, not even Caroline, needed a house as big as the one on the plan.

  ‘Sometimes I admire Caroline’s relentless ambition,’ Oliver continued. ‘And sometimes I think I should be reining it in, protecting us from the tyranny of excess. What do you think, Emma?’

  I thought it was insanity and Caroline should be restrained. But it was my sister, not Oliver, who was going to repay my debts to Roche & Associates. For that reason I could not side with him against her. I recalled Oliver’s question at the opera about what I might sell my soul for, and realised that since I had come to New York I’d compromised myself right and left. But what choice did I have?

  ‘Caroline understands the rules of society here far better than I do,’ I said diplomatically. ‘Perhaps this is all to increase your prestige as a man of business.’

  His eyes sought mine and he smiled bitterly. ‘You’re right. I have become very successful with Caroline by my side — which is why I’ve never hesitated to give her what she wants. Even to the point that —’ He stopped and looked away. ‘But this?’ He indicated the plan and shook his head. ‘There is a danger in drawing too much attention to ourselves. The newspaper headlines this Christmas were all about the widening gap between the rich and the poor. At the moment the wealthiest businessmen of New York have been given a free rein by the government, but those kinds of articles turn public opinion against us.’

  I got the impression that Oliver was asking me a deeper question, as if he wanted me to absolve him of a burden he was carrying. But of course I couldn’t do that. No one could, except his own conscience, or God.

  EIGHTEEN

  On New Year’s Eve we attended a glittering ball at the Grahams’ mansion. The gilded dining room and ballroom were aglow with strings of electric lights. But even though we were on the cusp of a fresh epoch where it was predicted that buildings would reach the sky and women would get the vote, the talk of the guests when we sat down to the eight-course dinner wasn’t about what exciting developments the new century might bring, but about Isadora’s debutante ball.

  Helen Potter leaned towards me. ‘I believe twelve hundred invitations are to be sent out this week, Emma. Caroline will remember her old friends, won’t she?’

  ‘Is it true six thousand orchids are to be brought up from the south for it?’ asked another woman.

  After the dessert course, the dancing commenced but the questions didn’t cease.

  ‘Will the party favours really be black pearls and gold cigarette cases?’ one man asked me.

  ‘Is it true you are going to wear a ruby necklace that once belonged to Marie Antoinette?’ his dance partner enquired, her keen eyes searching my face.

  If I’d thought the interrogations about Isadora’s ball would end at midnight, I was wrong. New Year’s Day was the traditional time for making visits and Caroline told me to be prepared for ‘a few guests’ to call during her open house between eleven o’clock and five.

  A steady procession of visitors streamed through the house. No sooner had we farewelled one caller than another arrived. And it wasn’t only Caroline’s usual set who called, but members of the old elite too.

  Mrs Schorer, a black-clad dowager with sharp eyes and a walking stick, arrived at the same time as Helen Potter, who was beautifully attired in a steel blue dress decorated with rosettes and bows. Her hat had so many flowers on the crown it looked as though she was carrying a miniature garden on her head. Mrs Schorer’s toque hat was very plain by comparison.

  Although Woodford brought tea for both women, Mrs Schorer refused to acknowledge Helen’s presence in the room. It put Caroline in a difficult position: she did her best to be cordial with both guests while conducting a conversation that gave her the air of a spiritualist rather than a society hostess.

  ‘Mrs Schorer, I believe you have the most splendid greenhouses that keep you well supplied with vegetables and flowers all year. My friend Mrs Helen Potter has created a beautiful Italian garden at her villa in Newport and even has some rare plants that were used in the past for medieval medicine. May I introduce her to you?’

  The old dowager sipped her tea, then pursed her mouth resolutely. ‘Mrs Hopper, I cannot grant that request no matter how kindly you express it. In our world, introductions can never be made at open homes. A
nd while I understand that you would prefer people you know to know each other, unfortunately there are some people I could never receive into my home. Therefore introducing me to them burdens me with a duty I simply cannot fulfil.’

  Helen turned bright red at the cut. Her mouth tightened and she appeared on the verge of giving Mrs Schorer a piece of her mind, but Caroline signalled with a slight lift of her hand that she would handle the matter.

  ‘But my dear Mrs Schorer,’ she said, sweetly but firmly, ‘we had not been introduced to each other until you came this afternoon to my open home. So we have, in effect, already broken convention. I am so glad to have made your acquaintance because now I will be able to invite you to Isadora’s ball. But I fear there may be a great many guests whom you would not be able to receive in your home. If you would prefer I did not put you in such a difficult situation by inviting you to the ball, I perfectly understand.’

  Mrs Schorer’s face froze like a chess player who has been checkmated. Her eyes darted from left to right, trying to find a way out. Seeing there was none, she sighed in surrender. ‘I see you are quite right, Mrs Hopper. If you should like to bring your friend to my home tomorrow afternoon, I would be happy for you to introduce us then.’

  When Mrs Schorer had departed, Helen grasped Caroline’s hands and said in astonishment, ‘Did I understand her correctly? Am I to go with you tomorrow to the Schorer residence? Don’t they have a very eligible grandson who would be perfect for my Louise?’

  ‘Don’t get carried away,’ said Caroline, sitting back down on the sofa and smiling triumphantly. ‘I hope Mrs Schorer won’t expect me to introduce all of my “parvenu” friends to her personally before the ball,’ she added. ‘There won’t be time!’

  ‘Who are you calling a parvenu,’ said Helen with a laugh, checking her elaborate hat in the mantelpiece mirror.

  Half an hour later, we had another visitor: Mrs Warburg, who I had met at Augusta’s formal dinner and hadn’t liked. I remembered her insult to my family but she was all smiles now.

  ‘Oh, Miss Lacasse,’ she said, in a tone that suggested we were on the friendliest terms, ‘please forgive me for not calling on you sooner after I had a chance to make your delightful acquaintance at Mrs Van der Heyden’s dinner. Unfortunately family matters detained me.’

  She sent me a glance of entreaty that she didn’t intend Caroline to see. But my sister caught it and stifled a smile. ‘The Blumenthal ball was the first costume ball I ever attended,’ Mrs Warburg said, her eyes misting at the memory. ‘I went as a Venetian princess in a beautifully embroidered gown and a cap encrusted with jewels. My sister, who was always more daring than me, went as a bumble bee. She wore a gown of yellow and black stripes and had gauze wings and diamond-encrusted antennae. Ah, to be young again.’ Isadora and I exchanged a glance before Mrs Warburg came to her point. ‘A magnificent ball like that is the most magical night of a debutante’s first season, Mrs Hopper. Being excluded could lower a young woman’s prestige and see her left out of other important events.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Caroline. ‘That has always been my concern with Isadora.’

  Mrs Warburg hesitated. ‘Then you understand the situation? You see, I’ve come on a rather delicate matter.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Caroline, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Mrs Van der Heyden . . . well, she has two very beautiful granddaughters, Georgia and Minerva. They are twins. Augusta has been like a mother to them since their own mother passed away.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen them parading with their grandmother in the park,’ said Caroline. ‘They do seem like lovely girls. We have never been introduced, of course.’

  ‘Both young women are out in society,’ Mrs Warburg continued.

  ‘Are they?’ said Caroline, taking a sip of tea. ‘I had no idea.’

  Mrs Warburg swallowed and seemed on the verge of faltering. But then she gathered her courage. ‘As it is their first season it would be frightfully . . . well, it would be humiliating if they weren’t invited to your ball.’

  Caroline put down her teacup and turned to me as if she had finally grasped Mrs Warburg’s point. ‘Oh, my dear Mrs Warburg, now I understand.’

  Our guest relaxed and gave a short laugh. ‘I’m sure Georgia and Minerva would make very good friends for Isadora. Perhaps I could introduce them to you before the ball and then all the young ladies could practise their dancing together?’

  ‘Isadora would be delighted to make their acquaintance, I’m sure,’ Caroline said, giving Mrs Warburg a look of sympathy. ‘But I’m afraid that inviting them is quite out of the question.’

  Mrs Warburg turned as white as a sheet. ‘Out of the question?’

  ‘Well, you see, here is the problem,’ said Caroline, her voice full of false regret. ‘As Mrs Schorer kindly reminded me, you simply cannot invite people into your home when you haven’t been properly introduced. And no member of the Van der Heyden family has ever called on me, or indeed even received me.’

  Mrs Warburg’s shoulders slumped and she stood up like a person who had been condemned to the gallows. I could imagine how furious Augusta Van der Heyden would be when she heard that Caroline was snubbing her granddaughters.

  ‘I tell you, it absolutely breaks my heart,’ said Caroline, shaking her head as we walked with Mrs Warburg to the front door. ‘But Augusta Van der Heyden knows the rules. In fact, I believe she made them.’

  ‘What now?’ I asked Caroline after Mrs Warburg had left.

  ‘We wait,’ she said with a cunning smile. ‘Money trumps old values every time. But do you know what trumps money?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Vanity. It’s the folly that brings all of us — even the most moral — to our knees.’

  The following day I gave Isadora her harp lesson as usual, but we were all on high alert, and Caroline had instructed us to wear receiving dresses.

  ‘Do you suppose Augusta Van der Heyden will pay a call today?’ Isadora asked me, then added, ‘Look, it’s starting to snow.’

  The music room had a view of the street, and I joined her at the window to watch the flakes drifting from the sky and covering the trees in the park in a layer of white. Caroline had a sixth sense for such matters, I thought. She had known that Oliver was coming to our apartment in Paris to propose to her. If she predicted Augusta was coming today, I was sure she would.

  As if by magic, a sleek black brougham appeared through the veil of white. It came to a halt outside the house, and a footman dressed in an olive-green uniform with gold piping climbed the front steps in a stately manner despite the snow.

  ‘I wonder if Augusta is in the carriage?’ I said. ‘Perhaps the footman is simply delivering a message.’

  The answer came a minute later when Jennie arrived with instructions from Caroline to go to the reception room. ‘Mrs Augusta Van der Heyden is paying a call.’

  I glanced outside again. The footman and the coachman were holding a cloth awning over the carriage door. Woodford was laying down a carpet so Augusta could make her way to our front door without soiling her shoes. What a production! I remembered all the times I’d got soaked to the skin in a sudden Paris shower and had simply had to live with it.

  Caroline was dressed in a burgundy wool suit. The tight-fitting jacket had a stand-up collar and black braiding on the front and shoulders and made her look like a military general.

  When Woodford announced Augusta’s arrival, we all rose.

  She was dressed in head-to-toe black silk, and if not for the gold lace around her cuffs and collar could have been going to a funeral. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Augusta knew that her minions, whom she had ruled over for decades, were deserting her in favour of Caroline and her spectacular ball. Augusta had kept my sister out of old New York society for almost twenty years, and now Caroline had brought her to her knees.

  To her credit, my sister didn’t gloat. ‘Mrs Van der Heyden, how good it is to see you. You have already met
my sister, Miss Lacasse; and this is my daughter, Isadora.’

  Augusta nodded at each of us in turn.

  ‘Won’t you please sit down?’ Caroline said, gesturing to a gilded Louis XV chair that resembled a throne. Now she was sure of her victory, she could afford to be generous. ‘It is very kind of you to come through the snow to see us.’

  Augusta relaxed her defiant pose. ‘I assumed I ought to call as my nephew, Douglas Hardenbergh, speaks so highly of you all.’

  ‘He certainly has a splendid art collection, and is a fine musician too,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Yes, his late wife was an accomplished pianist,’ Augusta replied, glancing in my direction. ‘They used to entertain us with their beautiful flute and piano duets.’ I wasn’t sure if she was taking a stab at me, but then she added in a kind tone, ‘Douglas praised Miss Lacasse’s ability with the harp, which is high praise indeed. He is very particular when it comes to music.’

  ‘Our grandparents were talented musicians,’ offered Caroline. ‘I believe that’s where my sister inherited her talent. I am more like our mother, consumed with the practicalities of life.’

  ‘Practicalities are important too,’ said Augusta.

  The conversation continued in this odd, polite way, covering topics as broad as Macy’s Christmas window display, the Boer War, and the debate over whether the new century had already begun or would not begin until January 1901.

  When the traditional quarter-hour for a first visit was up, Woodford was summoned to lay the carpet down the front steps again so Augusta could return to her carriage.

  ‘I will have invitations to Isadora’s debutante ball delivered to your granddaughters this afternoon,’ Caroline told Augusta in a reassuring tone. ‘I do hope you will grace us with your presence too?’