The cab dropped her off at an address on an elegant street just a few blocks away from the Charles River, its rippling waves flashing between the brownstones, its dove-gray waters melding with the color of the sky.
A lady’s maid answered the door and led her to an ornate parlor with wide windows where a blazing fireplace filled the room with warmth.
The maid took Emma’s coat, scarf, and gloves. “Please have a seat. Miss Markham will see you shortly.”
She took in the luxury of the room—the most opulent she had ever seen, even surpassing those she had visited in her childhood. The parlor glowed in the radiant heat from the burning logs, the light scattering from the ornate gold frames of paintings to the arms of gilt chairs, sparkling upon the metallic threads in the curtains. The painting over the fire depicted a grand sitting room in splendid detail—not the same as Miss Markham’s but certainly one of similar taste. Living here was like living in a golden cocoon, Emma decided.
A sudden case of nerves brought on by the unfamiliarity of her surroundings struck her. What would Louisa be like? The arrangements had been made through Daniel Chester French, and although she trusted his judgment she had no idea whether she would enjoy the next few days. She grasped the silken arms of her chair and focused on the street. A few automobiles chugged by. Teams of black and white horses pulling carriages clopped past, but she found herself staring at a landscape of brick buildings that, despite her childhood, seemed as foreign to her as any place she’d ever visited.
“Enjoying the view?” asked a confident and relaxed voice.
Emma rose from her chair to face Louisa Markham, a young woman not much older than she. Her hostess was tall, elegantly thin, with dark hair coiffed in waves around her head. She wore a gold silk dress, cinched at the waist and accented by a red stripe that circled just above the knee. A braided black-and-gold, waist-length sweater complemented her ensemble.
“Please, sit.” Louisa glided into the room, never taking her eyes off her guest, lowering herself into a chair opposite Emma. “So you are Emma Lewis—of the Lewis Tea fortune.”
Emma blushed, feeling as if she had been ambushed by a woman who knew much more about her than she knew about her hostess. She clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. The ‘fortune,’ as you put it, was used to purchase our house in Lee and the horses. My father died several years ago, so my mother and I—”
Louisa leaned forward, signaling Emma to stop. “My dear, if there’s one thing you need to learn about Boston society it’s that everyone dissimulates about one’s personal circumstances.” She waved her hand in a circle near her head. “Everything you see here is artifice. It’s paid for, but the paintings, the furniture, are trappings—used for impression. They sparkle, they shine, but they are lifeless . . . dead, really.” She adjusted a curl near her face. “So from now on—at least in the time you are with me—you are the heiress to the Lewis Tea fortune and a student of Daniel Chester French—that’s all anyone needs to know.” Louisa smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and reached for the bell pull hanging near the curtain. “You must have tea before we’re off for the evening.”
Refreshment came, served in a gleaming silver pot, accompanied by an assortment of finger sandwiches and cookies. Having eaten nothing since breakfast, Emma devoured as much as she dared without seeming to be a glutton. She studied the woman across from her as they talked about a variety of topics, including Emma’s love of horses, the few friends who made up her world, her studies with the sculptor, and her desire to be a sculptress. Something about her hostess struck Emma as they conversed—a liveliness, the mark of an unpretentious soul under the richness that led Emma to believe they could be friends, if she could just break down the glittering façade.
“If anyone can assure your future it’s Mr. French,” Louisa remarked after Emma had finished her fourth finger sandwich. “Tonight you’re going to meet the cream of Boston, but don’t be intimidated or swayed by anything you see or hear. Remember, it’s all artifice, people desperate to make an impression.”
Emma stiffened in her chair, her nerves kicking in again. “Can you tell me who’s going to be there?”
Louisa leaned back, and lifted her arm casually. “Well, for one, my good friend Mrs. Frances Livingston, who lost her husband not that long ago. She’s a devoted patroness of the arts—get on her good side and your success is assured. Singer Sargent and Mrs. Jack may be there, but I’m not sure—both of them travel so much.”
Emma was amazed. “John Singer Sargent—the painter?”
Louisa nodded with a smug look.
“Who is Mrs. Jack?” Emma asked.
Louisa cocked her head. “Why, Mrs. Jack . . . Isabella Stewart Gardner . . . she makes Frances Livingston look positively bourgeoise. I mean no offense to Frances, of course.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat and rang for the maid to take away the tea. “I have to rest now, and you must freshen up. Lydia will show you to your room.”
Her hostess left as silently as she had appeared, leaving Emma alone with the young maid, who spoke not a word until spoken to. She sat quietly as Lydia cleared the service, rearranged a few things in the parlor, and then stood awaiting her instructions.
“You’re to show me to my room,” Emma said uncomfortably, not used
