The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (18 page)

“I know he can't help but hate me. I know what I've done to you and I'm sorry . . . so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. I knew he meant it. I knew him as well as I knew myself. “I chose wrongly and I'm paying for it. I'm tortured every second that I don't have you, Ginny. I don't know how I'll go on without you, but I suppose I'll have to.”

“You'll be fine,” I said, reaching for his hand. I felt sorry for him. He was trapped, and as much as his rejection had killed me in the past, I was free to move on. “Try to forget me. It's easier that way.” Charlie shook his head.

“I'm afraid that's impossible,” he whispered.

I
t was close to midnight and no one had even caught so much as a glimpse of Lydia. Though initially I figured she'd only gone somewhere to cry and would turn up, I was beginning to worry. When Franklin and John had returned to the ballroom after an hour of searching with no luck, the entire party, including the newlyweds, had pitched in to try to find her. I could see Mae now, white dress a light splotch against the darkness as she combed the edge of woods on the other side of the pond. Nearly one hundred guests were spread out everywhere searching. The elderly were the only ones who had avoided involvement entirely and most of them had stayed behind to enjoy what remained of the reception, though they'd been escorted to their coaches hours ago.

Turning away from the view of the looming French-style chateau, I started south again, deeper into the thick hardwood forest, following a crude path that Henry had mentioned forked at some point, leading to thirty-five undeveloped acres of wilderness on one side and the Long Island Sound on the other. It probably wasn't wise to go alone—I couldn't see but a foot in front of me at most and had no idea if the path had split yet—but I wasn't afraid of the dark. I only hoped that when I finally turned around I'd be able to find my way back.

The woods were silent except for the random calls of hunting owls and the scuffle of dried leaves as they snatched their prey. I took a deep breath, inhaling the tinge of sulfur and salt coming from the Sound in an attempt to calm my alarm at Lydia's absence, but it didn't work. A faraway shout came from behind me and I whirled around, squinting through the shadowy trees.

“Nevermind!” In the night silence, I could hear Charlie's retraction clearly even though I was at least a mile away by now. I couldn't believe I'd let him kiss me. I'd thought my heart had finally numbed toward him, but in the moment, the deep, old feelings I'd buried had welled up. To anyone else, his gestures would seem appalling. I knew that and blamed him for it, but I also knew what he was struggling against, what he was still trying to come to terms with: the fight of heart versus responsibility. And even though he loved me, Charlie would choose responsibility in the end. Divorce wasn't something he was willing to consider and I couldn't say, in the same situation, that I would either.

Staring at the moon, I wondered where Lydia was, then stopped dead, catching myself on the trunk of scrawny tree. I stood there looking out at the sporadic flashes of lantern light on the fishing boats—and then, I heard it.

The sobbing came from below me, to my right. I caught the
gleam of Lydia's blond hair in the moonlight and gasped. She was waist deep in the water a short distance away. She stretched her hands out in front of her and then submerged them. I didn't know what she was planning; all I knew was that if I yelled her name she'd startle.

I had to reach her. I ran through the woods along the edge of the bank. The skirt of my bridesmaid's dress caught on briars and twigs and I hiked it to my shins. Lydia had taken a few more steps now, her blue dress floating around her. I stopped above her, unsure how I could get down to the water without falling. Eyeing a channel of dirt next to me, snaking between the rocks, I veered toward it. I made my way down the bank slowly, gripping the stones, making sure my silk satin shoes didn't get caught between them. Lydia had stopped sobbing, but she was still crying. I could hear the deep hiccups of her breath as I got closer. Two more steps down and I'd be on the bank. Without warning, Lydia pushed forward, the water rising to her chest.

“Lydia!” I screamed. I didn't know if she could swim, but I'd never learned. I couldn't do anything to help her if she lost her balance in the waves.

“What're you doing? We've all been so worried,” I yelled. The wind was picking up, bringing the tide in. She turned to face me. My breath caught. I'd never seen her this way. Lydia looked like a patient who'd somehow broken out of the asylum. She was holding her arms out, trying to balance, though she stumbled back and forth in the water, her long hair torn mostly out of her updo, tangling in the wind. She blinked at me, blue eyes bloodshot and serious, though her lips were turned up in a garish smile.

“Marcus is dead,” she called flatly, though the grin remained. “I'm going to find him.”

“What about Tom?” I shouted. “What about your parents? Come out of the water. I'll walk you back.” I glanced around
me, frantically looking for something I could extend to her if she couldn't make it out alone, but found nothing.

“I loved him.” Tears poured down her face, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. “But after Will passed . . . Marcus changed. He wouldn't talk to anyone, not me or anyone, and I was angry. I left him.”

“It's not your fault, Lydia.” I started to remind her of his madness, but stifled my words, unsure if the memory would make her feel worse. “He and Will are together in some place much better,” I said, attempting to reassure her, wishing someone, anyone, were here with me.

“You didn't know them,” she said. “I want to go there, too.” Her eyes dried and the eerie smile returned.

“What about Franklin?” I asked, fierce defense for my brother suddenly overtaking my pity for her. “I thought you loved him. He loves you. We all love you. We're going to be sisters, remember?” Her eyes narrowed.

“You don't understand and he doesn't care,” she shouted. I didn't think she'd blinked the entire time we'd been speaking, but she did now—so slowly I thought she was closing her eyes. “He barely touches me,” she said more softly, though her expression remained the same.

“Of course he does,” I said. “He thinks you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen and practically lights up when you're around. How could he help it? I do, too.” My mind was spinning. “I'm sure you're the love of his life and—”

“Lyd, you're going to let us get you back to the Trents' safely.” John's voice came from behind me, strong and matter-of-fact. In the hysteria of the moment, I'd almost forgotten he existed. Lydia started crying again when she saw him over my shoulder. He worked his way down the hill and shot me a quick glance, brows
furrowed in worry. I nodded, at once feeling like I'd been reduced to the size of an ant. Even as Lydia's fate hung in the balance, I remembered my lips on Charlie's and hated what I'd done. John loved me and I'd betrayed him with a man who'd stolen his only other love. “I've lost them, too, you know,” he shouted, eyes fixed on Lydia. He started to edge out of his jacket. “They were like brothers to me. Marc wouldn't want this for you, Lyd, you know that.” Lydia began blubbering, and nodded.

“Thank god,” I whispered. John walked past me to the water's edge, squeezing my hand as he passed. His starched white tuxedo shirt hugged his tense shoulders.

“Will you come back, please? I can't lose you, too. Frank can't lose you either. He's been worried sick.” John began to push his shoes off. He stared at Lydia, waiting.

“Very well,” she said. She looked at the water around her and then back at John and me on the bank.

“Just focus on me and start walking,” John said. Lydia collected the length of her floating skirt in her fist, bit her lip, and started forward. I exhaled, relieved. “I hate to tell you, but you missed the cake,” John said, no doubt in an attempt to keep up conversation. “It was marvelous. The most decadent butter cream I have ever tasted.” Lydia smiled. The wind picked up, tossing the water around her.

“I suppose I—” She suddenly lost her footing, disappearing into the waves. Her head bobbed up. “John!” she called, before she went under again. John dove into the water, his arms propelling along the surface to where we'd last seen her. I stepped forward, my body racing with the urge to do something, but I was helpless. John disappeared below the surface, only to reemerge again moments later.

“Has she come up?” he bellowed. I started to reply, but he dove under again, not waiting for my response. I was shaking. I felt
desperate, helpless. I closed my eyes and prayed for God to spare her, to keep John from harm. Just then John emerged from the water, his arm gripped around Lydia's chest. She was coughing, her hair hanging in tendrils across her face.

“Thank goodness,” I whispered. My teeth chattered, the alarm of her near peril still coursing through me. As John swam closer, I could see Lydia's fingers gripped around his arm, though her head had begun to bob with each forward stroke.

“Gin, I think she's fainted,” John panted. He stood, lifting her body to his chest as he shuffled out of the water. “Do you have any salts?” I stared at him for a moment before realizing I did.

“Yes,” I said, reaching into the small pocket at my side to extract the bottle of Bull's Head smelling salts I'd carried to the church in case any of the guests had need of them. John set Lydia down, propping her up against a rock. She was snoring now, a high-pitched whistling noise. I couldn't help but smile. She was safe. I knelt down and began to open the cap, but John's fingers caught mine. He lowered to the gritty bank beside me and lifted his hand to my face.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “If you hadn't found her—”

“John,” I started. I had to tell him about Charlie. As angry as I knew he'd be, I couldn't hide it from him. “I have to tell you someth—”

“Whatever it is, I don't care,” he said. “I just need you now.” Pulling my face to his, he kissed me. His mouth moved slowly on mine. I could feel the softness of his lips, taste the sweet cigar smoke on his tongue, and something in my heart responded. A part of me belonged to him. He pulled away and I lifted the salts to Lydia's nostrils. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Ginny.”

“You scared me,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around her. She clutched me to her, her saturated dress soaking through mine.

“Never again, Lydia,” John said over my shoulder. “Promise me.” Lydia blinked hazily and then nodded.

“I'm so, so sorry,” she muttered, stifling a sob. “I promise.” I released her and stood.

“I know you are,” he said. “Now let's find a way to get you up this bank.” John squinted up at the rocks and I looked over at Lydia realizing she'd fallen fast asleep.

I
couldn't understand why they'd decided to go ahead with the Society meeting other than the fact that they thought Mr. Carter would want it that way. I was only here myself because Lydia had begged me to attend. John wasn't even in town, but had graciously allowed Tom to open the house for a meeting anyway. John had taken a train to Georgia with his father late last week saying something about needing to help him with his research, though I doubted John, who had no interest in medicine, could be of any assistance in whatever experiment Doctor Hopper was doing. Frank casually mentioned John had really gone away to distance himself from the tragedy, to take time to mourn his once friend in his own way. I couldn't blame him, but I missed him terribly. I didn't want to be here either.

I was sitting in the corner where we'd spotted Maude Adams on the first night, still trying to think up an idea for a new novel. I glanced at the first idea I'd written down.
The immigration of
my grandparents.
Their story was a heroic, heartbreaking tale, and though their lives had greatly improved a few years after their arrival in the city, I didn't know if I had the strength to live the calamity of their passage and early years as Americans. They'd fled to escape the Irish famine, leaving their parents and siblings behind. Losing two sons to disease on the ship over, they hadn't been able to find work when they got here, forcing my father, his three siblings, and my grandparents to live with three other families in an apartment in the slums until Grandfather found a post with D.F. Tiemann Color Works, a position that eventually made them quite comfortable.

I closed my eyes in an attempt to recall anything striking I'd read as of late in the newspaper or magazines, trying to mute the roaring white noise of hundreds talking and laughing at once, and the eerie undercurrent of suspicion. Familiar faces I'd never met but had seen here often kept walking past me, circulating around to each artist's display, their eyes bright with a strange optimism I didn't understand given the melancholy of the day.

Marcus's funeral had been that morning at Trinity Church. I hadn't attended, but Franklin had said it was horrible. Mrs. Carter had apparently turned around after she was through receiving everyone, climbed up on the casket, reached in, and pulled Mr. Carter's corpse from the pillow, hugging and shaking him while crying hysterically as though she could wake him up. Lydia had vomited and passed out next to Franklin and he'd had to carry her out of the church. Her behavior was concerning and foreign, entirely unlike the bubbly, poised woman I thought I knew.

I glanced over at Lydia now, stunned at the difference in her demeanor. John and I had promised we'd keep quiet about her episode in the sound—we'd told everyone save Franklin that she'd lost her diamond bracelet in the waves and that she and John had
gone to retrieve it—but for someone so affected by Mr. Carter's death a week ago, her loud laughter hours after she'd fainted at his funeral didn't make sense. Then again, nothing about grief ever did. Lydia tipped her head back, dangling her hair in Franklin's face as she laughed with a girl in front of her. Turning abruptly, she took Franklin's face in her hands and leaned in to kiss him. Franklin shook his head, scowling at her brazen behavior. He'd been in a sour mood ever since John had left for Georgia without him. He'd asked to go along, needing to get away from our grief-stricken peers as much as John did, but Doctor Hopper had requested the trip remain father and son. I watched, waiting for Lydia to react to Frank's dismissal, but she only grinned and scanned the crowd. She paused on me and began to walk over. I closed my notebook and waited, hoping she'd confide in me. I understood pain, the way sorrow rose and fell in waves. The only way I'd gotten through the loss of my father was to talk about him. So far, she had yet to utter a word about Mr. Carter to Frank or me, but I prayed she would. Perhaps speaking of him would alleviate the misplaced guilt she felt in his death. Something had to settle her mind. She couldn't continue on this way.

Lydia exhaled and sat down on the damask ottoman beside me. Her lips were still turned up, but her eyes narrowed at Frank across the room. I could only see the top of his head—a crowd had gathered in front of us to hear a poem accompanied by a flutist.

“What do you suppose is wrong with him?” she asked without looking my way. I didn't want to point out that her behavior was a bit forward for a public gathering, so I shrugged. “I love him. I do, but I can't figure it out. Half of the time he acts as though he's repulsed by me, not even letting me kiss him—”

“He's not repulsed by you in the slightest.” I laughed and reached out to clutch her hand. “You're beautiful, and he loves
you, you know that. But you're in public.” Lydia's head whipped toward me.

“No, we're not,” she said. Her shaking hands fingered an enormous ruby necklace hanging from her neck. “We're among friends,” she stuttered. I looked into her eyes, finding them bloodshot and glassy. Was she intoxicated? I recalled the way she'd been at Mae's wedding. She'd had too much wine then, too. “And it's not like anyone knows what's g-going on anyway.” She dropped the necklace and swept her hand across the display in front of us. The poem had concluded and most of the group had moved on to other presentations, but the few still gathered were an interesting sight. Some weren't talking, staring blankly at the people around them, while others chattered and laughed with each other, unaware of anything amiss. The cellist who usually played with Lydia was sitting by herself in the corner opposite us, bow driving angrily across the strings.

“Are you all right? I can tell that you've had—” I started to tell her that imbibing too much liquor would do nothing to bring Mr. Carter back, but Lydia cut me off.

“Your brother and John are optimists. They've tried to cheer me, to cheer everyone, but right now, it's impossible. My sorrow is too great.” The last word was forced from her mouth. She was right. Neither of them could stand watching people wither in grief without trying to cast light on whatever it was. That's why John had left this time, I thought. He was too close, he couldn't do it. But Frank could.

“Lydia . . .” My heart broke for her. Even though her grief for a man that wasn't Frank made me defensive, I could feel her anguish. She'd left things undone with Mr. Carter, a man she'd clearly loved. I started to say that he'd known how much she cared for him, but I had no idea of the reality of their past beyond one story. “Frank's
only trying to liven you because he cares for you so deeply,” I said, choosing words I absolutely knew to be true. I glanced in the direction of my brother. He hadn't mentioned the toll Lydia's grief had taken on their relationship, but I knew it had to be weighing on him. “We all care for you.” I drew my arm around her shoulders.

“I know.” Turning toward me, the corners of her mouth twitched. I wondered what had suddenly convinced her. “He gave me this earlier and said h-he did.” She plucked the necklace from her chest.

“How? Where did he get that?” Disbelief floated over me. The ruby was at least five carats surrounded by tiny diamonds. Lydia lifted a shoulder. I reached for my notebook and pencil, flipping the blank pages to busy my hands. What was he doing? If he had to buy her jewelry to prove his love, he couldn't afford her. I doubted he had enough money, even given his promotion, to afford our expenses, our dresses, his suits, the Benz, and Lydia's necklace.

Suddenly, Lydia flung bolt upright. Her face drained as she stared up at the cherub mural and her lips grayed. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her, but she just made a low gurgling noise in her throat. My heart pounded. She needed a doctor, but Doctor Hopper wasn't here.

“Lydia.” I dug my nails into her shoulders, but her head bobbed limply with each movement. She laughed and I jumped and let go. She rocked forward once with the absence of my hands and then jolted as though she'd woken from a dream where she'd been falling.

“H-he's here,” she whispered.

“Who's here?” I asked. My voice shook, wishing I could somehow get Frank's attention or Tom's, though I hadn't seen him all night.

“Marcus.” Barely able to get his name out, her teeth began chattering and she rubbed her arms, staring blankly into the room.

“No, Lydia. He's gone. In heaven, remember?” I tried to speak as calmly as possible despite the alarm roaring through me.

“I know that, but I feel him,” she spat, glaring at me. The base of my tailbone started to tingle and I straightened in my chair. As ridiculous as it was, I couldn't help glancing about, hoping I wouldn't see a ghost. “I killed him. Will killed him. He died of a broken heart.” A sob caught in her throat and I clutched her wrist.

“Listen to me,” I barked over the sorrowful wail of the cello and the clashing far-off notes of someone much less skilled than Alevia playing the piano. “He and Will both died of a heart ailment, not a broken heart.” That had been Doctor Hopper's findings anyway, though the idea that both men had succumbed to the exact same condition was a bit peculiar. I'd voiced my doubt to Bess and Alevia while Franklin and Lydia were attending the funeral, but neither thought it odd in the slightest. Bess had shrugged, saying that Doctor Hopper was one of the most renowned physicians in Manhattan and that we should trust his expertise, while Alevia paled and ignored the conversation altogether, turning to Grandmother's piano and playing “Abide with Me.” Mother had come in to sing along with Alevia's playing, afterward giving me a hug and telling me that tragedies like this were simply difficult to understand. But, sitting here, listening to fragments of whispers around me, I knew I wasn't the only one to question Mr. Carter's fate. The most common story seemed to be that he'd died of an alcohol overdose, but that Doctor Hopper had been convinced to mask it in order to avoid a social scandal.

“You don't know anything,” Lydia said. “He's
here
!” She screeched the last word, stumbled on the long train of her black mourning dress, caught herself on the wall, and ran from me.
Looking over her shoulder, her face was gripped with worry as if Mr. Carter was chasing her. I stood to go after her. I had no idea how to calm her, but I had to try. Out of nowhere, Franklin materialized in front of her, grabbing her in a hug. “I'm sorry,” Franklin mouthed to me over her shoulder. I watched Lydia's head drop to Frank's chest, and let out the breath I'd been holding. Grief and guilt had the ability to consume, to sink a person so far into the depths of melancholy that for a while, they could hardly function. I hated that Lydia had to endure such pain and hoped she could overcome it.

I forced my attention to my notebook and tried in vain to ignore everything else. I flipped the first page, finding two ideas scrawled on the second. Both came from some form of real life: a fabricated story about the Society and an undefined idea about what it was that made people go along with class expectations. The latter made me think of Charlie. I could still hear the desperation in his voice, feel his hands on my body, but the memory of it, of him, no longer made me miserable. I knew he loved me, and a part of me would always love him, but fate had drawn us separate paths. Without thinking, I lifted my eyes to the room to look for John before I remembered that he was absent. Though I was surrounded by people, it felt lonely without him.

“Hello, Virginia.” Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to find Edith. She smiled, though her eyes held the same sadness as everyone else's.

“Edith! I'm so happy to see you.” I closed my notebook.

“I'm surprised you recalled my name. It's been nearly a year since I last visited,” she said, running her gloved hands over the black lace overlay along her skirt.

“One doesn't easily forget writing as profound as yours . . . or the discovery that there's another woman out there chasing the
same dream.” I glanced down at my peach dress as I extended my hand to her, suddenly embarrassed that I'd worn something so cheery. “I'm sorry about Mr. Carter,” I said. Her eyes were lined with bags. She shook her head.

“It's quite a tragedy, though I can't pretend that we were ever very close. I came in for the funeral at the request of my family. Marcus and I traveled in the same circle, of course, but I suppose most of my melancholy comes from thinking of his poor parents. I can't imagine the heartache of losing both sons, especially to the same condition.” She pursed her lips, making her already youthful face appear even more childlike. “I know that I shouldn't utter it, but I wonder about the rumors. Ever since William's death, Marcus drank excessively. I can't imagine Doctor Hopper agreeing to report dishonest findings, but it
is
a stroke of luck that Marcus didn't pass on from drunkenness months ago.” Edith shook her head. “In any case, I didn't come over to depress you with talk of death. How's your writing coming along?” Her face brightened at the subject.

“Is it strange if I say that I'm unsure?” She shook her head.

“Of course not; I'm not sure either. I thought that I'd struck gold with the novella I asked you to read, but I got stuck, so I put it away . . . much to Teddy's elation, who has made it clear that he's enjoying a respite from my lamenting over characters' fates and complaining about my lack of time to write. There is never enough with all of the social obligations.” She pursed her lips. Perhaps I wasn't insane to think my work threatened by the potential commitments of the upper class. Clearly John wasn't the only one with this problem. “I'm working on a home decorating guidebook right now, another hobby of mine.” Her eyes swept the tufted couch, damask ottoman, and gilded settee situated around us. “There is so much wasted space in this room,” she muttered, and then sighed.
“If I keep on collecting hobbies, I fear that I'll never accomplish anything. Do convince me to pursue something, Virginia, to choose one course and focus.” I laughed, but she reached out to grab my hand, her eyes serious.