Teddy had not slept.
Edith was still in bed when she heard a knock at the door and a slight cough she knew to be Alfred White’s. White had been in Teddy’s employ for nearly twenty-five years. He knew she was not to be disturbed in the morning. Nerves on edge, she called, “Yes?”
The door opened, White slid through it, closing it behind him. “I apologize for the interruption.” His voice was miraculously pitched: audible, pleasantly baritone, yet never rising above a whisper. “But Mr. Wharton is sitting on the floor. Facing the wall. He has been in that position all night.”
“I see.” Teddy’s nerve fits were often followed by exhaustion and melancholy.
“Did something in particular agitate him?”
“He spoke of plans to visit the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”
A slash of guilt. Her promise to meet Teddy yesterday afternoon—she had forgotten. Teddy would have returned from the morning’s outing, no doubt pressing White to hurry, expecting to find her waiting and finding empty rooms instead. Because she had been at Appleton with Mr. Jewett and then with Henry.
The proper words came to her. Very well, I’ll go in to see him. Poor dear, let’s see if we can’t get him into bed.
“… Unfortunately, I have an appointment this morning.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“On the whole, best not to disturb him?”
“I think so, ma’am.”
She was intensely grateful. Had White simply echoed his earlier yes, ma’am, as was correct, she would have felt his disapproval. Instead, he had used informal language—the shocking I think—to pointedly agree with her. Whether he did or no.
She made a note: something for White.
When White had withdrawn, she flung herself out of bed. She would find something splendid to wear. Then, with her note as proof, she would go to Appleton and warn Mr. Jewett about Algernon Okrent.
Oh, and read Susan Lenox, of course.
Regrettably, the youth informed her, Mr. Jewett was unavailable.
“Unavailable?” Edith repeated the word as if it were a malapropism.
“Regrettably,” stressed the youth.
“When will he be available?”
“When he is no longer unavailable,” said the assistant.
“But I need to speak with him,” she insisted. “It’s extremely important.”
The youth gazed at her with thinly veiled pity. So young in publishing, she thought, but already he had learned: Nothing that concerned writers was extremely important.
“Mr. Jewett did leave instructions that you were to be given a spare office where you could read the manuscript.” His face bright, he held up a key, as if to say, What more could you possibly desire?
But this was not at all what she desired. She had not left poor Teddy to wade through a lengthy tome about the “authentic” American woman written by a shouty American man. She had come because lives were in danger. She had come, she fumed, following the youth down the hall, to protect him and the unavailable Mr. Jewett from further assault. Yet here he was dumping her in a spare office—a veritable garret only large enough for one desk and an old armchair someone was too lazy to throw out.
But she would not complain. She had shocking news to impart, and she didn’t want to prejudice the men at Appleton by seeming hysterical. Theatrically, she smiled and remained smiling until the assistant had closed the door.
Leaving her alone with the work of several years by a man not given to brevity. Taking up the first hundred pages, she settled herself into the battered leather chair and confronted the title page: Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise, by David Graham Phillips.
For some reason, she felt reluctant to begin. Peeking at the introduction, she saw again, “There are three ways of dealing with the sex relations of men and women—two wrong and one right.” As Phillips went on to rail against wishy-washy literature and perverted palates, Edith felt irritated, as if the dead man were sitting opposite with his ridiculous chrysanthemum, hurling pronouncements at her.
Skipping the pompous introduction, she turned to the first page. But the anxiety was still with her.
This was preposterous, she scolded herself. She had read countless scandalous books; this one was no different.
Except, of course, that its author was dead.
And there was another cause for worry.
What if Susan Lenox was good? Not just adequate, but fine enough to justify the dead man’s arrogance? What if it was truly a masterpiece about the American woman—her subject? It was bad enough to read excellent work written by friends. But to be impressed by a book written by a man who had nothing but contempt for her work—that would be unbearable.
You are Edith Wharton, she reminded herself. He is not.
Whipping the page away, she confronted the first lines.
“The child is dead,” said Nora the nurse.
The young man did not rouse from his reverie.
“Dead? What’s that? Merely another name for ignorance.”
Oh, this was positively bad. She began to read eagerly, feeling the deep relief of all writers when reading a rival’s work: It was not good. The baby declared dead at the outset was, in fact, not dead. She was Susan Lenox, born illegitimate, raised in an obscure Midwestern town by small-minded relatives. Edith was captivated by the manic use of adverbs; all was gently or abruptly, wickedly or drearily. Brows were stormy. Eyes snapped. Passion was indicated by saying things three times.
Love—love love! She was a woman and she loved!
“Go—go!” she begged. “Please go.
I’m a bad girl—bad—bad! Go!”
This then was the authentic American woman, she thought scornfully. Young Susan fell into an unsuitable love affair, shocking her guardians, who promptly married her off to a crusty old farmer named Zeke or Jeb—Edith forgot which. The wedding night was entirely grisly, a wrestling match of shrieks and slobber that left poor Susan catatonic.
Disgusted, she slapped down the page. How could Mr. Jewett think this book dangerous? Or Mrs. Frevert imagine it a bold exposé of the dark forces of society? So far, the only things Edith had learned were: Don’t live on farms, and don’t marry men named Jeb or Zeke. Both of which she already knew, as did any sensible human being. So poor Susan was unaware of the facts of married life. That might be revelatory to Mr. Phillips, but it would come as no surprise to most women—including herself. Just before her own wedding, she had asked her mother what would happen after. Airily, her mother replied that, having seen statues of men and women, she should be able to put it together. Thinking of those cold, smooth marble forms, Edith had compared them with her own soft, ungainly body with its peculiar, changeable openings and thought, No, I cannot put it together. And if we cannot even speak of it, how horrible must it be?
Quite horrible, as she discovered. Something so strained and futile, she and Teddy had agreed: There were things they did very well together. Things they enjoyed. Best to stay with those. In fact, it had become something of a joke between them, how ill-matched they were. “Like a podgy St. Bernard and a skittish whippet,” Teddy had said. “The mechanics—ludicrous!” She had laughed and loved him very much then.
She became aware of a shuffling sound; someone was at the door. Puzzled, she called out “Yes?” but the shuffling just grew more frantic. She stood up and cracked the door. It was the youth, nearly buckling at the knees with the weight of several more books. She let him in, and he staggered to the desk, where he deposited them with a thud.
“Mr. Jewett’s suggestion,” he explained. “In case you wanted to read Mr. Phillips’s other novels.”
His gaze fell on the massive stack of unread pages. “Have you … formed any opinion?”
She meant to be professional. Bold. Stimulating. Like nothing I’ve read before. But then she spotted the line “Some likes the yeggs biled” and pressed her fingers to her mouth to stop from laughing.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard it’s terrible.”
Then they knew. They knew it was bad. Amazed, she asked, “How can they publish it in this state?” A horrible thought came to her: This was the edited manuscript. How much worse had it been?
He shrugged. “They say it will create a sensation.”
“Oh, but not in the right way,” she said, her voice low and certain.
“Well, perhaps you could tell Mr. Jewett. He’s available now. If you’re so inclined.”
Excited, she took up her reticule. “Yes, I am very much inclined. Thank you—”
Embarrassed, she realized she didn’t know his name; it was always difficult with people who were not actually important enough for introductions. Waving her hand, she mumbled “Mister” and hurried down the hall to Mr. Jewett’s lovely, comfortable office. She knocked once, then, unable to wait, swept through the door.
Holding the note aloft like a torch, she announced, “Mr. Jewett, Algernon Okrent must be arrested at once!”