Though Mr. Hopper had returned to normal rather quickly, his fainting still unnerved me. I hadn’t expected to think about it after the meeting, but I had. I couldn’t stop wondering about the contradiction between the man who’d looked as though he was at the precipice of death and minutes later kissed me so tenderly I could still feel it on my mouth. In my mind it was still Charlie, but the astonishment that it had actually been Mr. Hopper was starting to wear off. I’d always thought that Charlie would be the man to kiss me first. We’d be in his library and he’d find an excuse to walk over to my writing perch on the settee. He’d sit close, his hand drifting to my knee as he pretended to read. And then he’d look at me and tell me he loved me, that he always had, and he’d ask to kiss me—a short, sweet kiss with the promise of more.
I lifted my hand to my lips. My first kiss had been nothing like I’d envisioned. My breath caught remembering the surprise of it. Mr. Hopper had been sure and deliberate, his lips slowly moving on mine, taking the time to draw me in. I pulled my hand from my mouth and cleared the memory from my mind, wariness overtaking my attraction. Mr. Hopper was handsome, chivalrous, and intelligent, a man willing to fight for me. The combination was a dangerous temptation, one that would be difficult to resist, but the more I thought of the implications of a courtship, the more I knew I might have to—for my heart, for my writing.
“I told him I was too occupied with my music.” Alevia’s words echoed in my mind. The man I’d noticed watching her at the Society had approached when she’d finished playing and asked her to accompany him to hear the London Philharmonic Choir. “He had the audacity to tell me that he admired ambition in women.” She’d rolled her eyes. “Of course he would say that now, before he’s had the opportunity to understand the time my music requires, but he’d eventually change his mind. He’s a Roosevelt. A man of society can’t, in good faith, accept a striving wife. The social requirements are too great. My time to rehearse would be eaten up planning teas, soirees, and dinners.” At the time, she hadn’t any idea of Mr. Hopper’s advances and was likely speaking from her experience with Mr. Winthrop, but her words had resonated with me. Perhaps I was naïve, but I wanted to think Alevia was wrong to discard the idea of marriage so quickly. My thoughts flit to Mr. Hopper, to the image of him crumpled against the open cabinet.
I’d meant to ask Franklin about Mr. Hopper’s health, but the days following the Society had been busy for him. So busy, in fact, that it had been two weeks since I’d caught a glimpse of my brother—he left for work before I woke and didn’t get home until I’d gone to sleep. But, as absent as Frank had been, his newfound wealth had certainly been at hand.
We’d each ordered two new dresses and winter coats at his insistence, feasted on roast turkey and mince pie, and followed dinner with chilled champagne. Mother had seemed more contented than I’d seen her since Father’s passing—baking for friends, taking us for drives in the Benz. She’d even been forgiving when she’d woken at eleven-thirty the night of the Society to find three of her children still out. It was peculiar, the luxury of having more money than we needed, though at times I still worried. It could be taken as quickly as it had come. Mae and Mother were nervous about it, too. Both of them had been grateful for new costumes, but had asked Frank not to buy them anything else for the rest of the month.
I tapped my pencil on the empty pad in front of me, hearing Mae practicing her lecture in the study and watching Bessie bite her lip as she pinned the final scarlet macaw feather on a day cap for Ava Astor. Mrs. Astor had demanded that Bessie make her something that would stand out. This bright red hat pluming with over fifty feathers certainly would.
“Does it look dramatic enough?” Bess asked. “It must, you know. I’ve become known for sensational pieces over the last year. It’s the reason business has been so steady.” She shielded her eyes from the sun pouring into the parlor windows, the glint of it landing on the silver and turquoise cuff around her wrist. I nodded, inhaling the savory scent of mutton roasting in the kitchen. Mother and Mae had spent hours dressing it with the perfect blend of spices this morning before they’d gone down to the stationer’s to order Mae’s wedding invitations. “I wish I had Great-aunt Rose’s old Harper’s Bazaars. I can almost remember a hairstyle in the June 1872 issue. It was elaborate and serpentine and would make a striking design for the gold threading along the band of this hat, but I can’t recall the details.”
“Well, it’s already strange enough that I wouldn’t wear it,” I said, answering her question. Bessie laughed.
“It’s perfect, then.” Ever since she and Mr. Blaine had become somewhat steady a month ago, Bess hadn’t been nearly as harsh as I was used to, and I wondered if we’d be friends in our old age after all.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, stepping toward me. Her brows lifted when she noticed my notepad was empty. “You haven’t written one idea in three hours?” I grimaced, resenting the fact that she was pointing out the obvious. As hard as I tried, as deeply as I concentrated, I couldn’t come up with new ideas. It had begun to bother me that I wasn’t writing. Before I’d been content to write as-needed for the Review or whenever I was inspired. Now, if I wasn’t working on something, I felt as though I was squandering my progress. My compulsion had been worse since the last Society meeting. Though I’d been horrified in the moment, the way Mr. Hopper had so easily seen my real life in my work meant that my words had been so vivid he’d figured they could be true—a sure sign my writing was improving.
I thought of the books and magazines stacked in my room. Even reading hadn’t inspired a premise. I’d read the monthly editions of Scribner’s, Atlantic Monthly, and The Century from cover to cover, along with every new book I could acquire from the library—Arthur Conan Doyle’s The White Company, W. B. Yeats’s new volume of poetry, Mark Twain’s The American Claimant—only to find myself intimidated by the genius of the prose in front of me.
I’d sent my story about noteworthy female explorers, “The Invisible Pioneers,” to The Century a week ago, after Mr. Blaine, who’d stopped by to pick up Bess for a show, read it and deemed it perfect. I hadn’t written since—other than to work on my fast-concluding revision—and knew I’d have to come up with another novel idea in case an editor or publisher wondered what I planned to work on next.
“Perhaps it’d be best for you to stick to short stories and columns for the Review. It takes a different skill set to write novels, you know—at least that’s what I’ve heard—and you’re already so good at the shorter pieces.” Bessie’s lips pursed as she surveyed the hat.
I rolled my eyes, refusing to let her words diminish my resolve, taking back my earlier thought of eventual friendship. We would always be sisters, but beyond moments of understanding, we would never be friends. Everything from our aspirations to our personalities was different.
I plucked Mother’s discarded copy of the New York Times from the table next to me. Bess was right, novel writing was an entirely different skill altogether, but I would learn it just as well. I skimmed the headlines. A Woman’s Ambition: Starting as a Typewriter, She Became a Successful Lawyer. It struck me as an interesting tale—a woman of a humble profession rising in education and intelligence to the rank of lawyer when there were but a handful of female attorneys in the country. I wrote the subject in my notebook and turned back to read the article. It started out well, touting the intelligence of the attorney, and I’d begun to admire the Times for printing such a piece, when I got to the last paragraph—an entire section focused on the valiancy of her railroad tycoon husband for sending her to school. “Her every desire and ambition were gratified by her husband, and when she expressed a desire to study law, he sent her to take the course at Ann Arbor.” I set the paper down.
“I’m going to find Franklin,” I said abruptly, unable to read further. I needed to talk to him, needed to ask about Mr. Hopper so I could stop wondering.
“He’s at work,” Bessie mumbled, holding a pin between her lips.
“I know, but he’s at the office this week and it’s only a few blocks away.”
“More like half a mile,” Bess called as I walked out of the door.
Bessie was right. On warm days, the walk downtown felt like a block at most, but today the blistering wind chapped my face. Finally reaching the two-story limestone building, I flung the door open, and stopped for a moment to hang my grandmother’s mink coat on the rack. This little block of offices and the plant on the bank of the Harlem was all that remained of J. L. Mott’s former headquarters in Mott Haven. They’d moved the warehouse and the main office to Manhattan a few years back, but Franklin had fought to share my father’s old office in this building with three other traveling salesmen. I walked through the lobby, by the old leather couches cracked and dusty with disuse and past a sketch of the twenty-five-foot cast-iron fountain Mr. Mott had debuted at the Centennial Exposition in ’76 on my way to Frank’s office.
“Hello, Mr. Brooks,” I said, finding one of Franklin’s counterparts lounging back in the desk chair, clearly not working. Spinning around, he straightened quickly, and smoothed his jacket over his sizable belly.
“Miss Loftin,” he sputtered, as though his boss had just caught him sleeping on the job.
“Have you seen Frank? I need to talk to him.” Mr. Brooks’s brows furrowed and he twirled a pen between his fingers.
“No . . . he’s not here.” He tilted his head at me. “Haven’t seen him in months, actually.”
“I know. He’s been traveling a lot,” I said, “but he’s home this week, working from here.”
“No, he’s not. Actually he’s not working this week at all.” My heart began to race. “Surely you know that he asked to be taken down to part-time. It’s a damn nuisance to Rich and me, having to pick up the slack and all.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “Why . . . why would he do that?” All of the extravagances—the Benz, the fancy new suits—jumped into my head at once. How could he possibly afford all of it on part-time wages? The sudden thought of my mother panhandling for coins, all of us thrown from the comfort of our home, made my stomach turn.
“Surely you know the answer to that,” Mr. Brooks said, exasperated. “To help your mother around the house of course, since none of you women seem to be up for the task.” I stared at him as though he’d sprouted two heads, wondering what in the world he was talking about. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but it’s about time she abandon her paralyzing grief. Your father passed three years ago.”
“Just a moment. You’re saying Frank’s been part-time for three years?” I expected my voice to shake, but it didn’t. Franklin had been lying to me, to all of us, and we’d suffered the consequences. I recalled December last year, a month we’d made so little money that we’d had to forgo coal and firewood to afford food. My hands were clenched at my sides and I gripped them tighter. Mr. Brooks laughed.
“No, Miss Loftin. Just the past four months or so. You know, about the time your mother fell down the steps and decided she would rather go be with your father than get better?” His lips turned up in a sneer, no doubt thinking I’d lost my mind.
“Oh . . . uhh . . . that’s right,” I said, clearing my throat. My mother of course hadn’t fallen down any stairs. “Well then, good day to you.”
I stumbled home unable to grasp what I’d heard. What was he doing? Where was he going when he said he was going to work? Where was the money coming from? Whatever it was, I would find out. My brother was a liar, but I wouldn’t let him ruin us.
I avoided my family the rest of the evening with the excuse that I was writing. Instead I paced back and forth across my room waiting for Franklin to come home, wondering what I would say to him, imagining his protests and my demands. I eyed the small wooden clock at my bedside. It was nearly eleven in the evening. Where was he?
I plucked Mr. Hopper’s new manuscript from the top of my dressing table. I’d returned from Frank’s office to find a package from Mr. Hopper with the mail. He hadn’t written a lengthy letter, just a short note to say that he’d only had time to revise a bit of it, would appreciate my thoughts, and was looking forward to seeing me upon his return from visiting a cousin in Philadelphia. I couldn’t help but think of the society women he was sure to meet while he was away, torturing myself with visions of his tall frame bent over a beautiful face, his mouth against her ear. Though I wanted to believe that his reputation had only been won by innocent sociability, I wasn’t entirely convinced.
I sat down on my bed, huddled close to the oil lamp, and tried to force my mind blank. Mr. Hopper thought me talented enough that he wanted my opinion. I couldn’t bog my mind down in jealousy or worry over Frank. Whenever Charlie used to ask me about a piece, I would wait until my mind was completely clear to appraise it. The thought made me realize how little my opinion should’ve mattered. I’d always been honest, but what had I known of sketching? Charlie had needed to consult with other illustrators, just as I’d needed the thoughts of other writers.
I closed my eyes, ran my hand over the paper, turned my gaze to Mr. Hopper’s words, and began to read.
“Middle of a scene, well into the last third of the novel.” He’d scrawled at the top. “Mr. Michael Wells finds himself in Newport, penniless. He’s been gone from his wealthy family for five years and has been making his way round the world, as I mentioned to you earlier.” Mr. Hopper wrote out of order. I’d heard of other writers drafting this way, but hadn’t ever done it myself.
It was summer again. June, to be exact. It was raining, but the salt-air breeze still wavered over Mr. Wells. A horn sounded from the sea, signaling to the ferry docks in front of him. Newport in the summer. It was familiar, a thousand memories. He walked closer and sat on a boulder along the carriage drive. Drivers scurried from their coaches holding umbrellas, some two to a hand. The ladies mustn’t ruin their fine clothes. Mr. Wells looked down at his saturated trousers and dirt-stained shirt. The brim of his tattered felt derby barely provided relief from the driving downpour. The passengers were disembarking now. He would know most of them.
The front door creaked open, startling my reading. Rushing down the stairs, I caught Frank just as he was closing the door, his gray bowler hat under his arm, fingers clutching his black briefcase. He turned toward me and jumped.
“Ginny,” he breathed. “You about made my heart stop.” Franklin set his briefcase down. Relief flooded through me, but I ignored the urge to convince myself that Mr. Brooks must have been mistaken. “What’re you doing up this late?”
“Where have you been, Frank?” He stared at me as though I should know the answer and started to tell me so, when I cut him off. “I went by your office today and you weren’t there. Mr. Brooks said that you’d decided to go to part-time on account of some fabrication about Mother’s grief and her falling down the stairs? Why would you do that? What’s going on?” I hissed. I wanted to yell, but didn’t want to wake the others. Franklin sighed.
“That was just a tale Mr. Mott came up with so Bob wouldn’t know I was getting promoted and he wasn’t, to explain why I wasn’t around,” he whispered. Mr. J. L. Mott was the big boss, the owner, and Franklin’s boss. The other rank-and-file workers similar to him were under various department heads or executives, but because Father had grown up across the street from Mr. Mott’s father, Jordan—the founder of J. L. Iron Works—Franklin was advised by Mr. Mott only, which had turned out to be a blessing and a curse.
“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry.” Franklin edged out of his camel hair blazer.
“Poor Bob. If you want to come find me again, Gin, you’ll need to go on into Manhattan. I’m at the warehouse now . . . whenever I’m home, that is.” He grunted as he lifted his black briefcase from the ground, random bits of iron clinking around as he did. Relieved, I began to follow him up the stairs. Without the anger that had been keeping me wide awake, I was exhausted. He stopped in front of me and turned around.
“I forgot to ask why you’d come to see me in the first place,” Frank whispered. He set his hat on top of his briefcase on the steps and sat down next to it, waiting. I ran a hand along the long braid down my back, unsure if I should even bother explaining.
“I had a question about Mr. Hopper,” I started. Franklin nodded for me to go on. “We went to the opera and everything was fine, but then at his house something happened. He was terribly angry at Charlie for . . . for everything, wracked with fury, actually, and he’d had a bit of alcohol. He fainted, Frank, right in front of me, but it was different somehow. He was trembling and his eyes were rolled back.” Hearing the words come out of my mouth made me realize how frightened I’d been. Franklin was looking down at his hands, brows furrowed, twisting Grandfather’s gold wedding band on his pinkie. “I want to know if he’s ill . . . if you’ve ever seen him that way.”
“No,” Franklin said softly. “No, I haven’t.”
“After he woke up, he begged me to forgive him. I think he startled himself as much as me.” Franklin nodded, keeping his focus on Grandfather’s ring.
“I have no doubt. He cares for you.” I nodded, glad for the reassurance that he did. “Without question,” he reiterated. Something in his words made me think of him and Lydia and of her former fiancé. Was Frank sure of Lydia’s feelings?
“Do you know that Lydia was once engaged?” I blurted the words, suddenly feeling a need to tell him, to protect his heart. Frank’s focus jerked up from Grandfather’s ring, a grin on his lips.
“Of course,” he said. “Marcus Carter. The man’s a lunatic. Wasn’t always, according to Lydia and John, but after his brother passed on, something changed. Apparently he became reclusive, keeping to his room for weeks at a time, only emerging when he’d had too much liquor and was in the mood for violence. During one of these outings he found his way to the Blaines’ in the early morning, kicked the servant’s door in, and pulled Lydia out of bed demanding they marry that moment. His intrusion woke the servants who got to her room in time to dismantle the gun he’d placed to his head after she told him she was calling the engagement off.” Frank paused. It was then that I realized I was holding his hand, stunned at the horror of what Lydia had had to encounter. “Evidently, Marcus has recovered now. He’s tried to reconcile with Lydia, but she swears she can’t bear to look at him and that her heart is mine.” Worry coursed through me.
“Please be sure, Frank. The thought that she could break your heart—”
“My affection isn’t misplaced. I promise,” Franklin said, patting my leg. He started to stand. “But if John collapses again . . . in fact, if anyone is ever hurt at the Society . . . you should summon Doctor Hopper.”
“I was on my way to do just that when he woke up,” I said.
“You never fail to know what to do.” Franklin leaned down from the stair above me and wrapped his arm across my shoulders. I took his hand. “I’m glad that you asked after John. I hope it means your heart is beginning to heal.” Franklin let me go and started to stand. “There aren’t many men worthy of you, Gin. I’m certain of that. But John might be one of the few.”