‘I haven’t seen it,’ said Mrs Green. ‘Have you looked everywhere in your room, Miss Lacasse?’
‘Everywhere,’ I told her. ‘It was on my desk yesterday.’
‘But not this morning?’
‘I didn’t notice it this morning because I was rushing to get ready for the motor car parade.’
‘Well, we’ll have to ask Jennie about it when she returns tomorrow.’
I couldn’t see any way that Grand-maman’s picture could have vanished unless someone had taken it. But why? The frame was silver, but there were much more valuable items in the house to steal if one of the servants was a thief. Then my mind turned to Caroline. I had gone to speak to her in the morning room before the parade and she had slammed the drawer of her desk shut as if there was something in it she didn’t want me to see. For what perverse reason she would have taken the picture I couldn’t say, and I certainly couldn’t confront her outright. I would have to look in her desk drawer when she wasn’t home.
I’d lost the urge to write and headed to the library to comfort myself with a book. I had only been in the room less than a minute when Caroline burst in, followed by Oliver. He slammed the door after him, his face as red as his hair and his eyes narrow with fury.
Caroline wheeled to confront him. ‘What’s the meaning of this behaviour, Oliver?’ she asked imperiously. Then noticing me she said, ‘Emma, you had better leave the room.’
‘Stay where you are, Emma!’ Oliver said, standing between me and the door. ‘I want you to hear this too. I want you to know the truth about your sister.’
The blood pumped in my ears. I had never seen Oliver this angry.
‘Tell that maggot you are finished with him,’ he shouted at Caroline. ‘And find another architect to build the house in Newport or don’t build it at all! I’m not paying a man to make a fool of me!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replied Caroline.
‘You don’t, do you? Explain to me then why Colonel Mann approached me today at the picnic and knew all about you and Harland.’
‘If any of the servants have been gossiping, I’ll dismiss them immediately,’ said Caroline, her voice rising indignantly.
I was astounded that she showed no remorse about the affair or fear of being exposed publicly.
‘Mann wants ten thousand dollars to keep the story out of Town Topics,’ Oliver said. ‘God knows what’s making you behave so stupidly over that fool, Caroline. I’ve turned a blind eye until now but it seems you haven’t got the sense to be discreet. If it wasn’t for Isadora and Grace, I’d tell Mann to go ahead and print the damn story!’
‘Well, what else was I supposed to do?’ Caroline said coldly. ‘You’re always working. You’re not interested in the new house. You’re not interested in me. And you’re not exactly perfect yourself. What about Cora Branson? I didn’t make a fuss about her.’
It was horrifying to witness Caroline turning the blame onto Oliver and making herself the injured party. Oliver’s face took on a tortured expression and he sank into an armchair, wincing as if he was remembering something painful.
‘That was years ago,’ he said. ‘After William . . . And I never brought her into our house. There was never a hint of gossip.’
Caroline straightened, pleased that she’d delivered an effective strike. ‘If you’re so worried about gossip, I can hardly fire Harland now and hire another architect. You’re going to have to carry on as if everything is normal. The Duke is here now and we have to think of Isadora.’
Oliver’s eyes screwed tight. ‘Do you think of Isadora?’
‘What do you mean?’ Caroline shot back. ‘How dare you imply I don’t think about my daughter. Sometimes it seems like I’m the only one who thinks of her! You don’t care any more about Isadora than you did about William. You brought that fever home from the factory floor — the doctor was sure of it. And where were you when our son was dying? I was the only one by his side.’
Oliver looked stricken. ‘You know I was in San Francisco when I heard he was ill. I got on a train immediately!’
‘But you were too late,’ Caroline hissed at him. ‘You’ve never been there for us. Never!’
Oliver sank his head into his hands. He was still and tense. I expected him to respond, but he said nothing. I realised how accurate Isadora had been about her mother’s ability to attack people where it would hurt most.
‘So you will turn me into a cuckold for a man who’ll flit off to someone else the first chance he gets?’ Oliver said quietly. ‘After all I’ve done for you?’
‘All you’ve done for me?’ Caroline regarded him with contempt. ‘You’d still be floundering around like a backwoodsman if it wasn’t for me. It was I who made you great!’
Oliver lifted his face and stared at her stonily, as if he was finally seeing the real person he’d married. ‘I took the blame for you over that poor Dempsy fellow after you callously left him lying in the street. I paid the witnesses to say that I was behind the wheel of my motor car that day, and then paid more money still to the press so they didn’t report the death.’
My mind blurred with shock. Caroline had killed Angus Dempsy, not Oliver? A picture of Mrs Dempsy and her children in that dingy room rose up in my memory. My sister had done that to them! I wanted to rise to my feet and flee the room, so overwhelming was my horror at the revelation. But I couldn’t move. I had turned to stone.
‘You did it because having a wife in gaol would have been bad for your business,’ Caroline replied without a note of remorse. ‘A man could get away with such a thing but not a woman.’
Oliver cast his eyes over her. ‘If you continue this ridiculous affair with Harland,’ he said, ‘I will be forced to shoot him. I will hang for it and my death will be on your head.’
It should have sounded like an impassioned threat, but Oliver’s calm tone made the warning all the more menacing.
‘Don’t overreact,’ Caroline said. ‘You always overreact —’
But before she could finish, Oliver had left the room. We heard him shout to Woodford to have the carriage brought around, and then he was gone.
Caroline turned to me, expecting me to offer some words of support. But I couldn’t speak.
She considered me with a curious expression, as if thinking about how much to tell me. ‘The man I hit was a known drunkard. He stepped out right in front of me.’
‘He had a family, Caroline. A wife and children.’ I couldn’t continue.
She lifted her eyebrows, no doubt wondering how I knew anything about Angus Dempsy. ‘If that man had a family who needed him, why was he spending his money on drink? Ask yourself that before you look at me that way. And remember: you still have debts. I can very quickly write to Monsieur Depaul to tell Roche & Associates that I have withdrawn my support. Paulette will be out on the street before you even get back to Paris.’
I should have expected the threat but it still drew me up short. I was under my sister’s thumb, and she not only knew it but relished it. I had no choice but to comply with her if I wanted to protect Paulette.
I stood, locked eyes with Caroline for a brief moment, then left the library, burning with impotent anger.
When my cheque arrived for the three stories that had been published in New York City Magazine, I forwarded it to Cecilia with a note: Please make sure this money goes to Mrs Dempsy and her children.
The amount would help for a month or two, but it wasn’t going to change that family’s life. It was merely my pathetic attempt to make amends for having a monster for a sister.
TWENTY-NINE
Lucy brought news of Oliver the following day. Caroline had commanded me to join them in the drawing room, but it was impossible for me to look my sister in the face after finding out it was she who had killed Angus Dempsy.
‘Oliver’s staying at the Hotel Chelsea,’ Lucy told Caroline. ‘Fortunately that’s also where the Duke and Mr Whitlock have suites so it merely looks as though you�
��ve cleared the house of men so you can concentrate on the rumoured wedding preparations.’ She paused, looking unsure of herself for the first time since I’d known her. ‘But given the gossip that was circulating at the motor car parade, you’d better invite the Hunters for afternoon tea today to put on a show of unity. This is a very sensitive time for there to be any suggestion of things being less than harmonious in the Hopper family.’
When Grace and Harland arrived later that afternoon, Grace was as beautiful as ever in a pastel blue chiffon and lace dress. With her dark hair and fine features she resembled a pretty bellflower. But her eyes were full of despair. I wondered how this woman who could do anything with her life that she chose remained caught in an empty and abusive marriage.
Then I remembered Caroline’s threat to me the evening before. She’s got us all trapped, I thought, as I watched her pour tea for Harland and Grace and share some private joke with Lucy. She’s got each of us exactly where she wants us. We are entangled in her web, unable to break free.
It was a welcome relief when Isadora burst into the room. She looked flushed and excited. ‘My sculptures have come back from the founding firm. I want you all to come see them.’
We followed Isadora to her studio where Mr Gadley was waiting. He had dressed for the occasion in a grey suit with a bowtie and winged collar shirt, and his normally unruly hair was combed to the side.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman,’ he said, leading us towards a bench where several sculptures each about fifty inches high had been arranged. There were deer, foxes, horses, bears and various species of birds. ‘I present to you the magnificent work of Miss Isadora Hopper!’
I gazed at the sculptures in amazement. They had been formed in a dark brown bronze and were so beautifully observed and composed it was as if the animals were alive. A doe nudged her fawn with tenderness. Two horses rubbed their heads together in friendship. A bear stood on its hind legs and sniffed the air for danger.
‘Isadora,’ said Grace, astonishment in her voice, ‘you are exceptionally gifted!’
‘The patina and the texture are perfect for the forms,’ I told her. ‘Much better even than marble.’
Isadora sent a look of gratitude to her teacher. ‘The founding firm Mr Gadley took them to hire some of the best mould-makers, casters, chasers and patineurs.’
Harland was staring at the sculptures with his hand on his chin. Why hadn’t he said anything? He worked with sculptors all the time; surely he could recognise talent when he saw it.
Caroline stepped towards the bench and cast her eye over Isadora’s work. She appreciated enough about art to judge these weren’t ordinary pieces. I could see her mind ticking over and understood my sister well enough to guess that she was trying to gauge what this meant for her. How would having a brilliant artist for a daughter work in her favour?
Mr Gadley caught her expression too and seized his opportunity. ‘Mrs Hopper, I assure you that your daughter is a sculptor of the very first rank. The market for private sculpture has exploded in the city, and she could easily be selling her work for twenty-five to three hundred dollars a piece through Tiffany & Co or the emporium of Shreve, Crump & Low. But as she is an artist who has no need to earn an income, she could concentrate on important commissions. The United States wants to make its mark and there are sculpture committees springing up all over the city. The Metropolitan Museum of Art would be interested in a great work by an American artist, for example.’
‘There are no public monuments in New York City created by a woman,’ Lucy said dismissively.
‘Not yet,’ I replied. Everyone turned to me but I kept my eyes on Caroline, trying to measure her reaction. I could see what Mr Gadley and Isadora were attempting to do, and I wanted to support them. ‘There are no heroic statues of women in the city. Who better to sculpt those statues than a woman herself?’
Caroline’s eyes gleamed and I knew I was hitting my mark. Who was she picturing herself as the model for? Jeanne d’Arc?
‘But first . . .’ said Isadora.
Caroline woke from her dream and turned to her daughter. ‘But first . . . what?’
Mr Gadley cleared his throat. ‘But first Miss Hopper must study in Paris for at least a year under a master at the École des Beaux-Arts. It will give her great prestige. Then she must enter a significant work in the Paris Salon. She is more than capable of achieving such success. I will tell you again, Mrs Hopper: your daughter is exceptional.’
Grace grasped my fingers and squeezed them. We waited for Caroline’s response.
‘Paris?’ Caroline shook her head. ‘But Isadora is to marry the Duke. He wouldn’t want his young bride to spend a year in Paris.’
He wouldn’t care, I thought. As long as she produced an heir and put on a good show when required, he wouldn’t care if she lived at the North Pole as long as he had her dowry to spend.
‘She could stay with me in Paris,’ I said. ‘I would go with her to her classes every day. There would be nothing unseemly about that.’
Isadora mouthed ‘Thank you’ to me.
Caroline was always so sure of her own opinions that I expected her to give her verdict straight away. But to my surprise she turned to Harland.
‘What do you think?’ she asked him. ‘This is very risky. But then if Isadora is exceptional . . .’
Harland removed his hand from his chin. ‘What do I think? I think I’ve never heard such drivel in my life! These sculptures are good enough for a department store, but they are not brilliant.’
Caroline’s face froze while the rest of us were shocked into silence.
‘You are being hoodwinked by this teacher,’ Harland continued. ‘He wants to make a name for himself and he wants Isadora’s money to do it.’
Mr Gadley’s complexion turned a greenish-white. ‘Why would you accuse me of such a terrible thing, sir? I am a teacher at the renowned Art Students League of New York. I know brilliance when I see it!’
‘Do you?’ Harland said with a laugh. ‘More than I do? Look at this house, Gadley. I designed it as well as other monumental houses and buildings all over New York City. Where is your work? Do you have some obscure piece in a park in Louisville with pigeon shit all over it?’
Poor Mr Gadley. His polite, gentlemanly manner was no match for Harland. Now I understood what Grace lived with every day.
Harland turned to Isadora. ‘Even if you were very talented, which you’re not, it’s near impossible for a woman to succeed as an artist. Have some sense, you silly girl! Marry your duke and be a duchess. Produce babies, not art. That is the life for you.’
Isadora’s whole body had turned rigid. She looked as though she had stopped breathing.
‘Will you stop it, Harland!’ Grace cried. It was the first time I’d ever heard her raise her voice. ‘Just stop it!’
Harland flashed her a look that was potent with violence and Grace withdrew into herself.
‘I leave it up to you, Caroline,’ he said. ‘Isadora is your daughter. But Lucy has set up everything so well with the Duke. You should consider the consequences carefully. Isadora will fail in her endeavour to be an artist and then where will you be? Permelia’s sister will marry the Duke, and you will be the laughing stock of New York.’
Mr Gadley rallied himself. ‘If you won’t believe me, Mrs Hopper, I will bring the great Augustus Saint-Gaudens himself here to view the work. Please don’t destroy Isadora’s . . . Miss Hopper’s spirit.’
Caroline glared at Mr Gadley’s slip. I too realised something that I hadn’t before. The exchange of envelopes at the end of each lesson — what had they been? Letters? Oh, poor Isadora! She and Mr Gadley were in love.
Caroline’s mouth hardened and a steely look came to her eyes. ‘Mr Gadley, you have deceived me and broken my trust. I allowed you into my home and you have led my daughter astray. You will leave this house immediately, and if you ever try to return I shall have you arrested.’
‘Send me away,’ he said, his vo
ice hoarse and broken, ‘but don’t destroy your daughter —’
‘I am the best judge of what’s good for my daughter,’ snapped Caroline. ‘Now go!’
Mr Gadley gave Isadora one last adoring glance before he left the room. Isadora burst into tears.
‘Why would you do such a thing?’ she asked Harland. ‘What have I ever done to you?’
‘Enough, Isadora!’ said Caroline. ‘You’ve made fools of us. Imagine if word of this got out? I have enough to worry about.’ She squinted at the sculptures and shook her head. ‘If I hear any more of this, I will have those silly animals destroyed and banish you from using this room.’
Caroline left with Harland and Lucy, but I couldn’t abandon Isadora. Grace stayed with us too.
‘Why did Harland do that?’ Isadora asked, sobbing pitifully. ‘He knows how much Mother values his opinion. Surely he could see how unique the sculptures are?’
Grace clenched her fists. ‘Because my husband is a terrible man! He enjoys destroying people. I hate him and I wish him —’
Her voice cracked and she stopped herself, but I knew what she had been about to say because I was thinking the same thing.
We both wished Harland Hunter dead.
I stopped writing and tapped my pen. It was two in the morning and silence reigned over the house and the street outside. Only the clock on the mantelpiece ticked monotonously.
After the events of today I had been too agitated to sleep. I had tried to relax by reading, but a story was brewing in my head and the only way to calm myself was to spill it out into my notebook.
Ralph Richards was the most envied man in New York City. Coming from Swedish stock, his golden Nordic looks and tall stature were striking. The finest suits and shoes were given to him by the best tailors and cobblers on Sixth Avenue with gladness. He ate at Delmonico’s and Sherry’s for free, because whatever Ralph Richards wore or wherever he went, New York society was sure to follow. He was married to a great beauty who was both cultured and charming; and he designed houses and interiors for the wealthiest families in the city. His life was a whirlwind of invitations to fabulous balls, exclusive dinners, elite clubs and luxurious estates. Men admired him and women desired him. Ralph Richards seemed pre-destined for glory — which made the ghastly nature of his death all the more horrific.
The Invitation Page 34