The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  Mr Whitlock took a sip of wine. ‘Perhaps it was the terrifying painting my aunt had in her library of Major Patrick Ferguson being shot from his horse during the American Revolution.’

  Lucy threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well, I can assure you we are not savages, Mr Whitlock.’

  ‘That is obvious from the present company,’ he replied, glancing at Isadora. ‘But it is astounding what impressions we carry from childhood.’

  ‘My ancestors fought the French, but that doesn’t stop me enjoying champagne,’ said the Duke, cutting into his partridge pie.

  It could have been an amusing comment but it was delivered with a note of irritation that instantly dampened Lord Randolph’s and Mr Whitlock’s high mood, which I sensed it was intended to do.

  Turning to Isadora, the Duke asked her in French if she knew much about the conflicts between England and France. Although she wasn’t as fluent in French as she was in Italian, she answered that she had read some interesting books on the Norman Conquest and the Anglo-French Wars, but knew much more about English art and greatly admired Gainsborough.

  It was quite a complicated subject and I beamed with pride at how much Isadora’s French had improved from our lessons together. It was near perfect — but not perfect enough for the Duke.

  ‘You pronounce French very well,’ he told her in English, ‘but your vocabulary is rather basic. You should read more books in French. That would help.’

  Isadora’s gaze dropped to her dinner plate. She was crestfallen. I wanted to kick the Duke under the table. He was no better than Caroline and Lucy in his patronising superiority towards her.

  ‘I’ve never been good at foreign languages,’ Lord Randolph told her cheerfully. ‘I’m as thick as a plank. That little exchange sounded most impressive to me.’

  ‘Randolph is very modest,’ Lady Clara said, smiling at her brother. ‘He excelled in his studies in law at Oxford rather than wasting his time there as many other young gentlemen do.’ Turning to me, she asked, ‘Is it true you are a writer, Miss Lacasse? That sounds terribly exciting.’

  ‘I write mainly mystery and fantasy stories,’ I told her. ‘I’m currently working on a novel.’

  Lord Randolph put down his fork. ‘I should very much like to read your stories, Miss Lacasse. Are you published in English?’

  It was impossible not to like Lord Randolph, I thought, as I answered his question. I would be much happier if Caroline and Lucy were trying to match him with Isadora rather than his sullen brother, but as a second son Lord Randolph had no title, and wouldn’t as long as his brother remained alive. A title was what Caroline wanted most.

  After the guests had left, and Oliver and Isadora had retired to bed, Caroline and Lucy called me into the library.

  ‘Well, what’s your impression of the Duke?’ Caroline asked me, her eyes shining.

  I was sure she’d already made up her mind, but for Isadora’s sake I was compelled to speak up. ‘His brother and sister are nice. But the Duke himself is rather dour.’

  ‘Dour?’ repeated Caroline, pulling at her earlobe. ‘No, I think he is merely serious. And a bit of seriousness in a young man isn’t a terrible fault.’

  ‘He has a lot of responsibility on his shoulders,’ added Lucy. ‘He’s only twenty-five and yet he’s inherited one of the largest duchies in the United Kingdom. Lord Randolph can be carefree because he has none of his brother’s burdens.’

  Caroline nodded as if Lucy’s observation should assuage any misgivings I had about the Duke’s personality.

  ‘It also pays to remember that Englishmen don’t need women the way American men do,’ Lucy continued. ‘They are self-reliant and often not expressive in their emotions. It’s best to compare them to a solid rock: a person who can be relied upon.’

  Caroline clapped her hands together. ‘The Duke is sounding more suitable for Isadora by the minute.’

  By contrast, I was growing more afraid for Isadora by the minute. Later, when Caroline and I were making our way up to our rooms, I tried again.

  ‘Caroline, have you consulted with Isadora about any of this? Do you know what she wants from her marriage?’

  She stopped walking and stared at me. ‘Isadora is too young to know what she wants. If I asked her, she would say it was to make sculptures all day with Mr Gadley!’ She shook her head. ‘It is a mother’s role to make these decisions for her daughter. You don’t know that because you don’t have a daughter for whom you are responsible.’

  She kissed me goodnight and turned along the corridor towards her room, leaving me stunned at the top of the stairs. Had Caroline intended her comment to sting as badly as it had?

  I puzzled over her lost son, William, and how she had grieved over his death. Isadora was Caroline’s only child now. Didn’t she want to keep her daughter — and her future grandchildren — near to her? Once again, I was at a loss to understand my sister.

  The next day, I confided my worries to Grace while we walked in Central Park.

  ‘Well, unless Caroline gets that marriage announcement out soon, the Duke might indeed be snapped up by somebody else,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘Young American heiresses are crazy about European titles in a way my generation never was. If you have worries about the Duke’s personality, take comfort in the knowledge that a pushier girl than Isadora might snatch him.’

  ‘Caroline is pushy enough for the both of them.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she said. ‘But many of the transatlantic marriages are organised by skilled brokers in London. One of them may already have someone in mind for the Duke.’

  We stopped to watch a pair of squirrels scamper across the snow and race up a tree.

  ‘The English mothers can’t be happy about all these American women coming to steal the titled men they had marked out for their daughters from birth,’ I said.

  ‘Not happy at all, I imagine. But what can they do? The decline in England’s rural economy has left most of the landed gentry on the verge of ruin. They view cashed-up American heiresses hungering for the status of a British title as an opportunity to save their beloved estates and preserve their family names.’ Grace linked her arm with mine to guide me out of the way of two small children gliding down the slope on a toboggan. ‘While the Duke may be dour, at least there are no rumours to suggest he’s a degenerate — unlike the Prince of Wales and the Marlborough set.’ She cast her eyes down. ‘Besides, it’s often said that arranged marriages work out better in the long run than those made for love. The couple involved have much more realistic expectations of each other.’

  I knew she was referring to her own marriage and put my hand on her shoulder to console her.

  She drew a measured breath and continued. ‘You could consider it as an opportunity for Isadora: she would be closer to you in Paris and far away from Caroline’s control. And the women in England aren’t idle like we are here. They’re expected to be involved in philanthropic activities and to assist the political responsibilities of their husbands. Isadora might come into her own.’

  Perhaps England would give Isadora a chance to be independent. But I couldn’t shake my fears that the Duke might make her miserable.

  ‘I get the impression that he’s one of those people who can’t be questioned,’ I told Grace. ‘And if you disagree with him, he’ll get up and leave the room.’

  Her good humour returned and she winked at me. ‘That could work out well for Isadora if ever she wanted to rid herself of him for a while!’

  The idea of Isadora manipulating the Duke that way amused me. ‘She’s smart, but she’s not that ruthless.’

  Grace’s expression turned dark again. ‘None of us are at that age. Ruthlessness is something marriage teaches us.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  My first harp recital at Charles Garrett House was for a gathering of deserted wives. After Florence had set me up with a chair and Cecilia had introduced me, I commenced Debussy’s Rêverie. As I played, I glanced up now and then at the car
eworn faces of my audience. Some of the women’s hands were blistered and raw from their work in factories and as cleaners. One woman looked like her nose had been broken in two places; a parting gift from her husband perhaps? I was moved to see how the music gradually transformed the women’s demeanours: their shoulders relaxed and smiles came to their lips. I now understood what Cecilia had been trying to explain to me: that these downtrodden people needed beauty to make them feel alive again after their spirits had been deadened by drudgery and the horror of their surroundings.

  My mind flashed to Cecilia’s latest article on the exploitation of workers in New York City, which I’d read on my way to the recital:

  After the sacrifice of the Civil War, it seems that all that has been achieved is a new type of slavery. The hostility of unions towards female workers makes their burden even more onerous and puts them completely at the mercy of men like Oliver Hopper, the richest man in America . . .

  That my family was contributing to the suffering of the women in front of me filled me with shame. How was it that Caroline was so unconflicted about her obscene wealth and the source of it? Why couldn’t she look beyond herself and feel empathy for others?

  ‘That was sublime,’ said Florence when I’d finished. ‘It’s so often overlooked how a simple act of kindness can transform the life of someone in need. I haven’t seen joy in some of these women’s eyes for months, and you stirred it in them, Emma.’

  I was touched by Florence’s kind words but still felt my contribution to have been inadequate. It was Caroline who had the real power to change these women’s lives, yet she would never do it.

  While Florence and Cecilia laid out a supper of fruit cake and custard, I spoke to some of the women.

  ‘It would have been better if he’d divorced me,’ a mother with a baby in her arms told me. ‘Then at least I’d be free to find myself another man. I can’t get any help from the charities — too many people take advantage of them, lying that they’ve been deserted when their husband’s still at home.’

  Although it was a dishonest thing to do, I couldn’t blame people for it when they were desperate and couldn’t make enough money to feed themselves and their children.

  The other women told similar stories, but it was Hadassah’s situation that disturbed me the most. She was younger than me, but her hair was grey and her skin was as wrinkled as a walnut. She worked in a factory during the day and finished blouses for another factory when she returned home at night. Astonishingly, her husband still lived with her. She openly admitted it, and none of the other women reproved her for claiming to have been deserted. I wondered why.

  ‘Hadassah’s husband is an idler,’ Florence explained to me later. ‘He is happy for Hadassah to work herself into nervous exhaustion while he sits in a café reading newspapers. He says it was her decision to come to the United States, and it was a bad one, so she’s the one who has to make things better.’

  ‘But they’re Russian Jews, aren’t they?’ I asked. ‘They had to flee for their lives. They had no choice.’

  Cecilia shrugged. ‘There is no logic to the arguments given by an abusive husband.’

  ‘Can’t she throw him out?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. Jewish divorce law is stacked in his favour.’

  At the end of the evening, while Florence, Cecilia and I were cleaning the dishes, Florence asked me what I thought of the women I’d met.

  ‘It makes me appreciate how fortunate I am to have Claude,’ I told them. ‘I can’t imagine being trapped by a man who abuses you then deserts you.’

  ‘By the way, you must be proud of Claude,’ said Florence, handing me a plate to dry. ‘I haven’t been to his exhibition yet because I’ve been preparing for my own, but do tell him I’ll see him early next week. The review in the New York Times was very enthusiastic.’

  I stared at the plate in my hand. A strange numbness started in my toes and spread up the backs of my legs, locking me in the moment so I couldn’t move. Claude was here in New York and hadn’t told me? Florence must be wrong. She had to be. I couldn’t fathom that Claude could have come to New York and not written to me.

  ‘Are you all right, Emma?’

  I looked Florence in the eyes. She didn’t believe it was possible either. That’s why she’d assumed I knew.

  ‘Claude didn’t tell me,’ I began.

  ‘About the review?’ she said with a grin. ‘It’s not like him to be so shy.’ She walked into the pantry and came out with a newspaper. ‘I’ve got a copy here. Take it.’

  My heart pounded as I approached the art gallery on Lexington Avenue where the exhibition was being held. Through the glass doors I saw dozens of paintings set against red-ochre walls.

  A bell tinkled as I entered, and a man with white hair stood up from behind a desk to welcome me. He was an American, not Claude’s dealer, Maignat.

  ‘You have an interest in French paintings?’ he asked. ‘This is a special exhibition of France’s younger, more progressive artists.’

  ‘I am a friend of Claude Tremblay,’ I told him.

  I immediately recognised some of Claude’s paintings and moved towards them. The open-air landscapes, the social scenes, the detailed portraits with their intriguing facial expressions — everything brimmed with life.

  ‘There are more here,’ said the dealer, leading me to another wall.

  Claude had been prolific! And now I had an explanation for his silence, for this amount of work would have taken intense concentration.

  My eyes moved from a painting of two men in a rowing boat to one of a young woman with clear blue eyes, dark straight eyebrows and a well-defined chin. The portrait was exceptional for its immediate impression of freshness and the purity of its colours, but it was the radiance of the subject that was most captivating. The girl looked directly out of the painting at the viewer. She was somebody who knew what she wanted.

  ‘Who is she?’ I asked the gallery owner. ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘She’s a milliner who wants to be a painter. Her name is Lise. She models in return for lessons.’

  I nodded. ‘Did some of the artists come to New York for the exhibition?’

  His answer sent a sharp pain through me. ‘Yes, they are all here. They arrived a fortnight ago.’ He indicated a staircase at the back of the gallery. ‘Would you like to meet some of them?’

  At first I hardly understood what he had said. A fortnight ago? Why hadn’t Claude told me he was coming to New York? Why hadn’t he invited me to the opening? Was he hoping to surprise me?

  I went upstairs, but didn’t recognise any of the artists who were sitting around a table drinking coffee. They were eager to have the opportunity to discuss New York with another French person.

  ‘American collectors are different to Europeans,’ said a dark-haired artist with a pencil moustache. ‘Americans buy because something appeals to them, not because they expect the painting will appreciate in value.’

  ‘They’re happy to purchase something and consider it a loss,’ agreed one of his colleagues. ‘I like that attitude. They appreciate art for what it really is.’

  I tried to follow their excited chatter but my mind was foggy. ‘Do you know where Claude is this afternoon?’ I finally managed to ask.

  ‘He and some of the others went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art,’ answered the artist with the moustache.

  ‘What time will he be back?’

  ‘Everybody will be here for the evening exhibition, which begins at eight o’clock. You are welcome to return then, or I can leave him a message.’

  ‘I’ll return,’ I replied.

  When I walked out into the winter sunshine, the streets were full of New Yorkers rushing here and there in a purposeful manner but my whole world had turned to slow motion. I deliberated over going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art myself, and trying to find Claude there.

  At that moment, I heard his laugh. ‘One day our art will be in that museum too!’ he said.

>   I spun around to see him approaching the gallery. Our gazes met in instant recognition. The beauty of those eyes was deeply familiar to me, but something in their expression had shifted. My body turned rigid, as if girding itself to face some ill.

  I glanced at the girl who was clinging to his arm, not in a friendly way but as a lover. She was the girl from the picture: Lise.

  ‘Emma!’ Claude cried. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you.’

  His voice was high and tight; not the warm voice that used to send tingles down my spine. It was the voice of a man speaking to a distant acquaintance rather than his beloved.

  My voice too seemed to be coming from far away. ‘You didn’t tell me you were in New York. I read about the exhibition in the newspaper.’

  My palms were sweating, drenching my gloves. All the plans, hopes and dreams I’d held for years were pouring out of me through my skin.

  ‘I’m Lise,’ the girl said, giving me a vivacious smile. She was even prettier in real life than in the painting. Everything about her was vivid, from her sparkling eyes to the big red bow she wore around her neck. She was young too, no more than eighteen.

  ‘You must be the Emma they talk about in the café in Montmartre,’ she went on. ‘You’ve been here in New York a while, haven’t you? You must love it here. It’s so exciting!’

  You stopped writing, Claude. Why did you stop writing? I wanted to say the words aloud but my lips wouldn’t open. I had been shocked into silence. The answer was standing in front of me, wearing a red bow and chatting incessantly.

  In A Tale of a Lonely House, when my character Genevieve succumbs to the poison her husband has given her, she sees her body being taken away by the undertaker, and is surprised to find herself still sitting in an armchair by the fire. That was the sensation I experienced now: I was observing a scene I was strangely no longer part of.

  ‘Your paintings are superb, Claude,’ I managed to get out, as if we were neighbours having a friendly exchange on the street.