The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (12 page)

W
hether it was Alevia's advice or Henry and Mae's exchange that spurred inspiration, I'd rewritten three chapters in an hour and a half. Heartache was easy to write. It was sadly familiar—the feeling of complete desperation, worthlessness, and the elusive hope that Charlie would come back. The fictional encounter of his return flowed out of my head and onto the paper as easily as the Harlem River into the East. But now I sat back, stuck again, having no idea what I'd write next, staring at the tiny deer head above the mantel across from me, wondering why someone hadn't taken it down after my grandfather's death. He'd apparently been very proud of killing it when they'd first taken up residence here,
back when Morrisania consisted of a few brave houses surrounded by rolling hills. Now it didn't fit. Life would have been so different then—even in my parents' generation—so simple on the surface, yet tainted to the core by the dim complexities of war.

I remembered my parents talking about it from time to time, about the war and the battle that killed my grandfather at the age of forty-two. My father had never fully recovered from his grief. I glanced across the desk, eyeing a frame that held an old photograph of the Lincolns. Mother once told me that everyone had been so affected by the war and the valiance of the president during it, that when Lincoln's body rolled into town on its sixteen-hundred-mile funeral tour, she and her sisters had taken the train in from the country to see it, waiting five hours for a chance to pass his coffin. To this day, whenever the war or the president is brought up, she still comments on his face, saying that his wrinkles were deeper than any man's she'd ever seen and that it had almost made her happy that he'd passed on from his life of hardship.

That was it. An idea lodged in my brain and I pushed my notebook out of the way, snatching a clean sheet of paper from the top of my father's desk drawer. Remembering my parents' recollections had conjured the perfect topic for
The Century
, something I was sure Mr. Gilder would jump at the chance to publish—the controversial tale of Emilie Todd Helm. Emilie was Mary Lincoln's sister and the wife of an esteemed Confederate general. Straddling both sides of the war, she'd been portrayed as the strong, beautiful heroine of the Confederacy in some circles and the traitorous plague infecting the sensibilities of the White House in others. After the war, the controversy over her had faded, as controversies do, and her memory had mostly been ignored. But my grandfather, who'd met her once when she'd accompanied the Lincolns on a tour after her husband's death, had never forgotten “the young rebel woman
with the kind face”—passing the remembrance along to my father who'd passed it to me.

The story spilled out of me and onto the page, and before I knew it, I was almost finished. I couldn't wait to read it at the next Society meeting and to show Mr. Blaine. The door creaked open, disturbing my focus on the last sentence, and I stopped to glance toward it, expecting it to be Mae and Mr. Trent sharing the news of their engagement, but it was Franklin. Lugging an easel and a blank canvas, Frank paused in the doorway, slung the canvas under his arm, and then carried both toward me. Amused, I grinned as he set it down on the oriental rug in front of the desk.

“What's that for?” I asked. Franklin straightened up and took a breath.

“Alevia told me you were having trouble with your book.” He smoothed the edges of his starched cuffs with his fingers and looked at me. “Hopper told me that he sometimes paints whatever he's trying to get out. He says the words come easily after you have something visual, plus you've had all of the time painting to think it through.” I looked at him doubtfully and Franklin rolled his eyes. “Try it.”

“You've seen my paintings,” I said.

“Your landscapes aren't bad, actually. In any case, I'm not suggesting you should be the next Thomas Eakins, but you could try to paint
something
to conjure the image in your head when you forget the words.”

“It's worth a try.” He smiled victoriously and I surveyed his suit. It looked different from the one he'd been wearing that morning. This one had light gray pinstripes. “Is that a new suit, Frank?” He looked down at his pants and pinched the fabric.

“No. Well, I mean, I suppose. I got it in Maine when I was on business there a few weeks back.”

“Part of your bonus?” He glared at me, but nodded.

“I can't exactly go around looking like a ragamuffin. Especially when I'm working and trying to give off the impression that people should listen to me. Speaking of fashion, you should have a new dress made. We'll have more than enough and I'll give you the money when I get paid at the—”

“Are you sure all of this extravagance—the Benz, your new suits—isn't because you're trying to impress Lydia?” I interrupted. Franklin shook his head.

“She doesn't care about things like that.” She didn't seem concerned with money, though I doubted that she was indifferent. She was society. That kind of influence didn't slip past without a little bit of it sticking to one's bones.

“On another note, where in the world are you going to park the Benz?” I asked. “It'll be ruined in Grandfather's old barn.”

“I'll inquire after space in a carriage house,” he said, exasperated. “In any case, I didn't come in here to be interrogated about my spending habits, Gin, I was just trying to help.” He ran a hand across the top of the desk and then pointed to the drawer at my side. “I paint in this room sometimes. There are some oil paints in here if you decide you're going to give it a try.”

“Thank you,” I said. He started to walk away, but I stopped him. “I'm sorry for saying anything. It's just that it's quite difficult to stop distressing about money when we've lived so cautiously for years. I know you're only trying to provide for us with Father gone.”

“Not just provide for us,” he said bluntly. “I plan to make this family something again. A name people will have to respect, not just for our abilities, but for our innovation and our drive.”

“What does it matter what people think? We're all happy,” I said. “We don't have to live extravagantly just because you think
that having things will remedy what happened to me and Charlie or keep them from happening to you and Lydia. If Charlie really loved me, he would've been with me regardless.” Franklin's eyes dropped to the floor.

“Maybe,” he said. “Oh, I almost forgot. John's out of town, but he gave me a note for you when I stopped by to pick up the Benz.” Franklin reached into his pocket, drew out an envelope and tossed it to me. I pushed it to the side of the desk and Franklin stared at me. “Aren't you going to read it?” He looked at me as though all correspondence addressed to someone else should be shared, but as I didn't mind in this case, I ripped the flap open, unfolded the letter, and read it aloud.

                
Dearest Miss Loftin,

                
I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to send you a bit of encouragement as you revise your book. Your writing is truly remarkable and your sense of imagination is evident—not only in your novel, but also in your wit, an attribute that I've had the wonderful fortune of experiencing over the past several weeks. I hope you won't find this too forward of me, but I'
d like to take you to the opera upon my return next week. They're performing the marvelous La bohème. If you agree, I'll come to retrieve you at half past five next Saturday evening.

All of my regards,
        

John Hopper
                 

His sentiments weighed on my heart. He was interested in me beyond friendship, beyond helping with my novel—at least that was what the letter implied, though I couldn't help questioning his words. I recalled the way he looked at me, the way he touched
me. I could still feel the heat on my cheeks, attraction in the pit of my stomach. He was immensely talented, charming, easy to converse with, and undeniably handsome, but men of such character often were. And even if he hadn't made a habit of discombobulating women, I didn't know if I could bear the ambiguity that came with a courtship.

“So?” Franklin asked. Grinning, he smoothed the corners of his mustache. “Are you as fond of him as he is of you?”

“No,” I said. The word came out much more quickly than I intended, and it was wrong. “I mean, I do enjoy his company, and he and I have a lot in common, but I'm not sure. People say that he . . .” I felt my face flush. His confidence was magnetic. Franklin laughed.

“How shall I put it . . . enjoys a variety of women?” He shook his head. “It's perfectly all right if you're not certain about him, but there's no validity to that rumor, Gin. John is friendly, likely the most social man I've ever met. He can hardly help acquiring such a reputation. I hope you'll give him a chance. For his sake as well as yours.” I took his meaning and nodded, thankful that he hadn't uttered Charlie's name. Even so, the last time Charlie held me manifested in my mind, the way his fingers twitched with nerves as he'd brushed the hair from my forehead. I forced the memory away and thought of Mr. Hopper, the disparity between the two suddenly clear.

“I suppose I'd like to get to know him better,” I said. Franklin smiled at me and tapped the doorframe.

“Perhaps he'll surprise you.”

A
s it turned out, Franklin was right. I was surprised by Mr. Hopper, but by his persistence more than anything else. The day after I received his letter, an enormous bouquet of white calla lilies landed on our front porch. I'd thought they were Mae's. Mae and Mr. Trent had gotten engaged—as I'd predicted—the day before. It had been a joyful day, but the moment I heard the news, Mr. Smith's cold eyes and counterfeit smile flashed in my memory. The only way I'd gotten over the possibility of my sister being regarded with such callousness was to realize that it wasn't an option. Mae wasn't an artist and she'd always wanted a family. There was nothing to stop her from giving herself wholeheartedly to the man that loved her save her teaching, and education was a perfectly suitable profession.

My mind was focused on Mr. Trent's ardent love for Mae, when Mae handed the calla lilies back to me. They were from Mr. Hopper. Then roses the next day. And they kept coming. He'd sent me a different bouquet of flowers every day with a letter begging
my attendance at
La bohème
. Flattered as I was by the attention, as much as it suggested that Frank was right about his reputation—he couldn't possibly find the time to woo multiple women this way—I wasn't entirely convinced. Even though Franklin had done his best to assure me that overstated gestures were simply what Mr. Hopper did and that the flowers didn't necessarily mean anything, I still felt uneasy. What was I to him? Was I simply the most interesting prospect at the moment, or was he trying to court me? Neither possibility alleviated my confusion.

Yet somehow, despite my perplexed feelings, here I was, standing in the hazy drawing room after attending
La bohème
, watching Alevia—who Franklin had fooled into coming to the Society this time—walk toward the piano, arm crooked in Frank's. It had been a cruel trick. Alevia had thought she was going to have a quiet evening at the Blaines' talking music with Lydia while Franklin played cards with Mr. Blaine. The moment they arrived, Alevia found me in the foyer, pressing herself against me when we'd walked into the drawing room, hand clutching mine. It was something she always did in large crowds, an attempt to disappear, and the avant-garde mix of men and women was a scene that took getting used to.

Alevia sat down at the bench. Her shoulders relaxed as her hands found the keys. She looked like a painting, her silhouette poised in front of the long frosted windows displaying the starting flakes of a late-night snow. She was always comfortable behind the piano. A handsome man stepped from his easel displaying a photograph of the ocean and a craggy northern shore to stare at her, ignoring three women appraising his work. Lydia emerged from a group of string players and laid a hand on Alevia's shoulder. Alevia smiled up at her and Lydia lifted a hand to me.

As worry for my sister subsided, my head began to spin with thoughts I couldn't pin down. Mr. Hopper hadn't attempted to
touch me beyond kissing my hand in greeting, or acted any differently than normal at the opera, but I'd felt his attention as alive as an electrical current. The knowledge of his attraction struck through me, and I looked around for him—for the eyes that had lighted when he saw me, for the wool tailcoat fitted to his broad shoulders. I found him walking under the chandelier, head bowed to a woman who looped her gloved hand through his arm. I felt nauseous. I should've known better than to believe Franklin's assurances about Mr. Hopper. He had baited me with his charm, he'd gotten me to concede my reservations, and in less than two hours, he'd transferred his infatuation with me to another. I felt idiotic and homesick for Charlie, for the ease of his friendship. For eighteen years, it had always been he and I, no one else. I'd never questioned our connection . . . until he blindsided me with his proposal to Miss Kent. I swore under my breath and pushed him out of my mind. I'd resolved not to think of him and I wouldn't.

I turned around, thinking I would assemble a few people to hear my story for
The Century.
As nervous as I was to read aloud, Mr. Hopper's critique had proven immensely helpful in improving my novel, and I was confident I'd glean something of worth from the comments I'd receive from a reading. I hadn't seen Mr. Blaine and wasn't going to miss the deadline for the next edition on account of his absence. Skirting around a crowd gathered to watch a play, I stared as the two characters dove at each other pretending to brawl. Someone pushed into me and I turned to find Mr. Blaine.

“Good evening, Miss Loftin,” he said cheerily, and glanced over my head toward the gold curtains along the front windows. It was much more crowded than the past two Society meetings I'd attended, occupied mostly by musicians who'd come to practice for auditions the following week. I stared as a woman wearing striped trousers, the legs of them matching the style of her gigot sleeves,
charged past me. It wasn't that trousers were entirely uncommon—women wore bloomers for riding wheels and actresses had begun to wear them on the stage—but I'd never seen them worn so confidently in a formal evening setting.

Ripping my eyes away from the woman, I found Franklin on the other side of the room, black suit blending into the corner. His head dipped as he alternated between glancing at the easel in front of him and his subjects—Lydia and Alevia next to the piano. I watched what I could see of his face in the dark—the gleam of his eyes and the grip of his teeth on his lip as he concentrated on the brushstrokes. Startled by the sensation of eyes burning my face, I realized I had completely forgotten about Mr. Blaine.

“I apologize,” I said. “Where's Bess?” Mr. Blaine shrugged and his smile widened. He lifted a glass to his lips, taking a long drink of what looked to be scotch or bourbon.

“B-being stubborn,” he stuttered. Blinking slowly as though he had suddenly lost his train of thought, he stumbled forward, nearly knocking into a girl in front of him. I grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Are you all right?”

He laughed.

“Yes. Of course,” he said, taking another sip as I stared at him. I'd heard that drunkards were irresponsible, sloppy, and at times violent, nothing I wanted for a beau of Bess's. “I just meant that uh, that Franklin didn't want Bessie here—or so she thought—so she refused to come with me. It's all for the best though. I needed to get some . . . some writing in anyway and read your story, if you remembered to bring it.” He shivered, rubbing his arms. “I'm freezing.” I wondered how he could possibly be cold; in close proximity to two roaring fireplaces and over one hundred bodies pumping heat into the room, I was sweating myself.

“I remembered,” I said, choosing to ignore his strange revelation. “In fact, I was on my way to read a bit of it when I ran into you.” I turned to the cluster of players tuning at the front of the room. Though I knew I needed to read my work to perfect it, nerves still twisted in my gut at the thought. “Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking a look before I read it?” I ran my fingers over my waist, decorated in gold Indian embroidery adorned with beetle wing cases—a gift from Franklin—and scanned the guests in front of me. Most were well into their work by now, noses in notebooks or sketch pads.

“Of course,” Mr. Blaine said. I caught something moving out of the corner of my eye and glanced toward it. It was just a man sitting by the fireplace writing, but his hand shook wildly, pencil moving so quickly I had no idea how in the world his brain could keep up.

“Do you know him?”

Mr. Blaine was still shivering.

“Are you sure you're all right?” My worry for Bess's future had transformed to concern for Mr. Blaine. He seemed terribly ill.

“Yes, quite,” he said. “Who?” He asked, referring to my earlier question. I tipped my head toward the man who stopped writing momentarily to dig in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a new pencil and a small brown bottle emblazoned with a Celtic circle knot that he shoved back into his jacket as quickly. Mr. Blaine's eyes narrowed. “Oh. Yes. That's Marcus Carter. We grew up together. His brother Will's the one who passed away in the study. He and Lydia used to be engaged until . . . until they weren't anymore.” Mr. Blaine's words were beginning to slur together. I recalled Uncle Richard's impromptu eulogy following Father's funeral and recognized the similar smearing of consonants. Mr. Blaine was clearly intoxicated, but I ignored my worry for Bess at the moment, stunned by what
he'd said. I stared at the man crouched over his notebook, arm flying again, wondering whether Franklin knew and why Lydia hadn't married him. I recalled her speaking of a former beau the day Frank bought the Benz. Was this the same man? I would have to ask her about him later.

“What happened?” I asked, but the musicians started to play and my question was lost. The tune was hauntingly beautiful and I watched Alevia's eyes close, fingers resting on one chord after another. Suddenly, the bass and cello struck two sullen notes and her eyes opened at once, hands sprinting the keys to the tune of a powerful war march. I glanced in the direction of the man who had noticed Alevia earlier to find him intermittently conversing with an older gentleman in front of him and gazing at her.

“Tchaikovsky's
1812
,” Mr. Blaine said. He tipped his glass to his mouth and swallowed what remained. I thought to ask him how many drinks he'd had, to remind him that gentlemen were never to imbibe more than two in public, but decided against it. He'd been groomed in manners. He knew the rules. “That'll be the first Philharmonic performance next season.” As the music began to crescendo, the bows moved violently with the demand of the eighteenth notes. Lydia was at the back of the string group, a half beat behind, completely out of sync with the others, though her eyes were trained on her music as though nothing was amiss. I looked over at Franklin, thinking that he would notice, but found him glaring down at his canvas.

“Is Lydia all right?” I whispered to Mr. Blaine.

“Yes. She finds that run challenging. It's a gift, you know, to master a craft so easily that you don't often have to rehearse it.” He cleared his throat. “I attempt to steer away from conversation about my writing with Lydia. My first drafts are typically quite close to perfect, and she has to work so hard at her music. I feel bad for
her.” I grimaced at his pompousness, and looked around for Mr. Hopper, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he'd decided to entertain that woman elsewhere. “I have told her often that my secret is to outline first, to know where your mind should be so that—”

“Let's exchange stories now,” I said, before he could enlighten me further. “Do you want to or not?” I asked. His face paled and he rocked into me.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't feel well.” He swallowed and straightened his posture, the color returning to his cheeks.

“Perhaps you should consult with Doctor Hopper,” I snapped. His affliction was clearly self-imposed.

“No need. I was just a bit dizzy.” He grinned. “I have been quite busy with a new novel idea and haven't written my story yet, but I would be happy to read yours. I decided on the Ben Franklin piece, in case you were interested. I'll bring it next time.” Slightly irritated that he hadn't upheld his end of the bargain, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my story anyway. I knew it was good; I felt pride whenever I thought of it and couldn't wait to see Mr. Blaine's reaction.

He sunk onto a tufted ottoman and began to read. I forced my eyes to the front of the room instead of trying to decipher his facial expressions, knowing that if he so much as furrowed his eyebrows I would worry.

Alevia was still playing, though the other musicians seemed to have taken a break. A cluster of men and women were gathered around the piano watching her, until she transitioned into the flowing introduction to Charles Everest's “Beautiful Moon.” Alevia wasn't overly fond of contemporary pieces, generally preferring the classical greats, but I knew that she enjoyed this song. A powerful alto voice suddenly soared from the crowd around Alevia, “Beauti
ful moon, thou queen of night, beaming with thy placid light.” My sister grinned as a short, plump woman stepped out of the group to stand beside her, her voice so hypnotizing that the room seemed to silence.

“Miss Loftin.” Mr. Blaine pulled on the sleeve of my dress. I ignored him, mesmerized by the woman and Alevia. “Miss Loftin,” he said again, this time yanking my chiffon sleeve so hard I fell onto the ottoman and half on his lap. Scooting away, I pulled my eyes from the piano.

“What is it?” I asked, wishing he'd waited for the song to end.

“I've finished reading.” He shrugged and tossed a bit of hair out of his face.

“Oh. Good,” I said, wondering if I would gain any insight at all from a man who'd consumed much more alcohol than he could handle. “Go on.”

“You write spectacularly,” he started. “Your words are vivid; your sentences are beautiful.” He paused and pressed his lips together, drawing them into his mouth and then out again. “However, I'm concerned about the subject matter. Honestly, I find it a bit shallow.” He laughed under his breath. I felt my forehead scrunch, but forced my expression blank. I'd asked for his opinion. I couldn't show him that he'd already offended me. Great writing required honest criticism and I needed to embrace it. My acceptance of Mr. Hopper's comments had already made my manuscript stronger. “Emilie Todd Helm, Miss Loftin? She's barely a blip in history. It's not as if she fought in the war herself, so her story really had no impact on the American public, beyond making our kind angry. I'd advise against your reading this story here. It's—”

“Our kind? What does that mean?” The questions came out too quickly, too defensively, and Mr. Blaine's eyes narrowed.