The Invitation Read online

I indicated for Monsieur Ferat to follow me into the drawing room. His eyes lingered over the furniture — elegant but well-worn — and the paintings — tasteful but not valuable — before returning to me.

  ‘Paulette, bring some tea, please,’ I told her.

  I didn’t want to encourage Monsieur Ferat to stay, but I also didn’t want Paulette to hear what he said to me. While she busied herself in the kitchen, Monsieur Ferat got down to business.

  ‘The only way for you to pay the debt you owe is to sell this apartment,’ he said in an almost fatherly tone. ‘You don’t look like a young lady who wants to go to prison or be thrown onto the street.’

  ‘The final letter gave me fourteen days,’ I told him.

  A miracle hadn’t occurred in the last three years to save Grand-maman, or to pay off my debts, so it was unlikely one was going to occur anytime soon. But I clung to the hope.

  Monsieur Ferat clasped his hands behind his back and sucked in a breath. ‘I will not say anything further now, Mademoiselle Lacasse, but you and I both know I’ll be back. You will see me again next week. Maybe by then you will have come to your senses.’

  The debt collector left as Paulette came in with a tray of afternoon tea. I dropped wearily into a chair. When Grand-maman became sick my life had turned into a runaway train, and now I was sitting in the wreckage. I closed my eyes and waited for despair to wash over me.

  ‘Emma?’ I opened my eyes. Paulette was watching me with a firm expression on her face. ‘You must ask Caroline to pay that debt. Your grandmother took both of you in when your parents died, not just you. Your sister had as much responsibility to take care of the dear lady as you did. The money you owe is nothing more than a new hat or a pair of shoes to her. She can easily afford it.’

  ‘I have asked her,’ I said. ‘Many times. She hasn’t answered me once.’

  ‘Then ask her again. And again and again. Tell that selfish sister of yours it’s time to pay up.’

  I returned to my room, and glanced to the top of my armoire where I kept a box of newspaper clippings and correspondence. I hadn’t looked inside the box in a while, but I was drawn to it now. Did I need to sink into complete despair in order to raise myself up again?

  Finally, when I could no longer resist the temptation, I took the box down and opened the lid. The newspaper articles were mainly from the social pages of Le Petit Journal, but some were from the New York Times, which I used to occasionally find discarded in the Jardin des Tuileries. They all had the same subject: Caroline.

  French aristocrat marries New York millionaire in lavish ceremony.

  Mrs Oliver Hopper acquires Catherine the Great’s pearls at auction.

  Oliver Hopper buys Hudson Valley mansion for his wife’s birthday.

  I stared at the articles now spread out on the floor. When I’d first started collecting them I’d kept them in strict date order, as if watching my sister’s meteoric rise from afar. There were details of balls she attended, weekends at estates so enormous I gaped in amazement, and steamships she sailed on, including the RMS Umbria, where her first-class cabin was described as ‘spacious, ornate and luxurious’.

  I picked up the wedding portrait postcard of Caroline in her silk and satin dress with a double-strand of pearls around her neck. The name Mrs Oliver Gifford Hopper was engraved on the back. It was the sort of souvenir that might be sent to distant relations or to the press. Caroline had enclosed it in an envelope addressed to Grand-maman, along with the wedding notice that had appeared in the New York Times. Oliver’s mother and sister were listed as relations, but there was no mention of Grand-maman or me.

  When I was a child, Caroline, who was ten years older, used to take me to look at the stores on the Rue de la Paix that were filled with jewellery and fine porcelain, elaborate fans and Swiss clocks. Admiring the luxurious items seemed to both satiate her and displease her at the same time. One day she’d turned to me and said, ‘I can’t bear to go on with this sort of life, Emma. I was meant for better things. Maman said so. She implored me to do whatever it took to regain our family’s position in society. She said I had the mental fortitude, the inner will, to succeed.’ And she’d lifted her chin and held herself erect as if she were seeing her fabulous future before her eyes.

  I was too young to know it then, but my sister was not beautiful. Her protuberant grey eyes and snub nose resembled those of a French bulldog; and although her broad shoulders and large head made her appear tall when sitting down, when she stood she was short and stocky. But she had the poise and regal air of a queen and exuded supreme confidence. I was in awe of her. I had no doubt that she could do anything she set her mind to. But what she wanted was a vague dream to me. I had no memories of our grand plantation home in Louisiana. Caroline’s stories of slaves singing mysterious songs while working in the cotton fields, and peacocks strutting around a tropical garden, were nothing more than fairytales to me. We had each other and Grand-maman. Who could need more than that? But Caroline was determined to return to her rightful place, and her ability to draw to herself what she needed to do that had been nothing short of spellbinding.

  THREE

  Paris, 1880

  Although my grandfather had died years before I was born, Grand-maman had remained in touch with a cousin of his, who Caroline and I called Tante Régina. She lived in a grand mansion on the Champs-Élysées and one Saturday a month hosted an afternoon tea for her friends and people whose acquaintance she wished to cultivate. Sometimes she invited us.

  On one such occasion, Caroline spent hours crimping her dark hair into ringlets which she then rolled into an elegant topknot. She emerged from her bedroom in an olive striped dress with a bustle and ruffled skirt, her hat was perched jauntily on her head. My muslin dress wasn’t as fancy as Caroline’s, but Grand-maman had added a rose-pink bow to the neckline and I was exhilarated by its prettiness.

  Caroline opened her lace fan and waved it at me. ‘Maman used to say that in New Orleans fans have a language of their own.’ She twirled the fan in her left hand and said, ‘We are being watched.’ She swapped hands and held the fan in front of her face, fluttering her eyelashes: ‘Follow me.’ Then she drew it across her cheek and whispered, ‘I love you.’ A touch of the fan on her left cheek indicated ‘no’, and on her right cheek to say ‘yes’. Finally, she fanned herself rapidly to signify that she was ‘engaged’.

  Caroline so rarely paid me any attention that when she was playful like this it was as if someone had taken the sun from the sky and placed it in my heart.

  Our hired brougham arrived, and although the leather seats were worn and the paintwork scratched in places, I imagined I was Empress Joséphine as we passed the bookshops and artist-supply stores of Rue Jacob, and eventually rolled onto the grand tree-lined Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

  When the carriage came to a stop before the double bronze doors of Tante Régina’s mansion, Caroline gazed at the wrought-iron balconies and curved façades and announced, ‘Tante Régina married well. I will too.’

  Grand-maman frowned. She had told Caroline before that commenting on other people’s wealth was not in good taste. But I had a sense that Caroline wasn’t uttering some wistful expression; rather she had cast a spell to draw some of Tante Régina’s good fortune to herself.

  I turned the ringer, then patted the heads of the stone lions that flanked the doors. A footman welcomed us into the marble foyer, and led us past potted parlour palms and Greek busts, and up the monumental double-turn staircase before opening the doors to the curved pink and gilded room that Tante Régina referred to as her petit salon.

  A dozen or so exquisitely dressed women and distinguished men filled the space with chatter and silvery laughter. Tante Régina, tightly laced into a dove-grey dress, her hair pulled severely into a roll on top of her head, sat on a long sofa. Beside her was an older man, Monsieur Boutell, who sometimes gave Grand-maman legal advice. They were so engrossed in conversation they didn’t notice us, but Tante Régina’s two d
aughters, Margot and Félicité, greeted us.

  They were always beautifully turned out, but today were exceptionally so. Margot’s magenta dress with mother-of-pearl buttons flattered her pretty brunette looks, while her sister’s pink silk flounced dress with cream lace trimmings, along with her blonde hair and rosy cheeks, gave her the appearance of a Vion et Baury porcelain figurine.

  ‘How have you been keeping, Tante Sylvie?’ Margot asked Grand-maman, taking her arm and leading her to another sofa.

  ‘I’m well enough,’ Grand-maman replied, although I knew her arthritis was troubling her. Before we came out, she had applied cold compresses on her wrists and drunk willowbark tea to ease the pain.

  Caroline, Félicité and I followed and sat down on some side chairs. Although Caroline’s silk and linen dress wasn’t as fine as those worn by the other women in the room, her proud bearing and bright eyes made her stand out among them.

  Félicité lowered her voice and said to Caroline, ‘Your sister is an odd little thing, isn’t she? She’s like a light elf: fairer than the sun. Is she still writing stories on any piece of paper she can find?’

  Caroline bristled. ‘Emma is a supremely talented child. The nuns at the convent consider her quite a genius. Not to mention her harp-playing, which is sublime. No one believes she is only seven years old when they hear her play.’

  I grimaced in surprise. Why was it that Caroline praised me to other people but was so critical to my face?

  ‘Emma tells superb stories,’ agreed Grand-maman. ‘She has a vivid imagination and better powers of observation than most adults. She wrote me a story the other day about a cat and dog that lived at the end of a rainbow, and then another one about a haunted house. I hope she will continue with her harp-playing, but if she doesn’t I am sure she will become a successful writer.’

  Tante Régina turned from her conversation with Monsieur Boutell and said in a loud voice, ‘Goodness me, Sylvie, I hope she doesn’t. Writers are as immoral as actresses and music hall dancers!’

  I thought of all the books in the library across the hall, and remembered how much pleasure Oncle Victoire had taken in reading them. Why was it immoral to write books but not to read them?

  The doors opened and two male servants marched in with the afternoon tea on silver trays. They placed the trays on a low table in front of Tante Régina, and the rest of us drew up our chairs so we were sitting in a semi-circle facing our hostess. My mouth watered at the sight of the three sponge cakes, one of which was layered with chocolate buttercream.

  When tea was served, the tinkling of silver spoons in the china cups was so musical that I reached into my pocket for my notebook so I could record my description of it. A frown from Caroline stopped me mid-action and I slipped the book back.

  ‘Where is Philippe this afternoon?’ Monsieur Boutell asked Tante Régina with a gravely polite air.

  ‘I expect he will be here soon,’ replied Tante Régina. ‘He’s bringing a business acquaintance with him. An American.’

  A titter went around the room as if Tante Régina had announced Philippe was bringing along a baboon.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said a woman with a flabby, colourless face. ‘Another transatlantic invader, here in your esteemed salon?’

  ‘They aren’t all bad,’ Félicité said. ‘My brother describes this one as “larger than life” and says he’s among the richest men in America. He came to Paris so his mother and sister could buy their clothes at Worth. I heard they spent a fortune in one afternoon!’

  ‘Philippe said his acquaintance has interests in railroads, textile factories and real estate,’ elaborated Tante Régina. ‘He also has mining rights on the land his railways run through.’

  The guests’ disapproving expressions turned to awe, except for one fine-featured young man named René.

  ‘He sounds like a typical Wall Street leech,’ he sniffed, his voice tinged with irritation at the curiosity everyone was showing in the American. ‘I don’t know why Philippe thought to bring him. Perhaps for our amusement?’

  I was dying to see the visitor. What did ‘larger than life’ mean? How big was life, and what could be larger than it?

  The murmur of voices came from the hall, then the doors opened and Philippe burst in with a tall ginger-haired man at his side. The women touched their fans to their chins, as if they needed a moment to collect themselves. This man was larger than almost everything! He had to stoop to move under the doorway, and dwarfed Philippe and the footman who closed the doors behind the men. The American was older than Philippe and his face was round-cheeked and he had a slight spread about his middle. I was sure that if I were to poke his stomach it would wobble like a blancmange.

  ‘Mother,’ said Philippe, ‘allow me to introduce to you Monsieur Oliver Hopper.’

  Tante Régina tried to keep her attention on Oliver’s face but her eyes kept dropping to his clothes. His suit was of fine black wool, his waistcoat was gold brocade with diamond buttons, and he wore an enormous diamond-studded belt buckle. His necktie pin was dotted with red rubies, his watch chain was embellished with emeralds, and on his right hand was a black opal ring as big as a walnut. He glittered like the Mississippi riverboat Caroline had a painting of in her bedroom.

  Tante Régina had barely welcomed him before Félicité leaped out of her seat and held her manicured fingers out. ‘Do come and sit with us, Monsieur Hopper,’ she said, indicating for the rest of us to move along so she could place Oliver in a chair between herself and Philippe.

  Félicité was behaving strangely. It was discourteous to make us change our seats like that. And besides, she was usually only interested in people who were as impeccably attired as herself. Oliver wore his suit badly: it puckered at the buttons when he sat and wrinkled around his ankles. But I liked the way he looked at everybody with a grin on his face. He even smiled at René, who was squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest.

  I turned to Caroline to see what she thought, but her eyes were downcast and her hands were stretched out on her lap. At first I feared she might be fuming at Félicité, but the depth of her breathing, slow and controlled, indicated she was concentrating on something.

  ‘Will you accept a cup of tea, Monsieur Hopper?’ Félicité asked, smiling charmingly.

  The chair Oliver sat in looked as though it could barely support his weight, and when he took the delicate Limoges teacup from Félicité, I feared it was in danger of shattering in his large hand. He was a giant among us. I imagined him as a colossal gingerbread man for my next story.

  As hostess, Tante Régina had the privilege of commencing the conversation. ‘What brings you to Paris, Monsieur Hopper? I believe you have brought your mother and sister with you for shopping? You must allow my daughters to advise you on the art galleries and amusements you should take them to see. We have a box at the Opéra de Paris and would be delighted to invite you all to join us.’

  I stifled a yawn. What boring questions to ask the gingerbread man. I would have asked him if he’d eaten the old lady who baked him before running away?

  Oliver sat in his chair sideways, trying to get comfortable, as he answered Tante Régina. ‘I must confess, Madame Tolbert, that I have little appetite for shopping, sightseeing or music. While I am inclined to indulge my mother and sister, I am a man of business and keen to return to New York as soon as possible to attend to my interests there.’

  Tante Régina stiffened but managed a smile. ‘Well then, you are a most admirable son. But I thought perhaps you were in Paris to find a wife? Then you would not have to worry about shopping, decorating or entertaining at all.’ Her gaze dropped to his clothes again. ‘You know that French women have exquisite taste . . . and they are the most beautiful in the world.’

  She glanced at her two daughters, who had come out into society the previous year. Was Tante Régina contemplating marrying one of them off to Oliver? Why? I giggled, but a reproachful glance from Grand-maman stopped me.

 
Oliver missed the subtlety of Tante Régina’s hint and answered matter-of-factly. ‘Indeed that may be so, Madame Tolbert, but the French seem to lack energy to me. Perhaps they are worn out by all the beauty and art around them. Business in New York is a cut-throat occupation and a delicate woman would not make a suitable wife for a businessman like me. To be truthful, discipline and ambition in a woman are more important to me than beauty.’

  The guests glanced nervously at each other. I had once heard Grand-maman say that to the French beauty was everything, and had assumed that people wanted money so they could buy books and have pets and music lessons. Shoes for walking in the park, delicious cheeses and fresh strawberries in summer would be nice too. ‘A cut-throat occupation’ sounded intriguing, however. Was Oliver Hopper a pirate?

  ‘I was born in New Orleans,’ Caroline said, finally lifting her eyes to meet Oliver’s. ‘We combined the best of both cultures there: the French love of beauty and the American appreciation of hard work.’

  Félicité sniffed and Tante Régina frowned in Caroline’s direction. Was my sister being what Grand-maman always warned her against: ‘too forward’? Caroline laughed when people described her as impatient, arrogant or opinionated. She took all those descriptions as compliments.

  ‘Didn’t the plantation owners have Negroes to do all the hard work?’ asked Tante Régina.

  But Oliver paid her no attention. He fixed his eyes on my sister as if there was no one else in the room. ‘New Orleans?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Caroline answered. ‘My parents had a townhouse in New Orleans and a cotton plantation on the Mississippi. Until everything was destroyed in the war.’

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘Foolish business that war. I have a fondness for the people of Louisiana. I got my start running cotton clandestinely from the south to the north. The south had cotton it needed to sell and the northern factories were short of it.’

  ‘So while the north and south were fighting, you were selling southern cotton to their enemies?’ asked René, gloating as if he had scored a remarkable touché in a fencing match.