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EDMOND FETCHED THEM promptly at six-thirty that evening, in the buggy borrowed from his landlady—the horse’s shoe having been restored. They rolled out of Ishpeming’s downtown district and into a somewhat hilly neighborhood of modest dwellings. A few minutes later, the buggy pulled up in front of a white clapboard house. Mary had been to many parties, some of them quite fancy affairs, but this one had her feeling a little more nervous than usual.
“Here we are,” Edmond said, hopping down from the driver’s seat and tying the animal to a post. He helped Mary, then Christena, from their seat, and led them up the board-covered walk. Before they even reached the porch steps, the front door swung open and a big, bearded bear of a man stepped out, grinning broadly. Behind him came a rosy-cheeked girl of about nine or ten.
“Edmond, hello,” the man boomed. “And I’m guessing these lovely ladies are the MacDougall girls. Welcome to my humble abode. I’m Dan Gilroy. And this is my daughter Ellen.”
“Mr. Gilroy,” Christena said, climbing the steps. Her hand disappeared into his giant paw. “Hello, Ellen. I’m Christena MacDougall. Thank you so much for inviting us.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” the big man said. “Just call me Dan.”
“And I’m Mary MacDougall.” Mary, following behind her aunt, felt immediately comfortable with him.
“Nice to meet you at long last,” Dan said, enthusiastically shaking her hand. “Edmond speaks highly of you. Very highly.” He gave her a wink.
Mary didn’t know how to respond to that. She avoided looking at Christena, but gave Edmond a quick glance. He was busy listening to Ellen talking animatedly about something. Apparently he hadn’t heard Dan’s remark.
“And he’s told me all about your little band of artistic compatriots,” she said to her host. “There’s quite a collection of talent here in Ishpeming, I understand.”
“And many of them are waiting inside to meet you. So, ladies, after you.” The burly furniture maker gestured that they should step inside.
Mary took a deep breath and went into the house. She knew she would be on display this evening. What would Edmond’s friends think of her? Normally she wasn’t concerned about the impressions she made. But right now she had a bit of stage fright.
The front parlor was packed with people, like sardines in a can. There were pairs and trios and clumps of them, jabbering away. About what, Mary couldn’t discern, given the din made by all those voices. Many were holding glasses of beer and whiskey and wine, and smoke from cigarettes and pipes filled the air.
The other female guests, for the most part, were attired in shirtwaists and skirts. Some of the men wore suits, but others had on dungarees. All of which made Mary very glad that she had on her rather plain traveling clothes—far more appropriate than one of Madame Zoya’s evening dresses. It pleased her to think that she fit right into this bohemian crowd. She hoped that no one could guess, by simply looking at her, that she was an heiress with tens of thousands in the bank.
Edmond guided Mary and Christena around the room, making introductions. Mary was not surprised to meet artists and writers and musicians, but a banker and a Methodist minister were also in attendance. Within minutes, Christena was engaged in an intense discussion about Rookwood, a type of pottery that she collected, with an impassioned female potter.
Mary found herself standing in a corner with Edmond and a painter named Mrs. Rosiland Lehmann, or Rosie, as she insisted Mary call her. Edmond was drinking a beer, while Mary and Rosie sipped on little jelly jars of the elderberry wine that Mrs. Gilroy had made.
Rosie was a petite but voluptuous woman with raven hair piled atop her head, lively green eyes, and strikingly pretty features. Mary guessed her age at about thirty and she found her an intriguing person—a woman with an improbable dream, much like Mary MacDougall. There weren’t, as far as Mary knew, very many successful women painters, just as there were very few women detectives.
But the evidence of Rosie’s skill with a brush hung on the wall right behind them, a canvas of medium size depicting a fierce dark thunderstorm, wracked with lightning, advancing across the open prairie. It was really quite evocative—vivid and wild. The painter made modest mumblings when Edmond compared her landscape style to Turner and Courbet. It was a work Mary would have considered buying.
Someone shouted for Edmond to come over for a moment, to settle a bet, and he excused himself, leaving the two women alone.
“Where did you learn to paint so well?” Mary asked.
“I studied in New York,” Rosie replied. “For about three years. And before that in Chicago.”
“Is the art world very difficult for a woman painter to succeed in?”
Rosie shrugged. “In some respects, I suppose so. But if you have talent and the tenacity to keep going, you can make something of it. And you have to take advantage of every connection you have. I was good at that.”
“How so?”
“I worked as a model, you see. It’s how I supported myself. I don’t mean to sound immodest, but I was in high demand among artists. So a number of painters and teachers and photographers knew me. And knew I was serious about my craft.”
Mary was not surprised that this woman had been in demand as a model, considering how attractive and shapely she was. She wondered how Rosie’s husband viewed the work that his wife did. Perhaps he was a painter, too, and they had met when she posed for him. Mary glanced around the room, wondering which of the gentlemen was Mr. Lehmann.
“It’s not fair,” Rosie continued, “but one’s appearance sometimes does help one get ahead. But still, to be taken seriously as an artist, you have to produce work of a certain caliber. Good looks and an empty head will only get you into one place.”
Mary knew perfectly well what Rosie meant. She imagined that many women shown in famous artworks had arrived on the canvas by way of the painter’s mattress. And who was Mary to judge them? They were women with ambition, not unlike herself. The only difference was that Mary had no intention of achieving her goals through flirtation and flattery—or worse.
“Well, after looking at this canvas of yours, no one would dare question your talent as a landscape painter.”
Rosie smiled. “I’m quite proud of that one. But I want to expand my skills. Fortunately, Edmond has taken me under his wing, teaching me the craft of still-life work. And in return, I’ve been posing for him.”
Mary couldn’t stop the hot flare of jealousy that suddenly surged up inside her. But it was quite unreasonable. After all, she knew Edmond had enlisted lots of his friends as models to portray the pioneers and miners and loggers that populated his bank mural. He had probably sketched everyone standing in this room for his project, even little Ellen and her parents. Perhaps Mr. Lehmann, too.
Still, Mary didn’t like the image in her head of Edmond and this woman working together—talking, touching, laughing. But now it was there. And she couldn’t remove it.
She forced herself to smile. “He is quite an excellent teacher. In fact, we met in a class of his a year ago. He owes me a few private lessons.”
“And you shall have them when I’m in Duluth for the Ensign portraits,” Edmond said, rejoining them. “You’ll have oils coming out your ears.”
Mary gave a quick laugh. “I’m not quite sure I’d like that. It sounds rather messy and uncomfortable. Still, I aim to soak up as many painting pointers as I can.”
Just then, Dan Gilroy hollered for Edmond to help him move a table. Rosie gave Mary a friendly nod and wandered off to talk to someone else. Christena stood across the room, chatting with Paul Forbes, a photographer Mary had met earlier. The guest of honor was left standing all alone.
She didn’t mind, as it gave her a chance to observe the other guests and attempt to deduce what they were like. Those deductions were interrupted when a thin, sallow young man sidled up to her. He wore an ill-fitting black suit, white shirt, black tie, and black beret. There was a wisp of something spidery beneath his narrow, crooked nose that apparently was a mustache. He had a monocle tucked into his right eye socket. He was clearly trying to look like a bohemian artist, but to Mary he came across as a skinny boy playing dress-up in front of the mirror.
Mary smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
“So you are Edmond’s special friend,” he said, almost accusingly. “Miss Mary MacDougall.”
Mary found his manner puzzling, but she kept smiling. “That would be me. And you are?”
He offered a pale hand stained with ink, almost as if he expected her to kiss it. “Simon Skelton. I’m a typesetter by day at the Iron Ore newspaper, a poet by night. Free verse only. No blasted rhyming for me.” He scowled, then regarded her for a few seconds. “You know, I’ve never met a millionaire before.”
Ah, Mary thought, a critic of the moneyed classes. That explained the cold, scornful attitude.
“I can assure you, Mr. Skelton, that I do not have a million dollars.”
He sniffed. “Well, then, your father does. As I understand it, he is among our great oligarchs. One of those who connives to control everything and keep ordinary working folk oppressed.”
Mary felt a bit defensive and peeved at this fellow who was judging her father. “Well, he is a successful businessman and a millionaire. And he has several companies. But my father employs many hundreds of people and is considered a fair and generous boss. And,” she said, leveling her eyes at him, “he started with nothing.”
Mr. Skelton gave his head a toss. “It just so happens that my friend Erno Ritala works in one of your father’s mines. And he’s among those trying to bring in a union.” He crossed his arms defiantly. “Once the workers unite, the robber barons like your father might end up having to do their own laundry.” He gave a high-pitched laugh at his clever remark.
At the mention of Erno Ritala’s name, Mary remembered the first time she had met him, back in December when he and his pretty wife Annika had visited Duluth with Edmond. The Ritalas were both accomplished jewelry-makers. Mary had bought several of their pieces for herself and to give as Christmas gifts. When the couple found out about their impending parenthood, they decided to leave Ishpeming and move to the town of Eveleth on Minnesota’s Iron Range, to be nearer to their families.
Edmond had written Mary that Erno, an unrepentant socialist, had reluctantly taken a job in a nearby mine to provide the necessary income their growing family would require. But she hadn’t known it was her father’s mine. Mary understood that it must have been a heart-wrenching decision to give up his craft. Still, she also knew, from what her father had told her many times, that unions were only going to make life more difficult for their members, not improve it.
She was just about to respond to Mr. Skelton’s juvenile taunt when, out of nowhere, Dan Gilroy’s piercing whistle filled the parlor. “The food is on the table, everyone,” the big man bellowed out. “Get yourselves plates and cutlery, find yourselves perches, and dig in. There’s plenty more wine and beer, too.”
Mary gave Simon Skelton a curt nod and went to join Christena. The two of them loaded up their plates with roasted chicken, boiled potatoes, and bread, then found spots on a handsome mahogany bench in the parlor. They sat on one end, balancing their plates on their laps. As they started to eat, Christena’s new friend plopped down next to her.
“Mary,” she said, “have you met Paul Forbes? Paul is a photographer. He has a portrait studio downtown, but also strives to make photographs in the style of Alfred Stieglitz.”
Paul had a rugged, weatherworn face with kind hazel eyes. And he actually seemed to have captivated Christena, who had focused most of her attentions on him that evening.
“Paul and I met earlier,” Mary said, nodding at the man. “But we didn’t have a chance to talk. I’ve heard of Mr. Steiglitz, but don’t know much about him.”
Paul told her about his efforts in Stieglitz’s pictorialist style—photo visions of real life, but with a gauzy impressionism to them. The negatives required a great deal of manipulation in the darkroom, he explained, to achieve the characteristic look.
“It sounds quite beautiful,” Mary said. “Before we leave town I should like to see some of your work.”
The man beamed. “Well, you don’t have to go very far. Dan has several of my prints.” He pointed. “Over there and there. And another around the corner in the dining room.”
Mary had noticed the photos, but hadn’t paid them much attention. She hopped up, set her plate down on the bench, and went over to the first picture, a still life of irises in a vase. Very nice, very pretty. The second showed a fisherman by a lovely bubbling brook, with an ephemeral mist rising into the air. Then Mary went into the dining room, squeezing between several other partygoers.
She stepped up to the framed photo on the wall and blinked at it, leaning in close. It showed a grove of young birch trees, sunlight twinkling among the leaves.
Leaning languidly against one of the trees was a curvaceous woman with flowing, dark hair. In a state of total undress. Looking demurely over her left shoulder.
Mary instantly recognized her. It was Rosie Lehmann.
Edmond’s good friend, pupil, and unabashed model.
