‘That muckraker exaggerated the situation for her own purpose,’ Caroline said firmly. ‘Of course not everyone lives as splendidly as we do, but most people in the city have nice apartments and comfortable lives. This is the wealth capital of the United States after all! Cecilia West wants to make a name for herself by playing on the jealousy people feel towards the rich. What she failed to mention is these people wouldn’t have work at all if it wasn’t for men like Oliver or Franklin Harper or Newton Graham. They’re the ones who take all the risks to start an enterprise; the ones who suffer sleepless nights because they’ve put everything they have on the line. Oliver started out with nothing, but he was industrious, diligent and ingenious. Life has simply rewarded him for those qualities.’
‘But, Mother,’ protested Isadora, ‘that was an excessive amount to spend on my debut. We could have had a nice affair with much less than that and given the rest to charity.’
Caroline visibly bristled at the word ‘charity’. ‘I don’t believe people should get something for nothing,’ she said. ‘Your ball generated a lot of money for the seamstresses who made the costumes, as well as the hairdressers, wigmakers, caterers and florists.’
Isadora seemed about to say something else, but pursed her lips. She and I both knew we’d never win this argument with her mother.
‘As for the condition of the housing on the Lower East Side, the tenants themselves are to blame for that,’ Caroline continued. ‘Mrs Warburg told me that she’s forever paying for repairs because of the slovenly way those people choose to live.’ I must have had a dubious look on my face because she became insistent. ‘It is a choice, Emma, believe me. I’ll give you an example. Oliver’s sister, Anne, was one of those women forever trying to do good for others. It came to her attention that one of the workers at the textile factory had developed gout so painfully that he could no longer stand, and several of his children had rickets. She took it upon herself to find the family a home in the countryside where both the husband and wife could do light work on a farm and have plenty of healthy food and fresh air for their children. Within three weeks they were all back in their hovel in the Bowery. When Anne asked the wife about this, she replied: “It was too quiet for us in the country. We like to be where the activity is.”’ Caroline threw up her hands. ‘You can’t help those people if you try! They are used to living in slums and ghettos!’
Caroline’s arrogant attitude angered me and I couldn’t resist challenging her. ‘But what about Douglas Hardenbergh? According to the papers he owns hundreds of tenement properties in New York.’
Caroline rolled her eyes. ‘Dragging Douglas Hardenbergh into it only shows how little proper investigation was done. He of all people has been extremely generous with his tenants, only to find that the fire escapes he had installed into all his properties at great expense are so packed with refuse they would be no use at all in an emergency.’
‘I can’t help feeling sorry for the children who live in the tenements,’ Isadora said. ‘Whatever their parents do or don’t do isn’t the children’s fault.’
Caroline rose, bringing the discussion to an end. ‘We all choose our destinies. Now, you two go and get dressed for dinner. We are going with the Harpers to Delmonico’s. We’ll hold our heads high and show the world that the Hopper family won’t be daunted.’
TWENTY-TWO
I met Cecilia at her apartment in Greenwich Village as requested the following week. From there, we walked in the direction of Bleecker Street through a neighbourhood where so many different accents rang out from the shops, wagons and beer halls that if everyone was dressed in suits instead of overalls and aprons we could have been at the Hague Convention. We turned a corner past a barber shop and a coffee house where the tables and chairs had been fashioned from upturned beer barrels, and then into a street where the tenement houses were as bleak and dilapidated as those I’d seen on the Lower East Side. With less than a foot of space between them, the buildings rose five to seven storeys high and many of them had makeshift wooden buildings attached where the poorest of the poor lived. But what was exceptional about this street was that in the middle of the squalid block stood an elegant mansion with tidy black shutters and gleaming white columns. In the late evening light I could see that the windows were clean and the roof in good repair.
Cecilia led me towards the front door. ‘Welcome to Charles Garrett House,’ she said. ‘It’s named after Florence’s father who purchased the building for us.’
The entrance was beautifully appointed, with water-silk floral wallpaper and parquet flooring. A fireplace kept it warm and inviting, and above the mantelpiece hung a painting of two women playing the guitar. I stepped towards it to examine it. The signature showed that it was an original Marguerite Gérard. Through a set of double doors I glimpsed a drawing room with damask-covered chairs and more fine art. The house was an elegant oasis from the grim world outside its walls, and could have easily belonged on Fifth Avenue, although less grand in size. It was only after I had taken in the pleasant surroundings that I became aware of the patter of light but active footsteps reverberating from the upper floor.
‘Is there a dance school upstairs?’ I asked Cecilia.
She laughed. ‘On Saturday afternoons we do have social dancing in the ballroom, but that’s not the sound you’re hearing.’ She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the entry hall. ‘Wait a moment and see happens next.’
Before long the chatter of women’s voices came from outside. They were mostly Italian accents but I heard some Hungarian and Russian accents too. The door opened and in walked a group of women in woollen coats and felt hats. At the same time the footsteps from upstairs grew louder and dozens of small children appeared, walking in pairs down the staircase, led by Violet and Edna from the Confirmed Bachelor Girls’ Club.
‘Hold on to the banisters,’ Violet told the children. ‘Don’t hurry now. Watch your step.’
But there was no containing the children’s excitement once they had spotted their mothers. They rushed straight into the women’s outstretched arms, each child keen to tell what had happened that day.
‘So this house is a kindergarten?’ I asked Cecilia.
‘During the day it is,’ she said, guiding me up the now free staircase. ‘We started the program so working women with children can avoid the situation you saw Mrs Dempsy in last week — not having a safe place to leave their children when they go to work. Here the women can be certain their children will be fed and well looked after, and bathed if necessary. The older children are taught basic reading and arithmetic skills.’
We reached the first-floor landing and Cecilia opened a door to reveal a room lined with bookshelves where several people were reading at tables with banker’s lamps. ‘We also have this library for adults, and an art gallery. And on the third floor is an artists’ studio where we teach drawing and sculpting.’
‘What is this place?’ I asked as Cecilia ushered me into a room filled with cabinets displaying silverware and fine china. I sat down in the leather armchair she offered me.
‘It’s a settlement house. Do you know what that is?’ she asked, taking the armchair opposite me.
I shook my head.
‘They’re a social experiment that’s been tried with great success in the United Kingdom and some cities here in the United States. We have a few of them starting up in New York. Young college-educated people — or in the case of Charles Garrett House, young college-educated women — leave their comfortable homes to come live among the working classes. The gap between the rich and the poor in this country has become so wide that there are many in the upper classes who no longer view the less wealthy as human beings. That’s why they have no compunction about treating them appallingly.’
Cecilia had described my sister perfectly. I doubted Caroline truly believed all she had said to me and Isadora about the poor creating their own conditions. But perhaps she had told the story so many times to justify herself that
it had come to be true in her mind.
‘This house is a place where we can get together to better understand each other,’ Cecilia continued. ‘We have a social club on Sunday afternoons where the community’s most pressing problems are discussed. That allows the people living in the neighbourhood to come up with solutions for themselves. Florence and I and the other volunteers here then use that information to write articles, lobby politicians and campaign for change in other ways.’
‘Is the house a charity?’
Cecilia shook her head. ‘No, not as such, although we do have some emergency supplies like soap and blankets we can give out, and we host a free spaghetti night twice a week. But our main function is to give people back their humanity. That’s why we offer classes in art and dancing and frequently hold theatre or musical evenings.’
A silver and ivory Asprey teapot in one of the cabinets caught my eye. It must have cost a small fortune. Considering the living conditions outside, weren’t Cecilia and Florence afraid the house would be robbed?
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Cecilia said. ‘You’re asking yourself why we don’t sell all these things to help the poor?’
I blushed, ashamed that I hadn’t been pondering anything as generous as that.
Cecilia rose and took the luxurious teapot out of the cabinet and handed it to me as if to make her point. ‘Many of the immigrants living in squalor in New York were intellectuals and professional people in their home countries, but political or economic circumstances forced them to flee. Instead of paying them fairly, the factory owners use their numbers to drive down their wages and conditions.’
I handed the teapot back to her and she placed it on the low table next to her before sitting down again.
‘You mentioned last week that you want me to do something. What is it?’ I asked.
‘Well, that’s up to you, Emma. We always need well-educated volunteers: we have newsletters that require editing, and conversational English classes where you could be very helpful. But most of all I thought you might like to play the harp or perhaps give readings of your stories.’
I was puzzled by her request. ‘I would be happy to do that, but don’t these people have more pressing needs than to listen to music or a mystery story?’
Cecilia formed a steeple with her hands. ‘The most pressing need these people have is hope. Music, beauty, kindness and understanding provide that.’
‘Well, of course I will help,’ I told her. ‘I would be glad to.’
‘Good,’ she said, rising to put the teapot back in the cabinet.
We walked down the staircase together and to the front door.
‘I’ll be in touch soon,’ she said. ‘Do you know your way back to Washington Square? Or do you need me to accompany you?’
Her eyes flashed and I recognised that the question was a challenge: she wanted to determine if I was afraid of walking through the neighbourhood on my own.
‘I’ll find my way,’ I told her. Then I took a deep breath and met her gaze. ‘I’m not as selfish or as frivolous as you may believe I am.’
She seemed amused by my accusation. Gripping my hand lightly, she shook it. ‘What I think of you doesn’t matter, Emma. What matters is what you think of yourself.’
Before meeting Teddy at the appointed time at Washington Square, I ate dinner in a Romanian bistro. I was excited about the idea of helping at Charles Garrett House but uneasy too. I anticipated my commitment was going to incur Caroline’s disapproval, or maybe she would even forbid it. In the carriage on the way back to Fifth Avenue, I deliberated whether to tell her the truth or not, although it would be difficult to discreetly leave the house lugging my harp with me. Perhaps I could say I was practising a duet with Grace; or I’d been asked to give a series of recitals and readings for select groups at the New York Public Library.
Then I recalled Cecilia’s parting words: What I think of you doesn’t matter, Emma. What matters is what you think of yourself. There was nothing to do but to tell Caroline the truth. Although I needed her to pay my debts, I couldn’t let her control every decision I made in New York.
By the time Teddy brought the carriage to a stop in front of the house, I’d made up my mind that I would tell Caroline straight away. I was brave about the decision until Woodford opened the door for me.
‘Is my sister home yet?’ I asked, my heart racing. ‘I wish to speak to her.’
Woodford’s gaze shifted in a way that made me uneasy. ‘Mrs Hopper returned some time ago, but she retired to her room. She won’t want to be disturbed. Is it a matter of urgency?’
I was both relieved and disappointed I wouldn’t be able to speak to my sister until the morning. ‘No, it can wait. Thank you, Woodford. I assume my niece has gone to bed too? If you could give me one of your oil lamps, I can find my way to my room without you having to turn on all the lights again.’
He lit a miniature oil lamp and handed it to me. ‘Thank you, Miss Lacasse. Goodnight.’
The tiny lamp created a comforting circle of light around me as I climbed the stairs. The shooting pains of panic in my muscles disappeared and my breathing relaxed. Why did the threat of Caroline’s anger fill me with such terror? It wasn’t as though her displeasure could kill me. Hopefully after a good night’s rest I would be able to discuss the matter rationally with her in the morning. But when I reached the landing, I heard a burst of laughter from the wing where Caroline had her bedroom and boudoir. Had she not gone to bed after all and was entertaining a guest in her sitting room? She had done that before with Lucy when she’d stayed overnight after a late dinner or ball.
It fell quiet again, and I turned in the direction of my own room. Then the door to Caroline’s room squeaked open. I slipped into a doorway and turned down my lamp as if I were a thief about to be caught. Caroline’s silhouette, attired in a lace dressing gown, appeared in the doorway with another figure. But it wasn’t Lucy. It was a man — and not Oliver.
The stranger bent his face to Caroline’s and kissed her passionately. I drew back further and stifled a cry. They said something to each other but the words were indistinct, and then the man turned to walk down the hall towards the stairs. In the sliver of light coming from Caroline’s room I recognised him. It was Harland!
Caroline closed the door to her bedroom and the hall was dark again. I stayed where I was, too shocked to move. My heart which had only returned to a regular rhythm a few minutes ago was now beating in a frenzy again. What I had seen couldn’t be real. I had to be dreaming.
Finally, some instinct that I should move lest a maid or servant discover me took over. Bewildered and not thinking to turn up my lamp again, I put one trembling foot in front of the other and returned to my room. I shut the door behind me and stared into the darkness until my eyes ached. A grim sense of foreboding swept over me and I collapsed on the bed.
The following morning, as I dressed for breakfast, I tried to contrive some mistake in my observation to explain the tryst I had witnessed between Caroline and Harland. But in the end I had to face the upsetting truth that my sister was having an affair with her architect.
When I arrived in the dining room, Isadora was already seated at the table.
‘You look tired, Aunt Emma,’ she said, concern wrinkling her forehead. ‘Is everything all right?’
Poor Isadora! I was sure she didn’t know about her mother’s affair. I placed my hand on her arm, feeling more protective of her now than ever. She was on the cusp of womanhood and becoming the mistress of her own house, and instead of supporting her Caroline was running around with Harland!
‘I was up late writing, that’s all,’ I told her.
‘How exciting,’ she said, turning back to her omelette. ‘The best nights are when I wake up with an idea and can pour it out into a notebook, then start work on it the next day. Despite the lack of sleep, those are the days I feel most alive.’
‘Indeed,’ I replied, willing myself not to let my weariness or my anger show.
>
I carried on as best I could through our lessons together that day, but my mind kept turning to Grace. My sister had betrayed not only her husband but her friend. I had grown fond of Grace but how could I carry on seeing her with such a terrible lie between us? Yet if I told her the truth, I feared Caroline would have me thrown out of the house.
My new dilemma far outweighed my worry about telling my sister I intended to volunteer at the settlement house. It played over and over in my mind until I couldn’t stand it any more. After our harp lesson, I told Isadora that I wanted to visit Grace as she had lent me a book I wished to discuss with her. In fact, I had no idea what I would say to Grace when I saw her.
‘Of course,’ replied Isadora. ‘I’m so glad that you two have become friends. I will take the opportunity to pay a call on Rebecca.’
The butler, Aston, showed me into the Hunters’ reception room, and I came to an abrupt stop when I found Augusta Van der Heyden sitting with Grace. They were drinking tea and talking intently together.
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ I told them with an apologetic smile. ‘I was excited to play Grace a difficult harp piece I’ve mastered.’
‘You’re not intruding at all,’ said Grace, rising to greet me. ‘We were discussing the opera last night. The costumes and sets for this season’s Aida are superb. The pageantry is impressive, particularly the triumphal return of Radamès. You must go to see it as soon as you can.’
Grace’s grasp of my hand was affectionate but the skin around her eyes was pinched and I caught the note of strain in her voice. I glanced at Augusta, who smiled at me through tight lips and absently brushed the folds of her skirt. It didn’t look to me as if they’d been discussing the opera.
A maid arrived with more tea, and after she’d left Augusta turned to me. ‘The harp accompaniment in the consecration scene was most effective. I would be interested in your thoughts after you have heard it.’
The Invitation Page 27