It was only early September, but the leaves were beginning to change. In the late-afternoon light you could see tinges of red and orange around the green veins. I tried to focus on the colors as I walked along Fifth Avenue instead of dwelling on what I was about to do. I tipped my head at a young girl pushing a pram and tilted my head back up toward the branches. John was home. Franklin had mentioned that he’d returned yesterday, just in time for tonight’s Society meeting, and I knew right then that I’d have to go see him. It was either face him now or avoid him until he tracked me down. The latter wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t wait to talk to him at the Society meeting either. I hadn’t told anyone I was going to see him. Franklin would’ve tried to reason with me, Bess would’ve laughed at my stupidity, and Mother and Alevia would’ve wanted to talk about it to death.
I spotted the brick turrets on the next corner and my heart began to race. One of the Hoppers’ Irish maids was hunched over sweeping the front stairs and each swish of her broom seemed to leave me more light-headed.
“Can I help you, miss?” The maid spun around at the sound of my feet on the walk and I swallowed hard.
“Yes. I’m here to call on Mr. John Hopper,” I said.
“Oh, well, come in. I’ll go fetch him. What’s your name?” She eyed my burgundy morning dress, doubtless wondering why I hadn’t changed, and I pinched the wool at my side in reflex.
“Miss Virginia Loftin. We’re very well acquainted, in fact . . .” I started to say nearly engaged, but stopped myself, stunned by that instinct. “So there’s no need to make a formal introduction of my being here. Do you know where he is?”
“I suppose he’s in the study, though I really do think I should—”
“Thank you,” I said, opening the door and throwing myself inside before she had a chance to insist on making my presence known first. I paused at the entrance to the vacant drawing room. My eyes drifted from the cherub mural to the chandelier, down to the Weber piano, and across to one of the twin etched mahogany fireplaces. This room, the relationships I’d formed at the Society, had changed my life over the past year. The thought that I’d never see this room again was heartbreaking. If I changed my mind and accepted him, I could keep the Society. I could live in this house that had become such a part of me with a man I loved. The notion passed through my mind as quickly as a lightning bolt, warming me through, but shocking me at the same time. I’d never allowed myself to truly visualize what life with John would be like without trepidation eclipsing all else.
“Are you all right, Miss Loftin?” A familiar, crackly voice sounded behind me and a wrinkled hand touched my arm.
“Doctor Hopper. Yes, I’m fine.” I smiled, though my palm pressed instantly to my chest as though it would slow my startled heart. “I was just . . . trying to figure how all of those people fit in there each month,” I said stupidly. The room was huge.
“It’s quite a large room,” he said, lips curling up. The hallway was so dim that I could mainly see the gleam of his glasses.
“Yes, I know. But so many people come and—”
“Are you looking for John?” Doctor Hopper interrupted me and I saw his grin grow wider at the mention of his son.
“I am. I understand he’s in his study?” Hopper nodded.
“Has been for hours. Writing, I think. He’ll be thrilled to see you. You’re all he’s talked about from the time we left until the time we got back.”
“I’ll go find him then,” I whispered. By the time I got to the study door, I was shaking with nerves. My hand hovered over the doorknob and I nearly turned around and went home, but steeled myself and opened it. John’s eyes met mine. He was sitting at his desk, feet propped lazily on top of it, and he slowly lowered them and stood. I didn’t look away, but held his gaze as I walked toward him. Neither of us said anything, but his lips transformed into a hesitant smile as he reached for me. He pulled me close and I let him, wrapping my arms around him in turn, reveling in the comforting weight of his body pressed to mine, knowing I’d never feel it again.
He took my face in his hands and kissed me, tasting like his scotch, vanilla and caramel. I wanted him more than I ever had before. I could feel it swimming in my stomach and couldn’t tell if it was simply my knowledge that I would leave him or that in the course of a few minutes I’d changed my mind. His teeth bit down on my bottom lip. He was being tender, but I could feel his desire, ferocious and wanting, in the grip of his hands in my hair. He started walking forward, lips and arms still locked on mine, and I stumbled backward, tripping and falling onto the edge of the leather couch. Undaunted, he kept kissing me, burying his face in my neck and lowering his lips to my shoulders. I arched up as his fingers found the ivory silk bow and pushed the fabric down. John’s hands held my waist as his mouth dropped down my chest. I closed my eyes, fingers gripped hard to the back of his head as his lips trailed from my breasts to my stomach. I reached under his jacket to lift his linen shirt, and he looked down at me, eyes full of longing, and leaned down to kiss me. Skin to skin, I could feel the warmth of his body, and thought that maybe I’d been wrong to question my feelings for him. Though it felt different from how it had with Charlie, it felt consuming and true, like love all the same. John’s mouth broke from mine and he lifted his neck to look at me, smoothing the hair from my face.
“I love you,” he whispered. “And I want you so badly, but I can’t. Not here, not now.” He kissed my collarbone and pulled the burgundy wool back over my chest. My heart felt as though it had stopped beating, afraid of what he would say next. John smiled, lifted off of me, and knelt down beside the couch. Finding my hand, he clutched my fingers in his, and I sat up. “Ginny, you know I love you and you know I want you to be my wife. We’re the same, you and I. We’ll push each other; we’ll fight for each other’s dreams. Please . . .” He stopped midsentence. I could feel his nerves, the wild vibration of his heart, and felt my own pick up. “Will you . . . will you marry me?” The tears I’d been holding back suddenly began to fall.
“I love you, but I can’t.” The last bit, the words I’d rehearsed, sounded foreign and wrong preceded by sentiments I hadn’t planned. He jolted away from me, eyes wide. He turned toward the wall, his head bowed. I began to sob, but didn’t retract my words. There were other things to consider besides the answer my heart wanted. I’d made up my mind.
“You love me, and you’d have me right there on that couch, but you won’t marry me?” John spun toward me, jaw gripped in hurt. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t have an answer. I covered my eyes, trying to hide from his face. “Answer me . . . please,” he said softly. I heard his footsteps, slow and steady, start toward me. “Ginny, I know I’m not him. I’m not so naïve to think that you love me like Charlie.” I cried harder. John’s words slayed me. I couldn’t stand that he thought my answer was based on the notion that I didn’t love him as much as I loved—or had loved—Charlie.
I dropped my hands from my face and glanced at him standing above me, looking miserable. “John, you have to know it’s not that.” My voice was a series of screeches and whispers. “I’m only—” I started to explain myself, to tell him my fears, but he cut me off.
“It is. If you loved me like that you wouldn’t hesitate.” John sat down in an oversized chair next to the couch. “I suppose I should tell you that I went to see Rachel last night.” He stared down at his hands. I felt a jolt of jealousy at this declaration, making me wonder if I was torturing myself by saying no. He didn’t elaborate, so I cleared my throat and asked.
“Why?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know, really. Only that you’re all I’ve thought of for months and I suppose I needed to know if she’d lost her effect on me. It wouldn’t be fair to offer myself to you if she hadn’t.” I watched his lips move as he spoke, lips that had, just minutes ago, been on my mouth, my skin. “Not that it matters now, but I felt nothing when I saw her. Charlie wasn’t home so I saw her alone in their drawing room, but when she walked in all I wanted to do was turn around and come home to you.” He dropped down in front of me. His hand grasped mine, fingers wrapping hard around my palm. “Ginny, if you can’t be with me, tell me why. That way, I’ll at least be able to confront the heartache instead of wondering.”
“I’m afraid,” I said, reaching to wipe a lingering tear from his cheek. “John . . . I’m so sorry.” He raised himself up and hugged me. I clung to him, letting my tears soak into his tweed jacket as he held me.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. I sniffed and stopped crying. He pulled away and sat down beside me.
“I’m worried that marriage will change me . . . that it would change us. We’re so good together just as we are.” He grinned at me, the first time since I’d walked through the door, leaned in, and kissed my cheek. “What if our shared life consumes us to the point that we become too busy to write? What if one of us is more successful? We could end up resenting each other, John. We could lose everything we love—our writing, each other.”
“I promise we wouldn’t change. Even if the whole world tempted us to forget why we married in the first place, I wouldn’t let it happen. I promise you, Ginny. I wouldn’t let us end up miserable. We have everything.” I looked away from him. The answer wasn’t clear. My mind held true to my response, but my heart begged me to change my mind. I could be making a horrible, horrible mistake. He took me in his arms again and I pressed my head against his chest as his fingers wove through the upswept hair at my nape.
“If your life doesn’t work out as you planned it . . . professionally, I mean,” I whispered, remembering Mae’s words. “If you never publish another book and you’re left with just me, would you be happy?”
“Yes,” he said immediately and goose bumps rose along my arms. “But my dreams are important to me, as are yours. I think we can make them happen together. I wouldn’t have asked you to spend your life with me if I thought it would stop you from doing what you love the most.” His lips met the top of my head and lingered there. “I want to marry you because I love you and I want to be with you always, not because I want to control you or have you spend your life organizing luncheons.”
I laughed a little at the thought. “Thank goodness,” I said. “John, I do love you.” Something in my soul lightened with the reiteration of those words, and the strain in my chest burst at last. Perhaps I’d questioned my feelings for so long that reason had eclipsed my true affection. I tilted my head to meet his eyes.
“I know you do.” He leaned down and kissed me. I closed my eyes. I could feel the melancholy in the stilted movement of his lips, in the way he pressed down on my mouth. He pulled away from me, but I reached up, holding his head against mine.
“I mean it. I love you. So I’m not saying no,” I said against his lips. “But could you give me a little more time to think about how it would all work?” John smiled and pecked my mouth.
“Of course,” he said. “But, god, Virginia, how you break my heart.”
His words kept ringing through my head as I lay wide awake staring at the ceiling hours later. We’d talked about other things after—about my deal with Frederick Harvey, about what we’d been doing since we’d seen each other last, and of Tom’s plagiarism. A copy of The Century had been among a pile of mail on John’s desk, and he’d read the story immediately. He recognized my writing from the first line, his face burning with rage. John vowed to expel Tom from the Society and to speak with Mr. Gilder at an International Copyright League luncheon the following day.
Even though the conversation had shifted away from his proposal, I couldn’t forget what he’d said to me or how the threat of his heartache had affected me. I shifted against my pillow and buried my face, hoping to force sleep. It was nearing early morning. The Society meeting would be almost wrapped up and everyone, possibly John included, would be retiring. The thought of him made my chest clench and I flipped back over on my back to stare out the window at the moon. As much as I’d thought myself confused for so long, I’d realized, wrapped in his arms, that it was a lot simpler than I’d made it to be. I’d been so worried about misreading my heart and about the implications of my career if I married John, that I’d been blinded. I’d only needed to feel his presence and to speak to him, to hear his adamant vow that my art would never be forfeited. I’d been right to hope for both all along; perhaps with John it was possible to marry and sustain my writing. Something in his words or his touch had allowed clarity. He’d been right about us. We had everything in common; furthermore, we were equals. We would only sharpen each other. More than anything, I wished I would have accepted him right then, instead of postponing. But I’d wanted to collect my thoughts first, to make sure my decision wasn’t based solely on the flood of emotions I’d felt in his presence.
No one knew we’d talked, though I wondered if John had talked to Frank about it tonight. I’d arrived home in the early evening, in time to have Bessie plop an understated hat on my head, decorated only by a tiny praying mantis on the brim, and ask me what I thought. She hadn’t actually cared. What she’d really been after was my attention to tell me that she knew Tom was going to propose before a showing of the play The Masked Ball tomorrow evening. I knew she was waiting for a reaction, for my disapproval, but I gave none. As much as I wanted to tell her that John believed me about Tom, that he was planning to dismiss him from the Society and speak to Mr. Gilder, I held my tongue. None of it would matter. Bess would accept Tom regardless. I hoped she’d be happy.
I tucked the thin cotton sheet under my chin and felt blindly across my nightstand for The Century. I hadn’t read it. I couldn’t bear to when it had first arrived, but now as I sat wide awake in bed with the knowledge of my deal and John’s promise to remedy Tom’s wrong, I flipped it open.
I leaned into the moonlight, landing on a story about Andrew Jackson’s resolution following the Battle of New Orleans. I scanned it, rather bored by its dry tone. The next page displayed the article’s companion illustration—a gold pen and ink sketch of a two-sided coin. I recognized it immediately as Charlie’s work. Jackson’s face was contoured perfectly on one side, the detail on his uniform vivid and precise. I smiled, running my hand over Charlie’s scrawled signature before closing the magazine. His work had finally been noticed by an editor. My happiness for him surprised me, making me realize that as much as he’d hurt me in the past, I had been able to move on with time and John’s love. I wished him the best. I hoped he was finally happy, as I hoped to shortly be.
I sunk back against the pillows and my mind wandered back to John. I’d missed Alevia and Franklin’s departure for the Hoppers’ as I’d planned, but wished, after the house was emptied and I found myself alone with Mother and my thoughts, that I could’ve talked to Frank for a moment, if only to tell him to remind John to wait for me.
Instead of the chaos of the Society meeting, I’d enjoyed a delicious dinner of chicken potpie in front of a roaring fire with Mother. She’d asked me once about John and when I told her that I hadn’t decided, she let the subject drop. I’d appreciated the gesture. I could tell from her eyes that she’d wanted to ask more—she missed Mae’s unguarded confidences—but held back. Instead, we’d laughed and talked for hours about Franklin and Lydia and Bessie and Tom, wondering what Bessie would do if it was Franklin who proposed instead.
Yawning, I closed my eyes again as I recalled Mother’s laughter, realizing something I hadn’t thought of before—she was alone. I wondered how many times she’d sat by the fire by herself after Father’s death. It had to be lonely when all of us were out. I couldn’t help thinking of the contrast between how her life must be now and how happy it had been with Father. I could still picture them together if I concentrated, his large calloused hand engulfing her small one as they stayed up talking late at night, and thought, quite suddenly, that that’s all John was after: a hand to hold in the small hours, someone to laugh with at the end of a long day. I wanted to be that person.