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The evening was exactly what she’d dreamed of. Cassandra’s friends were warm, talkative, all of them interesting and refreshingly candid about their lives. Celestine recounted how she’d come to Paris from Haiti to be with the woman she loved. Things had not worked in the end, but she’d found work she enjoyed and was able to live well by sketching fashion plates and commercial advertisements.
“I didn’t know art could pay enough to earn a livelihood,” Manuela told her when she heard about the work Celestine had just finished for a new line of ladies’ boots, and Celestine shrugged.
“It was not easy to garner a clientele. Not everyone is receptive to a woman artist, much less a Black woman. But I am good, and there is a lot of demand.”
“Yes, and because so much of the work is done through correspondence, one can curtailsomeof those prejudices,” Cassandra said from her perch on Frede’s lap. Manuela had never considered that, but it was true that often one wouldn’t even have to deal with people in person.
“I’ve also heard there is much demand from the publishing world, for illustrations in magazines and children’s books,” Louise said, adding herself to the conversation. “I have a few friends doing that.”
Manuela’s head spun with the information. These women not only lived on their own but they had found ways to use their art as a means of supporting themselves. They might not be living in opulence, but they wereliving. In Venezuela, there were prestigious artists with patrons who supported their work. But Manuela never had the sense there could be enough commercial demand for many to make that their livelihood. In truth, she never considered that her own skills could be transferable to such things as magazines.
“How do you find out about the work?” Louise sent her an approving look, and Manuela warmed to the welcoming way of these women.
“That is one of the problems,” Celestine admitted. “One has to be well connected to hear of them. It would be nice if there was a way for them to findus.”
Manuela hummed as she considered that. She thought of Aurora’s plans to organize all the women doctors into a professional association so they could have a place to share ideas and findings.
“I’ve begun taking some commissions,” Cassandra told Manuela before handing her a glass of wine. “I still do studio pieces for galleries, but more and more I am seeking out the commercial work because it’s more reliable.”
Manuela was surprised to hear that Cassandra needed the work. She’d heard that she came from a family with means. But she supposed that choosing a life with Frede might’ve come with the sacrifice of that. As she considered that reality, she observed the two of them. The way they touched each other, so lovingly, so familiar. Even when Cassandra was talking to someone else she had her hand on Frede, a bonded pair. Joined even when they were apart. “So how do you know how to set your fees?” She hoped her eagerness was not coming off as rude or intrusive, but again all she saw were smiles and encouraging looks.
“That is one of the more challenging parts,” Louise admitted. “Our small group shares how much we are able to secure from different jobs, but very few of the men are even willing to consider us colleagues, much less share how much they earn.”
“Maybe you should take a page from Frede’s grandmother,” Cora said, from the chair by the hearth she’d commandeered, her lavender eyes still trained on Manuela.
Cassandra guffawed at her friend’s suggestion, clutching a hand to her chest. “My ears must be deceiving me—our very own sapphic bastion of capitalism suggesting we organize into a union?” Some of the women laughed, while Cora shrugged. Manuela was thoroughly confused.
“Unions?” She probably sounded like a dolt. Aurora and Luz Alana both had their professions, and Manuela knew that more women went into the workforce every day, though it had always seemed to her to be a harrowing way to live. But these women didn’t seem downtrodden, they seemed happy, free. Fearlessly speaking about topics that were barely appropriate for men to discuss in polite company with absolute impunity. Manuela felt drunk with all of it.
“I think you’ve broken our guest, darling,” Frede teased in her low voice, before pressing a kiss to Cassandra’s neck.
“My apologies, Manuela. See, my beloved’s grandmother was Flora Tristan y Moscoso.” Manuela nodded. Though she had no idea who that was, she was clearly important.
“The famous radical and feminist,” Cora explained, as she sent a friendly look in Frede’s direction. “Frede comes from a long line of bellicose women.” Manuela noticed that the words were delivered softly, carefully. Cassandra also moved closer to her lover, almost as if offering comfort. Another reminder that these women had suffered losses to be able to sit in this room. “You should tell Manuela about Doña Flora,” Cora encouraged her, and by then Manuela was close to begging to hear about this famous ancestor of Frede’s.
“My grandmother was raised in Peru, but she came to Paris as an adult after a falling out with her family. Not long before her death she wrote a famous essay calling all French laborers to organize as one union.” Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to listen to Frede’s tale. Manuela once again looked to Cora and found the duchess still looking at her with her piercing regard. “She made the argument that if men allowed women, the elderly and the infirm to join with them to fight for workers’ rights, we would be undefeatable. It made quite a few waves when it was published in 1843.”
Over forty-five years ago, a Peruvian mother had been calling for revolution. “What was the name of the essay?” Manuela asked, buzzing from all she’d learned so far this evening.
“‘L’union ouvrière’,” Frede told her.
“I will find it and read it,” she declared, her head swimming with new ideas. “She sounds like a remarkable woman,” Manuela said, and the entire room seemed to hum in agreement.
The conversation seemed to dissipate as people got up to get food and engage in more private talks. Manuela made her way to the sideboard and for a moment just stood in front of the selection of Caribbean delicacies she hadn’t seen in months.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Cassandra asked, before reaching for slice of glistening candied orange rind. Manuela almost swooned from the aroma of cloves and cinnamon mingled with the citrus. It had been her abuela’s favorite.
“Where did you find all this? I can’t imagine it would be easy to find cassava here,” she said, pointing to the buttered boiled cassava.
“We have the duchess to thank,” Celestine informed her as she joined them. All three women turned to look at Cora who was conversing animatedly with Frede and another of the guests.
Cassandra laughed, probably at Manuela’s look of confusion. “She’s invested in a cacao farm in Ecuador. It’s owned by a widow she met at some diplomatic event a few years ago. Every time a shipment comes, we are blessed with this bounty.” Manuela nodded, dumbfounded, as she watched some of the women fill their plates with the food from home. Food that Cora procured for them, from her business with a widow in Ecuador. Every new thing that Manuela learned about this woman chipped away at a layer of frost from the image of the icy, forbidding aristocrat she showed the world.
“She says it’s her way of earning an invitation,” Celestine joked. Manuela offered a silent smile, vexed by the contradictions of Cora Kemp Bristol.
After a moment Cassandra excused herself to tend to her hosting duties, and Celestine was pulled into a conversation with Patricia and her partner, leaving Manuela to her thoughts. She slipped out of one of the doors leading to a small balcony. She needed to think about everything she’d heard, what she’d seen in that room. This evening had already been so much more than what she’d imagined. She could hardly make sense of it all. She certainly didn’t know how to feel.
For a moment, she leaned on the balcony breathing in the night air, but soon the sound of footfalls crossing the threshold alerted her someone was joining her.
