The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  As the evening progressed it became clear that not all of Caroline’s friends had remained loyal. When the Potters and the Bishops hadn’t arrived by midnight, Woodford discreetly removed their places at the tables that had been assigned to them.

  The following morning, Caroline ordered her florist to send Harland an enormous arrangement of royal purple and magenta roses set among ferns and ivy. Perhaps she wouldn’t have acted so hastily if she had waited for the arrival of Town Topics a day later.

  Lucy and I were with her in the drawing room when Woodford brought the newspaper on a tray. Caroline read the announcement of Isadora and the Duke’s engagement with satisfaction, then her eyes moved to the article below it. She blanched and the paper slipped from her fingers to the floor. ‘Impossible!’

  Lucy and I exchanged glances and bent for the paper at the same time. We read the article together.

  It seems New York society has a new star hostess in Permelia Frances. For what she lacks in background and education, she certainly makes up for in beauty, charm and wit. While she ignores the rules of convention and leaves a party soon after arriving if she considers it ‘a bore’, her sparkling dinner upon her yacht, in honour of the Grand Duke Boris Vladimirovich of Russia, was definitely the most exciting event of the season, even eclipsing a certain debutante’s costume ball. Guests were served an extraordinary meal of Lobster Newburg and baked alaska by footmen dressed as cupids, and danced to the stirring music of a Hungarian tzigane band.

  As well as the glittering array of wealthy guests from around the globe, the invitees included artists, writers and actors — a mix regularly found in London society but rarely in New York. The most surprising guest of all was a certain architect who, it seems, will be designing the Franceses’ new homes in Manhattan and Newport in a modern style unlike anything that has been seen among the city’s elite before.

  Our eyes went immediately to the article below to confirm who Colonel Mann was writing about. Lucy let out a gasp at the drawing of Harland arriving at the Potters’ musical evening the previous week.

  ‘But he was so sick!’ she cried. ‘He must have been pretending! I can’t believe he could feign a fever like that.’

  Caroline’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘It’s easy to feign a fever. All he had to do was put his thermometer in hot tea when the doctor wasn’t looking.’

  ‘This is utter betrayal,’ said Lucy. ‘I will write to all our friends immediately to tell them that Harland is never to enter their houses again. But what about Grace?’

  Caroline stuck out her chin and squared her shoulders like a general going into battle. ‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘It’s best not to acknowledge the betrayal. Instead we will act as if we pity him. We’ll make a joke of it, as if we don’t care. I will engage another architect for my house in Newport and people will assume that Harland had to run to Permelia because I discarded him.’

  I recalled Carrie Weppler in my story, peering over the cliff and cold-bloodedly viewing the crushed remains of Ralph Richards. Harland had been Caroline’s lover. Was she so obsessed with being superior to everyone that she couldn’t feel anything else at all?

  Then I realised that the terrible suspicion that had been stirring in the back of my mind was true. Caroline had faked her heart attack as surely as Harland had feigned his fever. They were people who stopped at nothing to get what they wanted.

  The unease in the house drove me to seek solitude and I spent the next few afternoons in my room developing my story, which I had titled Death at Waverly.

  I could no longer deny the truth of Caroline’s immoral nature. She had manipulated Isadora into a marriage that was in every way unsuited to her. She held me prisoner by my debts and had even threatened to have Paulette thrown out of our apartment and onto the street. Yet despite all this, the ties that bound us were too strong to break completely; I could not bring myself to emotionally disown her as much as I desired to. Some part of me was waiting for Caroline to show a glimmer of the fine person Grand-maman had believed she could be.

  One afternoon while Isadora and the Duke were out making calls on society matrons, and I was hard at work on a scene in which the chauffeur reveals to the narrator that the brakes on Ralph Richards’ motor car have been tampered with, there was a loud knock at my door, which caused my pen to skid across the page.

  Jennie burst into the room. ‘Miss Lacasse, please come quickly! Mr Hunter is here demanding to see Mrs Hopper. He’s drunk and I can’t find Woodford, and none of the other servants have the authority to order him to leave. Please come down and tell the footmen they have your permission.’

  ‘Where is my sister?’

  ‘Mrs Hopper is visiting Her Grace, the Duchess of Dorset. I don’t know when she’ll return.’

  Harland was waiting at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes were bloodshot and he was swaying on his feet. But I could see he wasn’t drunk. It was pure rage that was driving him. The whites of his eyes were showing and his teeth were bared.

  I’d been happy to do away with him fictionally, but coming face to face with him, I faltered. I wanted nothing more than to get him out of the house, but I didn’t want to send him home to Grace in his current state.

  ‘Harland, you aren’t well,’ I said. ‘Would you like to sit in the drawing room a while? I will call a doctor.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well,’ he said, sneering. ‘Where is Caroline?’

  At that moment my sister swept through the front door. She didn’t look surprised when she saw Harland.

  ‘Hello, Harland, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I know what you’ve done, Caroline,’ he spat. ‘All my contracts in New York have been cancelled.’

  Caroline stared down her nose at him, as if she were a schoolmistress dealing with an insolent child. ‘It was my understanding that you quit being our architect without notice. I’ve hired a new firm now — and so have all my friends.’

  He lurched towards her. ‘You vengeful bitch! Yes, I went to Permelia’s dinner — is that a crime? It was a darn sight more exciting than one of yours! If one wants to be fashionable, one must mix with fashionable people — not passé ones.’

  The veins popped out on Caroline’s neck. She glared at Harland, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. I tensed, waiting for her to unleash her fury. She thought she had groomed Harland like the rest of us to be wholly in her power. Instead he was proving himself her match.

  ‘You’re the one who is passé, Harland,’ she said, stepping up close to him although she was half his size. ‘I will always be rich. I will always be powerful. But what will you do when all your commissions dry up? Because they will. Permelia Frances doesn’t have the status that I do. She’s a novelty at present — like you. But neither of you have staying power. You’ll soon be finished, with only Grace’s humble fortune to get you by.’

  Two footmen opened a door and peered into the hall. I was about to signal to them to throw Harland out — more alarmed now by Caroline’s potential for violence than Harland’s own — when Woodford turned up with Jennie by his side.

  ‘How dare you insult Mrs Hopper in her home!’ His booming voice echoed around the great hall. ‘If you think you can come here and behave so outrageously you are greatly mistaken, Mr Hunter. If you don’t leave immediately I will summon the police and have you arrested.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Harland said.

  ‘I’m just giving you the facts,’ the butler replied with heroic calm.

  Harland’s nostrils flared. He rolled his shoulders as if preparing for a fight, then thought better of it. He stormed out of the house, sending the pigeons that were foraging on the front steps into flight.

  Caroline lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. ‘Harland made a mistake thinking he could crush me like he did the others,’ she told me. ‘A lot worse could happen than having his contracts cancelled. He’ll see.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  When I had finished my story, I rewrote it
in French and sent it to Monsieur Plamondon with a note.

  The story still needs some reworking, of course, but I thought I would send it in this form for your opinion to see if it is worth expanding into a novel. The novel would be a murder mystery. With so many people having something against Ralph Richards, it will be a guessing game as to who the murderer — or murderess — is . . .

  I longed for fresh air and sunshine so I took my package to the post office myself rather than giving it to Woodford.

  When I returned to the house, Caroline intercepted me in the great hall and told me to go into the drawing room. Woodford was already there. She was shaking with anger and I wondered if there had been another encounter with Harland.

  ‘The Duchess has given me some shocking news,’ she said, looking from Woodford to me. ‘Those bronze sculptures Isadora made have somehow found their way to an exhibition at Shreve, Crump & Low. I don’t know who helped her, but I know it wasn’t the Duke.’ She turned to Woodford. ‘I would like you to question the staff. Anyone who has any knowledge of the matter is to be brought to me.’ Then she regarded me. ‘Do you know anything about this, Emma?’

  I didn’t, but I admired Isadora’s determination. Yet I had to be careful; I didn’t want to lose Caroline’s trust lest she separate me from my niece at a time when Isadora needed me more than ever.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ I said. ‘I thought Isadora was out in the afternoons with the Duke so I’ve been working on my novel.’

  Caroline glanced at Woodford, who nodded.

  A chill ran down my back. I am being watched. That’s why Woodford or a servant appeared whenever I ventured near the morning room.

  ‘It was Rebecca Clark then, I’m sure of it,’ Caroline said. ‘She’s jealous of Isadora’s successful match and is trying to sabotage it. Her name is to be struck off the guest list,’ she told Woodford, ‘and she’s never to set foot in this house again. And I will make sure the gallery destroys those sculptures before anybody else sees them.’

  As the wedding date grew closer, Caroline became more despotic. Two footmen were stationed outside Isadora’s bedroom day and night, preventing me from visiting her to find out more about the exhibition of her sculptures; and a bodyguard accompanied her and the Duke whenever they went out. Caroline spread a rumour that there had been kidnap threats, but we all knew she was keeping Isadora a virtual prisoner until she was joined in matrimony to the Duke. As for me, whenever I asked Caroline about arranging my passage back to Paris after the wedding she was deliberately vague about the dates, although she did inform me she had requested Monsieur Depaul to make another instalment to Roche & Associates.

  ‘Why don’t you join us for the Newport season?’ she said to me. ‘There is no need to hurry back to France after Isadora and the Duke’s wedding.’

  My mind went into turmoil with the sickening realisation that Caroline was attempting to steer me into marrying Douglas Hardenbergh.

  I was glad when I received a note from Florence asking me to visit her at her studio in the Village: I thought you might like an advance viewing of my exhibition before you return to France. Florence’s father was a congressman and a lawyer: perhaps he would be able to intervene on my behalf so that Caroline couldn’t break the contract she had made with me before I’d left France? I would ask Florence’s advice straight away.

  I was about to request Woodford to arrange a carriage for me when the sight of the afternoon’s newspaper on his desk stopped me in my tracks. The headline read: Genius Architect Meets Grisly Death. Before I even read the first line, I knew it was referring to Harland Hunter.

  Black crêpe tied with a white ribbon was pinned to the front door of the Hunters’ house. I rapped the knocker softly. Aston answered, wearing a black armband. He showed me into the reception room, where Grace was sitting with two elderly women, all three of them in mourning clothes. Through another door I glimpsed a coffin with candles placed around it.

  Grace stood and led me to the drawing room. ‘I’m so glad you came, Emma,’ she whispered.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, taking her hands. ‘The newspaper gave very few details except there was an accident at a construction site?’

  ‘Harland got into an argument with the new architect for the Westbay building on Park Row. They were on the roof and Harland went to take a swing at the man. He slipped on a tile and slid straight off the roof and plunged to the pavement below. A section of scaffolding fell with him and crushed his body.’

  My blood tingled as I remembered Ralph Richards’ gruesome end in my story. I vowed never again to write in the first person.

  ‘We had to have a closed coffin,’ Grace added. ‘His remains don’t resemble anything human.’ She began to cry and I put my hand on her arm.

  ‘I’m still keeping up appearances even though Harland is dead,’ she went on. ‘I’ve had to pay actors from a Broadway theatre to pose as pallbearers for the funeral. Nobody I asked was prepared to do it. I’ve given them each a story about how they knew Harland.’

  ‘But he had so many friends,’ I said. ‘He was society’s darling!’

  Grace flashed me a look. ‘Society loves a sensation but it has to be the right sensation. Everyone is shying away because they know about the rift between him and Caroline. There’s even a rumour that she paid someone to push him and silenced the witnesses.’

  ‘Do you think that’s true?’

  Grace held my gaze for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Harland was always impetuous. It was exactly the sort of accident he would have.’ She rubbed her arms. ‘The only person I’m expecting at the funeral to support me is you, Emma. And honestly, if it wasn’t for the sake of our mothers, I wouldn’t be going through with this farce at all. His remains will be placed in the Hunter family mausoleum, but I’m specifying in my will that I’m not to be buried anywhere near him. I’m building a new mausoleum for myself and my mother.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I was still a young woman when I met Harland. He took my best years from me. Now I must wear black for a man I couldn’t stand, who subjected me to the greatest humiliations and loneliness.’

  I remembered the portrait I had seen of Grace, the one by Boldini. ‘That young woman is still there inside you,’ I assured her. ‘Step by step you will discover her again.’

  She lifted her eyes and looked me in the face. ‘One thing is for sure,’ she said with bitterness. ‘I will never marry again.’

  Harland’s funeral was a sobering affair. There were more spectators and press reporters outside the church than there were mourners inside. And most of the mourners had been hired by the funeral parlour. Grace had tactfully explained to her elderly and frail mother, who attended with a nurse, that she’d thought it best to keep the funeral private. Harland had told me before Isadora’s debutante ball that Marie Antoinette had lived so brilliantly it didn’t matter how she’d died. Was that true? Apart from his mother and Grace’s, there was nobody in the church who truly loved him.

  Caroline was unmoved by the news of her former lover’s demise. She went on with the wedding preparations as if Harland had been nothing more than a pesky fly that had finally been swatted away. However, there was another problem that could not be so easily dismissed: Caroline’s reputation. Nothing was more important to my sister than how people viewed her. She had clawed her way to the top of New York society and she did not intend to lose her position.

  She no longer took me into her confidence, but one day I was passing the morning room when I overheard her and Lucy talking. There were no servants about and I stopped by the door to listen.

  ‘Whether or not to accept the invitation to Isadora and the Duke’s wedding is the subject of every conversation in every drawing room I have visited this week,’ Lucy said. ‘Society is in a dilemma because many people think you had Harland disposed of.’

  There was a silence before Caroline answered. ‘I don’t understand what the fuss is about. Harland was nothing more than a dead mouse the
cat brought in. Isadora is the wealthiest heiress in the United States and the Duke descends from one of the most important families in England.’

  ‘That may be so, Caroline, but the Schorers and the Warburgs already intend to use the excuse of needing to get away early for the London season in order to decline.’

  I rubbed my throat. It didn’t matter to me if Caroline’s plans were coming undone, but what would be the implications for Isadora? I still hadn’t had a chance to speak to her alone since the incident with her sculptures. Caroline’s maid was always by Isadora’s side wherever she went in the house, and even joined us at breakfast. It made private conversation impossible.

  ‘Why are they rushing to the London season when all the aristocrats will be here, including the Prince and Princess of Wales?’ Caroline asked.

  Lucy gasped. ‘But, Caroline, the only notable guests coming from England are the Duke’s brother and sister. Even the rest of the Duke’s family aren’t going to inconvenience themselves for a foreign wedding.’

  ‘The Schorers and the Warburgs don’t know that,’ said Caroline. ‘And can’t your husband encourage a few of his associates to attend? They need money, don’t they? I will offer them generous sums. We will also spread the rumour that you are acting as an official matchmaker for titled Englishmen to find suitable brides in New York. The Schorers’ granddaughters are almost spinsters, but a large dowry as an enticement to an impoverished earl or lord could fix that.’

  Woodford was coming down the stairs with two maids in his trail, ending my eavesdropping. I headed towards the music room, closed the door behind me and leaned against it, shivering. Isadora’s wedding was either going to be Caroline’s greatest triumph — or her Waterloo.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Caroline threw herself into the final preparations for the wedding with a zeal that was terrifying. A crew of sixty workmen were hired to decorate the church under the instruction of New York’s best florists. The floral display itself would be spectacular, with garlands of orchids hanging from the gallery, vines wound around the columns, and floral gates of pink roses. The walls of the church were to be covered in palm foliage, roses and chrysanthemums so the overall effect would be like sitting in an enchanted garden. Besides the organist, the choir, and a soprano and tenor from the Metropolitan Opera, a sixty-man symphony orchestra was to be brought in from Vienna. As well as playing the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin, they would entertain the guests with stirring pieces by Beethoven and Tchaikovsky.