‘Of course, you are an adult and in charge of your own life,’ continued Caroline, ‘but Douglas Hardenbergh seems keen to know you better. Imagine what it would be like to be mistress of a fine household, Emma. To have a wealthy, respectable husband, and to be stepmother to those delightful children — and perhaps even mother to one or two of your own. Isn’t that what you always wanted — a family?’
My heart was beating so fast I thought I might faint. Of course my sister was manipulating me, but it was diabolical how cleverly she managed it. It terrified me that she knew my desires so well when I had never confided anything of the sort to her.
Her voice flowed hypnotically on. ‘With Douglas, you could have a home and a family of your own. An artist could never offer you anything as stable.’
I stood and stepped back from her as if trying to break the spell she was casting over me. ‘You’ve forgotten one thing,’ I said. ‘Douglas Hardenbergh is still very much in love with his late wife. He hasn’t asked me to marry him.’
Caroline smiled mysteriously. ‘Nothing lasts forever, not even grief. It’s untrue that love is eternal. Love can be willed to appear or disappear any time you want. You’ll see.’
The following day, I received by post the French edition of A Tale of a Lonely House and a note from Monsieur Plamondon saying that he had forwarded it to an American publisher who claimed to be very interested in the translation rights.
I mulled over the premise of the novella while I was supervising Isadora’s lesson with Mr Gadley. I had originally written it in third person, but Monsieur Plamondon had convinced me it would be more powerful and immediate in first person and I had given in to his logic. In the story, Genevieve, a wealthy spinster, married a man who she believed would be a good companion for her in her isolated hilltop house. But he estranged her from her friends and slowly gained control of her life. Genevieve became sicker and sicker with a mysterious illness, eventually coming to the realisation that the husband she adored and trusted was poisoning her.
A laugh from Mr Gadley brought my attention back to the present. ‘What a splendid outcome, Miss Hopper! You might even say it was therapeutic.’
‘Indeed,’ said Isadora, smiling.
‘What are you two talking about?’ I asked.
Isadora turned to me. ‘You’ve been off in your own world for some time, Aunt Emma. Have you been thinking of a new story?’
‘Daydreaming is often discouraged and even ridiculed,’ said Mr Gadley. ‘But to an artist it is as vital as air and water. What glories do we pluck from the invisible realm of ideas!’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Mr Gadley.’ I moved over to the bench to see what Isadora had been sculpting and found a clay head of a sloe-eyed woman with an enchanting smile. The hair was shaped into ringlet curls swept to the side. ‘What’s so amusing about this?’ I asked.
Isadora grinned. ‘It’s Madame du Barry’s severed head. I’m going to hold it in my hands instead of a bouquet at the ball. It will be my revenge for never getting a say in anything, not even my own debut.’
I laughed too. ‘I like it. But you know you can do nothing of the sort.’
Isadora covered the head with a cloth. ‘Of course I do. But why do we have to dress up as characters we don’t want to be? Marie Antoinette and Madame du Barry didn’t even like each other! Besides, poor Madame du Barry didn’t become a courtesan by choice.’
‘I don’t believe your mother is thinking that deeply about it, and most of the guests won’t either,’ I told her. ‘It’s more about the sumptuous costume and wig you will get to wear.’
Mr Gadley bounced on his toes and a wide grin lifted his lips. ‘You do share some of Madame du Barry’s good qualities, Miss Hopper. She led an extravagant life at Versailles but by all reports her good nature wasn’t spoiled. She was generous, fun-loving and above all kind.’
Isadora blushed. ‘Thank you, Mr Gadley. You also are very kind.’
She opened the drawer in her bench and gave him the envelope with his payment, and he in return passed her an envelope with the receipt.
‘Till next week,’ he told us and left.
Isadora went to the window overlooking the courtyard, as if to catch every last glimpse she could of her beloved teacher. ‘Before you came, Aunt Emma, Mr Gadley and Rebecca were the only people I had to talk to. But after I’m married . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘After you’re married, what?’ I asked, concern pinching my chest.
‘Mother told me that you’re going to stay in New York until I’m married. You know that might mean you’ll be in New York forever?’
She was trying to make a joke, but it was clear she was upset. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Even before her official debut, Rebecca was sought as a tennis partner or walked home by some young man or another after church. Although she hasn’t been proposed to yet, people are interested in her. Nobody in society wants to be with me because they find me strange — except for the three of you.’
‘Nonsense, Isadora. You are shy, that’s all. Unfortunately shyness is often mistaken for aloofness. After the ball you will find many young men calling on you. Perhaps that’s why your mother chose to make your debut a costume ball rather than a bal blanc. It will take some of the pressure off you.’
Isadora held my gaze for a moment and I sensed I’d missed some important point in what she had been trying to tell me.
She turned away and shook her head. ‘Oh, that stupid ball! Mother is spending half a million dollars on it, but it’s all about her — so she can show off to everyone. The only thing it will do for me is attract men who want me for my dowry!’ She picked up her current art notebook and flicked through it absent-mindedly. ‘My life could have been so different. If only my brother had lived! Mother would have placed all her hopes and ambitions on his shoulders, and perhaps I could have been left alone to live my life as I please.’
The world rocked around me, as if I was standing on a ship that had been lifted by a wave and put back down again.
‘Your brother?’
‘You don’t know about William?’ Isadora put her notebook back down on the bench. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. Mother forbids us to speak about him, and there isn’t a photograph of him anywhere in the house. It’s as if one day he existed and the next day vanished into thin air. It’s Mother’s particular way of surviving her grief.’
A chasm opened beneath my feet. ‘You’ve shocked me,’ I said, leaning against the bench for support. I had never imagined that Caroline had borne another child. Why had she never mentioned him to Grand-maman or myself? But then I had only discovered Isadora by accident, I remembered, so it was unlikely Caroline would have told us about her son.
‘I was eight when he died,’ Isadora said. ‘William was the long-awaited boy and nothing was too good for him. Mother spent all her time with him, while I was put into the care of a nursemaid. A few days after his second birthday he got the fever. Mother was by his bedside day and night, and when he died she still wouldn’t leave him or permit anyone else to see him. Father had to slip her a sleeping draught so that the funeral director could take his body away.’ Isadora took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘But not once since his funeral has she gone to visit the family mausoleum, although Father and I go several times a year. Mother hates cemeteries of any kind.’
Now I understood that queer expression on Caroline’s face in Paris when she had said she didn’t like cemeteries. I couldn’t fathom why my sister hadn’t shared her grief with me. Any closeness I hoped we had been developing during my time in New York was an illusion.
‘I’m a stranger to your mother,’ I said to Isadora. ‘Sometimes I think we are becoming better acquainted, but then I realise I barely know her.’
‘That’s what Mother is like with everyone, Aunt Emma. She’s a closed book. You can never know what she’s thinking or feeling — or whether she actually feels anything.’
That e
vening at dinner, I watched my sister as if I were seeing her for the first time. As she talked excitedly about her plans for the ball, I kept picturing her bent over her dying child. How was it that she showed no signs of that terrible grief?
I watched Oliver, his head bowed as he cut up his food. Was it William’s death that had destroyed the goodwill in their marriage? It would have been enough to put a strain on any couple.
When the evening was over and we made our way upstairs, Caroline stopped me and studied me with her piercing gaze. ‘Truly, Emma, you have been staring at me strangely all evening. What on earth is the matter with you? I have enough on my hands with Isadora’s moody sentimentality. Don’t you start too. I don’t need two artists moping around while I have a ball to plan.’
Tears stung my eyes, but I was at a loss how to reply. Caroline would not tolerate me feeling sorry for her. Instead I squeezed her arm and promised myself that I would be less judgemental of her. Who knew what secret agony she carried in her heart? Perhaps her constant demands for attention were an expression of that grief.
TWENTY
The ball was set to begin at half-past eleven at night, but spectators started gathering early in the evening to stake their claim behind the velvet rope to watch the guests arrive. The police came to keep everything under control; and soon there was a group of reporters too, waiting to describe the city notables and their costumes for their readers the following day.
At half-past ten, as Jennie was helping me with the finishing touches to my costume, Woodford summoned me to join the rest of the family downstairs for the receiving line.
‘Some of the guests have arrived earlier than expected,’ he explained.
I guessed why. They were hoping to see as much of the house as they could before the ball officially commenced.
‘I respect people who arrive punctually,’ Lucy whispered to me as we hurried down the stairs together. ‘But I can’t abide people who arrive early!’
It was hard to take Lucy seriously, dressed as she was as the famous letter-writing Marquise de Sévigné with her hair in two high bunches of ringlets on either side of her head. Apparently the men of Versailles had found the hairstyle hilarious when their women started wearing it.
Oliver had trouble keeping a straight face when he saw her. ‘You look like you have a cabbage on either side of your head.’
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ she mock-scolded him. ‘This is all my own hair and I had to sleep with a hundred rollers last night, which nearly killed me. Besides, have you seen yourself?’
Oliver did look ridiculous with his fake pointed beard, fur hat and boyar-style brocade coat. But so did the rest of us. My embroidered gold silk gown was sumptuous with its U-shaped neckline and elbow-length sleeves ending in frills, but the pannier undergarment gave me such enormous hips that I had to turn sideways to get through doorways. Tender bruises were developing on my thighs from when I’d bumped against the balustrade on my way down the stairs.
Isadora had cleverly eschewed court dress and her Madame du Barry was outfitted in a riding habit consisting of a grey silk jacket over an open waistcoat, and a plumed hat. Although her skirt was padded it was infinitely more practical than mine.
Our guests had spared no expense on their outfits either. They arrived as famous painters and composers of the period, explorers, and even well-known Americans such as Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. There were legendary generals, Indian kings and Chinese emperors. Helen Potter came as Marie Antoinette’s loyal spaniel, Thisbe, and kept yapping around me. Harland and Grace arrived as Napoleon and Empress Joséphine; while the Grahams, in a spirit of black humour, came as the royal executioner and one of the knitting women who watched heads roll during the Revolution. The waiting staff, who had been especially hired for the evening, were all dressed as courtiers in breeches, frilled shirts and powdered wigs; and the female servants were dressed as French maids.
Caroline, however, outshone us all. Wearing a copy of Catherine the Great’s silver silk coronation gown with embroidered golden eagles on the skirt and a blue sash across her torso, she sat on a gilded throne. In her left hand she grasped a golden orb, and in the right, a sceptre; and the crown on her head was two half-spheres joined by rows of pearls and a garland of oak leaves and acorns, and encrusted with diamonds and topped with a giant ruby. It was as well Caroline had a strong, short neck, I thought. Holding my head straight under the weight of my pouf-style wig was already giving me a sharp pain in my shoulder.
There was a hushed moment when Augusta Van der Heyden arrived as Maria Theresa of Austria and two of the most powerful women in history came face to face with each other.
But Caroline’s expression broke into a smile when she saw Augusta and she rose to greet her. ‘My dear Archduchess,’ she said, taking her arm, ‘which of our rivals shall we rid ourselves of today?’
My eyes eagerly followed Augusta to see if she and Harland would greet each other, but they both looked away as if pretending the other didn’t exist. What must it be like to see someone you had once loved and know you would never again be together? I couldn’t imagine feeling that way with Claude. A familiar ache dragged at my heart. Why hadn’t he written to me?
Douglas Hardenbergh arrived wearing a frock coat of grey and blue striped silk with an ivory waistcoat, black silk breeches and a curled white wig. When he was announced as the Swedish count Hans Axel von Fersen, I stood stock still. Von Fersen had been Marie Antoinette’s lover and the reputed father of her children. Was his costume a coincidence — or had Caroline had some hand in it?
He bowed to me, and indicated the vases of pink and white roses, orchids, lilacs and lilies that the florists had placed around the house. ‘The flowers are spectacular, Your Highness. Are they from the palace garden?’
‘Indeed, Count, they are,’ I replied, hoping to defuse an awkward situation with humour. ‘But the violets on the dining tables are from an exotic place called the Hudson Valley.’
Douglas nodded knowingly. ‘A mysterious place, Your Highness. Yet to be fully explored, I believe.’
Lucy took my arm as the maids began to guide the female guests upstairs. ‘Please excuse us, Douglas,’ she said. ‘This will be fun and I’m sure Emma doesn’t want to miss it.’
Caroline had planned that her own bedroom and boudoir on the first floor would be available for the ladies to leave their coats and wraps and to complete their toilettes. This way the doyennes of the old elite would be treated to a view of her magnificent rococo-style bed and her gold and mirrored bathroom with its solid marble tub.
‘I can’t imagine what this staircase alone must have cost,’ one female guest whispered to Mrs Schorer as Lucy and I followed them upstairs. At the top, we almost bumped into Mrs Warburg, who had stopped to stare at the ornate ceiling.
Some of the older women acted as if the French silks that decorated Caroline’s bedroom were nothing new to them, but the younger women gasped over the gilded columns that surrounded the canopied bed.
‘What do you think that’s for?’ one of them asked, pointing to the ceremonial railing around the bed. ‘Is it to keep her husband out, or to keep him in?’
After adjusting their costumes and fixing their hair in Caroline’s boudoir with its frieze depicting the triumph of Cupid and its cabinets inlaid with gold and ivory, the ladies joined the gentlemen again for a parade of costumes up to the third floor and the ballroom.
The ballroom had been spectacularly decorated to simulate the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles. Cascades of pink and white orchids and roses dangled over the walls and bowers of them flanked the doorways. The guests gasped at the mirrored arches reflecting the trompe l’oeil windows opposite that depicted scenes of parterre gardens. The gilded sculptured gueridons holding crystal lights showed how far Caroline had gone for authenticity, while the barrel-vaulted ceiling with paintings that glorified the reign of Louis XIV had everyone staring upwards. Large and small solid silver chandeliers dangling
from the ceiling set off everything to sparkling effect.
A forty-piece orchestra borrowed from the Metropolitan Opera played the overture from André Ernest Modeste Grétry’s opera Le Magnifique. The music was so elegant that it sent shivers of pleasure through me. Spectacular music always evoked deep emotions in me. An unexpected harmony, a sudden change in rhythm, or the moment when a soloist entered a piece could send me into a state of euphoria.
‘You know that Marie Antoinette fell in love with Grétry’s music?’ Grace said, standing at my side. ‘She appointed him her personal music director. Even the new regime was enamoured of him. When he died, Napoleon gave him the most opulent funeral ever held for a creative artist. The story goes that half of Paris turned out to follow the funeral cortege.’
‘I didn’t know what to expect when Caroline planned this ball,’ I said. ‘I was anticipating something showy . . . but this . . . this is beautiful.’
The ball began with a quadrille d’honneur: Oliver led Isadora down the length of the parquet floor, which the servants had scrubbed with milk to a high shine the day before. I was happy to see father and daughter together, and wished Oliver would make more time for Isadora. Then I recalled what he’d said to me about Isadora being Caroline’s domain. I could well imagine that it might be Caroline who kept them apart.
Isadora and Oliver were joined in the courtly dance by the other debutantes of the season and their partners. I noticed Lucy slip a piece of paper from her sleeve and peruse it. She had compiled a list of gentlemen known to be good dancers who would come to the aid of any young woman who should find herself without a partner. ‘There will be no tears at this ball,’ Lucy had confided in me. ‘I will make sure of that.’
After several more quadrilles, the rest of the guests were invited to dance. Douglas, as my dinner partner, led me onto the floor.
‘Did you know that Count von Fersen wanted to rescue Marie Antoinette?’ he asked me. ‘He planned to ride into Paris with some cavalry officers.’
The Invitation Page 24