The Invitation

by Belinda Alexandra

  Isadora listened to all these plans with a subdued expression. Each day she became more and more like a ghost until I feared she might fade away completely.

  The afternoon before the wedding was my only chance to visit Florence at last at her studio in the Village.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,’ I told her when she answered my knock. ‘A dear friend’s husband died — and that, along with the wedding preparations, have turned my life into chaos.’

  The studio was cluttered with paint-splattered tables and the familiar washing line of notes strung across the room, but there wasn’t a single painting anywhere.

  ‘I’ve already hung everything at the gallery,’ Florence explained. ‘The opening is next week.’

  The air went out of me. ‘I’m so sorry. But it seems I will still be here for the exhibition after all because —’

  I was about to launch into my explanation of virtually being Caroline’s prisoner and to ask Florence’s advice on the legal matter of the contract regarding my debts, but before I could continue she went to her desk and pulled a sheet of paper out of its drawer.

  ‘I didn’t invite you here only to see the paintings,’ she said. ‘I received this letter from Claude.’

  I was tense with expectation. From the agonised expression on Florence’s face, the letter clearly contained something of momentous importance.

  ‘When you told me that you hadn’t broken things off with him, as he’d said to me, I was furious but also suspicious. Both of you were telling vastly different stories with absolute sincerity. I wrote to him and explained you seemed at a loss as to why the relationship had ended. He replied, and enclosed this letter. It is from you to him, Emma.’

  I took the paper from her. The letter was written on my blue stationery.

  Dearest Claude,

  I have composed this letter to you in my heart over and over again, but now that I sit here with a pen in my hand, words fail me. If I did not love you so much, I might be able to explain all this with platitudes and pithy phrases, but all I have to offer is stark honesty.

  When I came to New York, I missed you even more than I would have believed. We always shared everything that was in our heads — but perhaps, I see now, not what was deeply in our hearts. Something wonderful has happened to me — suddenly and unexpectedly. I have met someone: a widower with adorable young children.

  He is a very good man — honest, clever, intelligent and loyal. I feel that with him I can have what I have always most wanted: a home where I feel safe with people I belong to and who belong to me.

  He has asked me to marry him and I have accepted.

  I am both happy and bitterly unhappy with my decision. Happy because he is such a good person who cares deeply for me; and bitterly unhappy because I must say goodbye to you when I still cherish you and always will. But we want different things, Claude.

  So I set you free, and I set myself free too . . .

  I dropped the letter to the floor as if it were evil. The handwriting was most certainly mine, right down to the loopy l’s and p’s. Had I gone mad? Had I written this letter in some delirious fever-induced state?

  ‘This can’t be real! It just can’t be real!’ I said.

  Florence frowned. ‘What do you mean? It’s your handwriting, isn’t it?’

  I shook my head. ‘The only part of that letter that’s true is that I love Claude, and always will. I never had the slightest interest in Douglas Hardenbergh. Ever! That was all Caroline’s —’

  The words caught in my throat as an image came to me: a swarthy woman, beautifully dressed but hard in the face, holding an ivory fountain pen. The writing was a perfect imitation, but it was the phrasing, tone and content that was most disturbing. It sounded exactly as if I had written it.

  I sat down quickly lest I fainted. Florence was watching me with wide eyes.

  ‘Maria de Amaragi wrote this letter,’ I told her. ‘And Caroline dictated it!’

  I stormed into the great hall and straight towards the morning room, not caring that a maid was in there cleaning the mirrors. My eyes locked on Caroline’s desk. The maid hurried out — to alert Caroline or Woodford most likely — so I only had a few minutes to find what I was looking for.

  I shook the key from the majolica jar on the mantelpiece and pressed it into the drawer lock. On top of a pile of photographs was my silver frame containing the picture of Grand-maman.

  ‘Stall them, please, Grand-maman,’ I prayed, slipping the frame into the bodice of my dress.

  I lifted the photographs and discovered a pile of envelopes underneath. All the letters I had written to Claude since November. Below them were the letters Claude had written to me.

  Isadora had not told Caroline about Claude; my sister had learned about him by reading our letters. How else could she have known my writing style and tone, the kinds of words I would choose? She even deduced that I would never have mentioned to Claude that Douglas Hardenbergh was very rich.

  I pulled out the last letter Claude had written to me.

  Dearest Emma,

  You have given me a shock and broken my heart at once. You have also shown me what a fool I was not to marry you when I had the chance. But what can I say now? You have found someone who will give you what you want. I put too much faith in love and trust, and not enough in an official commitment, and now I have paid the price.

  But, sweet Emma, although I have bitter tears pouring down my cheeks, I only have goodwill towards you. I wish you every happiness, and only happiness, in your new life. Your widower and his children are very lucky to have you. I hope they will always appreciate —

  ‘What are you doing?’ I spun around to see Caroline standing in the doorway, the maid hovering behind her. ‘How dare you go through my private things?’

  ‘Your private things?’ I choked on the words. If Caroline thought she was going to turn this around and make herself the victim, she was in for a surprise. ‘These are my personal letters. You read them. But worse than that, you forged a letter to Claude!’

  My voice cracked at the full realisation that Caroline had purposely destroyed the most precious thing in my life. But why did that surprise me? My sister knew no boundaries. Perhaps she had engineered Harland’s death. At that moment I could believe anything of my sister if it was evil enough.

  ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ I told her. ‘You’ve broken the heart of someone I love, and broken my heart too in the process.’

  ‘Pffft,’ she said, as if I was crying over something trivial like a broken doll. ‘That artist! You don’t know what’s good for you, Emma. You never did. I was always the one who had to think about practicalities. You exist with your head in the clouds.’

  ‘How dare you —’

  She raised her voice over mine. ‘How dare I? You were the one who came begging to me for money, Emma. You had debts.’ She waved her arm around the beautiful room. ‘Do you see any debts here? I don’t. I see wealth and luxury. My wealth and luxury! I was smart about who I chose to marry.’

  ‘I was in debt because I tried to help Grand-maman. As for your marriage to Oliver, I’d hardly describe that as a match made in heaven!’

  Caroline ignored me. ‘I’ve done you a favour and you don’t appreciate it! Douglas Hardenbergh wouldn’t have looked twice at you if it wasn’t for me.’ She flicked one of the emerald earrings I was wearing with her finger. ‘I’ve dressed you in exquisite clothes and jewellery, taken you into the finest homes, showered you with nothing but the best.’ She brought her face close to mine. ‘What have you ever done for me, Emma? What single thing have you ever given me? Nothing! But I have done everything for you!’

  It was what Caroline was best at: taking a grain of truth and twisting it and twisting it until you felt the only way to stop the torture was to open a window and jump out. But her attempt strangely calmed me.

  I lifted my eyes to hers. ‘It doesn’t work any more, Caroline. The manipulation has lost its power. I
’m leaving this house now. I shall return tomorrow to accompany Isadora to the church as I have promised. After that you will never see me again.’

  Caroline’s mouth moved but she said nothing. She had expected me to argue with her, but I knew better than that. I had seen how she defeated Oliver that way. He tried to fight with her to make a point or reach an understanding, but Caroline never argued for that purpose. Trying to reason with Caroline was like throwing yourself into a net, and the more she attacked and the more you countered, the more entangled you became in its mesh. I wasn’t playing that game with her.

  I swept past her and ran up the staircase. My heart was throbbing in my chest when I reached my room. I didn’t have any of my old clothes from Paris, but my trunk was still in the bottom of the wardrobe. I dragged it out and filled it with linens, but when I turned to the dresses in the wardrobe they all looked ridiculously showy. Florence could lend me something until I had a chance to buy some new clothes. I packed only my books, papers and Grand-maman’s picture into the trunk.

  My harp was still in the music room. I turned to walk out the door — but it slammed shut and clicked.

  I rushed towards it. The key was no longer in the lock. I turned the knob. The door was secured from the outside.

  ‘Open this door now!’ I shouted, banging my fist on the wood. ‘You can’t keep me in this room! Caroline! Open this door!’

  But there was no answer. I turned around and leaned my back against the door. Now I truly was her prisoner.

  My mind turned to Claude and his letter. At least there was one thing I could do to try to remedy my sister’s evil.

  Dearest Claude,

  The contents of this letter may sound too fantastical to believe. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I have gone mad and lost myself in some fictional world, but I have to know for myself that I have told you the truth about the terrible thing that has been done to us . . .

  Tears fell down my cheeks as I told him about the forged letter and Caroline’s machinations to marry me off to Douglas Hardenbergh for her own ambition, just as she was forcing her daughter to marry a duke.

  I also wrote about all that had happened in New York since he’d last heard from me.

  That I managed to overlook so many things that Caroline did and said disturbs me. Perhaps I didn’t want to believe what was always glaringly obvious: my sister is wicked.

  I can no longer excuse her behaviour. She has absolutely no compassion for any human being, not even those who, with all their hearts, have tried to love her: her husband, her daughter and me. All we are to her are objects for her use. But that is all in the past now. The damage has been done and cannot be repaired.

  I discovered your last letter to me in Caroline’s desk drawer. She caught me before I could finish it but I did get to read your words: ‘I wish you every happiness, and only happiness, in your new life.’ Those are the words I wish to express to you as well, dearest Claude. For although our precious, beautiful life together came to an abrupt and unanticipated end, you have left me with invaluable gifts. You gave me the gift to be myself.

  Strangely, as I sit here locked in a room in Caroline’s mansion, I have come to terms with myself. There will be times when I must face challenges by myself and trust in my own resourcefulness.

  I let you go with love, Claude, and wish you every happiness with Lise. Perhaps one day I shall meet someone as wonderful as you — although I very much doubt it. But should that happen, I hope it brings a smile to your face to know that I will not be pestering him to marry me. What I want more than anything now is to be free. Perhaps being locked in a room has finally made me see that!

  Without this heartbreak between us, I may never have discovered that desire. I would have clung to you and never gained the clarity of self-determination. I want to be free, Claude: to own no one and to not be owned either.

  Your truthful friend,

  Emma

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next day I woke with the dread of someone who would be attending a funeral rather than a wedding. I stared out at the street. The pavements and the park were filling with spectators. Ever since the engagement, Caroline had been feeding information to the press to whip the city into a state of excitement.

  Jennie arrived with my breakfast on a tray, and it was only then that I realised there had been two footmen posted outside my door overnight. I was sure nothing Caroline did could shock me again.

  I got ready, slipped the letter to Claude into the bodice of my dress and went downstairs. I could barely bring myself to look at Caroline, although in her queenly gold gown with the Medici-style collar and ermine trimmings she was hard to miss. I wanted to attack her, if not physically then with a barrage of bitter words, but I controlled myself. This day might be the last time for me to give Isadora all the love I could before we were separated forever.

  The bridesmaids, beautiful in gowns of ivory satin, fidgeted nervously, while Oliver leaned against a windowsill as if he was on the verge of being sick.

  The first carriage was brought to the door and Caroline gathered the bridesmaids around her. I was to travel with Oliver and Isadora. Before Caroline departed, she whispered some instructions to Woodford, who glanced in my direction. The spectators weren’t the only ones who would be watching me today.

  After Caroline and the bridesmaids had departed, Oliver turned to me. ‘We’d best go see to the bride.’

  The footmen outside Isadora’s room stood aside for us with slight bows. Oliver knocked on the door and Isadora’s maid opened it.

  ‘Thank you, Lizzie,’ Oliver said. ‘We would like a few moments alone with my daughter now.’

  Lizzie cast a pitying glance back at Isadora, who was sitting at her dressing table. In her magnificent dress and veil she should have been a beautiful bride, but when she lifted her eyes to look at us they were full of sorrow. She had the air of a condemned woman.

  ‘Is it time?’ she asked in a barely audible voice. It was as if the Isadora we knew was gone and only a thin, pale shell sat before us.

  A swelling of love and self-sacrifice rose in my chest. And something else too: anger. It started as a tingle in my legs, then caught fire and burned in my veins. My blood pumped furiously. Then I practically roared with it, as if I had turned into a fierce mother bear ready to defend her cub. All this time I had failed to intervene because I was convinced that by complying with Caroline I was protecting Isadora. Now I viewed the situation differently. Caroline had trapped us all by using our own fear against us. For who was my sister anyway? She wasn’t particularly beautiful, talented or clever. She could never have built up a business the way Oliver did, or created sculptures like Isadora, or written books like me. She was a parasite, sucking the lifeblood out of her victims. How could I have expected Grace to leave Harland if I couldn’t break away from my own sister?

  I turned to Oliver. ‘I’m through with this, aren’t you?’

  His eyebrows knitted together and he gave a shake of his head. ‘Through with this?’

  ‘We have been avoiding the consequences of what might happen if we go against Caroline. But what will really happen to us if we do? Especially if we do it together?’

  His eyes opened wide and he rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The consequences would be disastrous. Caroline’s anger knows no bounds. You know what she did to Harland Hunter. She won’t be content until she has utterly destroyed anyone who opposes her. I don’t think she had Harland killed as some people suggest, but I believe she could have if she’d wanted to.’

  ‘But the consequences for whom?’ I asked him. ‘You’re one of the most powerful men in the United States. Or has she convinced you otherwise?’

  ‘Me? No! I’m thinking of Isadora. What Caroline could do to our daughter if this wedding doesn’t go ahead.’

  We both turned to Isadora. Her wasted figure and sunken cheeks gave her the appearance of someone who hadn’t eaten for days.

  ‘More than she has already done to h
er?’ I said, looking back to Oliver.

  He held my gaze until it was clear that we understood each other perfectly.

  I glanced at the door. ‘What will we do about Woodford and the footmen?’

  Oliver drew himself to his full height. ‘I pay their wages, for God’s sake. I am the master of this house.’ Then turning to his daughter, he said, ‘Get out of that dress, Isadora. We’re going away.’

  The spectators cheered for me as I was driven along in an open carriage to the church. Most of them wouldn’t know who I was, but the Hopper crest on the carriage door signalled I must be someone important. Every window of every building I passed was filled with faces of those enjoying their own private parties. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared at me through opera glasses, scrutinising my silk damask dress and the sapphire and diamond brooch that embellished it. I watched their excited expressions with a sense of my writer’s curiosity. How strange human beings are, I thought. How we love spectacle! We project all our hopes and dreams onto people we consider perfect, instead of concentrating on making our own lives flourish.

  Although my circumstances couldn’t have been more different to Marie Antoinette’s, a sudden image of her came into my mind: wearing a simple muslin dress and cap, her hands bound behind her, being taken to the guillotine in a trundle cart. Did the shouts and cheers of the spectators who watched her journey become only distant sounds as a sense of sublime indifference enveloped her and she surrendered to what must be? She had fallen from great heights. I, on the other hand, was stepping up.