Would you like us to walk you in?” Alevia held my arm lightly. I’d stopped on the side of the road to stare through the two-story arching windows, past the line of glittering gold chandeliers to the reception area of the Henry Holt Publishing Company.
“No, I’m fine,” I said. I hadn’t stopped because I was reluctant or nervous to go in alone, but because if I allowed myself to walk any further, the top of the publisher’s building would give way to the white block letters of the J. L. Mott building behind it, and I couldn’t bear to see it. Staring through the windows, I examined the marble floor as though it were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. I needed a moment to collect myself before I went in to talk to Mr. Harvey.
“Go on, then,” Bess said. I glanced at her and she shooed me forward, her breath disturbing the ridiculous black blusher hanging from the brim of her hat. She’d started wearing black when she found out about Franklin’s involvement in Lydia’s death and had continued to wear it in mourning for her relationship with Tom. Her daily letters to him had gone unanswered. She situated a crow’s feather back into place at the top of her hat. The dark color made her pale skin look sickly against the gray sky.
“Yes, do. You’ll be wonderful.” Alevia smiled at Bessie and then her dark eyes flit to mine. As at odds as Bessie and Alevia were at times and as close as Alevia and I were, Frank’s disappearance had driven a wedge between us, shoving her closer to Bessie.
“I certainly hope he’s planning to pay you today. God knows we need it,” Bess said to me. She pinched her faded black muslin skirt, nose crinkling. “Great-aunt Rose would turn over in her grave if she saw me right now.” My eyes started to roll, but I stopped them, deciding to ignore her instead. Mother had sold all of Franklin’s belongings for two hundred dollars only weeks ago, buying us a little more time until we spent through the last of the money from the Building and Loan. We had just enough this month, but I worried that any purchases beyond groceries and paying our household fees would sink us further into debt.
“I suppose we should be getting on to the Vanderbilts’,” Alevia said, letting go of my arm and looping hers through Bessie’s. The gold filigree design along her sleeves seemed to glow against Bess’s demure black. Thank goodness for the Vanderbilts. In spite of Mrs. Astor ordering a hat from Bessie last month—an olive branch that should have rippled throughout the upper class, but hadn’t yet—Bess and Alevia had still been employed regularly by the Carnegies and Vanderbilts, the only households that had continued to hire them directly after the scandal. “Alice will be unhappy if we’re not there in time to fit her for a hat before the luncheon. Your meeting will go wonderfully, Gin. I just know it.” Alevia’s nose was pink in the early February cold. I nodded once and walked toward the doors. The street was vacant for a Tuesday morning. Those who had decided to brave the weather were snuggled down in heavy coats, eyes barely peeping over their collars. I opened the door to the lobby. Condensation gathered on the steam radiators along the front wall and I stood there for a moment, warming myself.
“Can I help you, miss?” A young man’s voice came bellowing down the long entry from the reception desk.
“Yes. Thank you,” I called out, starting toward him. Mr. Harvey had asked that I meet him at Delmonico’s again, but I’d replied to his letter declining and asking that we meet at his office instead. Both times I’d gone to meet him at the restaurant I’d been at the crux of a major decision or crisis. Though I wasn’t superstitious in the least, I couldn’t stand to sit there continually being reminded of John, wondering if something else would come crashing down around me.
“I’m Virginia Loftin, here to see Frederick Harvey,” I said when I finally reached the desk. The man stared at me over the rim of his steel-framed glasses. I could tell he recognized my last name and wanted to say something, but didn’t quite know how. Glancing down the asymmetrical white silk and lace insert below my high maroon collar, I avoided his eyes, praying he wouldn’t ask.
“If you wouldn’t mind me asking . . . I’ve heard about your brother and Mr. Hopper. Have they been found?”
“No,” I said quickly and swallowed hard. I wondered at what point, if ever, people would forget and stop asking me about it. For the most part, we’d all begun to go about our normal lives. I was writing; Bessie was immersing herself into the little amount of work she had, Alevia was playing again, and Mother had begun talking to us. They had yet to say Franklin’s name, however.
“That’s too bad,” the young man said, shaking his head. “I’ll call for Mr. Harvey. Have a seat over there if you wish.” He gestured toward a circle of leather chairs situated on a red oriental rug and I took a seat with my back to the desk.
I ran my hand along the smooth leather. Had John sat here before me? The hollow feeling of betrayal and abandonment started to rise, but I refused to let it overtake me. “You’ll never be alone, Gin. I’ll be here. I promise.” Charlie’s voice. He’d stayed in Mott Haven for a week, spending every waking moment in our company. On the last day, I’d been unable to let him go. I could still feel the grip of my fingers holding on to him next to the front door. His presence had done what I’d hoped. For a while, it had prompted my family to talk again—old friends tended to know just the thing to do to block out misery—and for a moment, while we’d all sat laughing around the fireplace, I’d tricked myself into believing the peace was permanent. As he’d gone to leave, though, I could feel sorrow seeping back in and worried the moment he left we’d go back to our own rooms, to silence. “Write. Art has always healed our wounds,” he’d said, touching my face. “But there’s no escaping the scars and I hate that I’ve contributed to them. Please know that I have one, too.” He’d traced his index finger across my chest as he said it and then across his own. “But mine will never close up. Even if you’ll not allow me to be with you, I can’t stay away. I need you.”
“Miss Loftin.” Fred Harvey’s deep voiced boomed from behind me, disturbing the memories. I smiled as he walked toward me, realizing I hadn’t had to fake it. The void in my chest was gone.
“Good to see you,” I said. His lips turned up and I noticed that his mustache, usually trimmed to immaculate precision, hung long across his top lip. “Are you all right?” He looked around and nodded.
“We’ll discuss in my office,” he whispered. “Can I have any refreshment brought up, Miss Loftin? Coffee, tea, water?” he asked, much more loudly. “Scotch?” he asked softly, eyebrows quirking up. I laughed and then cleared my throat.
“No. I’m fine, thank you,” I said. “Actually, scotch sounds wonderful,” I whispered, even though it was still morning.
“Thank goodness. I need it today.” We didn’t speak as the elevator launched upward and stopped at the fourth floor.
“Here we are.” He led me into a sizable office lined with inset bookshelves on three of the four walls. A picture window overlooked the city . . . and the side of the J. L. Mott building. My breath hitched in my throat when I saw it, and I looked away. Harvey circled his desk and gestured at the chairs in front of it. I took the seat with its back to the windows. Reaching into his desk, Harvey pulled out a crystal decanter and poured us two large glasses of scotch. “Here,” he said, setting it in front of me. “I know it’s not yet noon, but it’s been a difficult day already. The law paid me a visit first thing this morning asking me yet again if I’d heard from John. They’ve come every week since the first of January—the three-month anniversary of the filing, I suppose. I figured I might be called if it went to trial, but didn’t think they would bother potential witnesses beforehand. They’re probably just getting desperate thinking they’ll never find them.” Harvey took a long sip of scotch. “I certainly hope they’ve had the decency to leave your family alone.”
“They haven’t. They don’t come every week, though. If we were in Manhattan, I’m certain they’d come more often. It’s a haul out to the Bronx to hear the same response each time.” They’d come for the third time two weeks ago while Charlie was in town. It had been Detective Barfield again, a short waif of a man who—you could tell from his tone of voice—hadn’t wanted to ask us again. Unfortunately for the detective, Charlie had reached the door before any of us had had a chance and told him in a cacophony of curses and shouts that no we hadn’t heard from Franklin and that he couldn’t believe he was bothering us during this difficult time.
“I’m just tired of it all. And worried for John, too, I suppose. He was . . . is a good young man. I’m sure your brother’s the same. I can’t imagine they’d hurt Miss Blaine.” Harvey sighed and lifted the glass to his lips. He gulped the scotch as if it were water and leaned back in his chair. “But that’s not why I asked to meet you, Miss Loftin.” He swirled the liquid around and set the glass down on the desk with a clink. I lifted mine, took a small sip to steady my nerves, and nearly gagged. It was scotch all right, but very low quality. It smelled like rubbing alcohol and tasted the same. “Suppose I should’ve warned you.” Harvey laughed. “It’s a friend’s homemade formula. A little stronger than the bottled variety.”
“I’d say,” I said and waited. Harvey stared at me as though he’d asked me a question. “You were going to tell me why you wanted to meet?”
“Ah, yes.” He took another swig from his glass and stood up, pacing behind his desk chair. “You took my advice. You channeled your heartache into something truly remarkable. I thought that you nailed the revision.” His tone was flat and emotionless. “The trouble is . . . Mr. Holt did not. I’m sorry, Miss Loftin, but I have to release you from our contract.” I stared at him, feeling the breath flee from my chest. “I’m so sorry. Please know it wasn’t my decision—”
“Just like that?” Surprised I could find my voice at all, it came out in a screech.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re saying that Mr. Holt found my book so awful that he forced you to fire me without a chance at revision? What was wrong with it? Did he hate the characters? The plot? Is it because I’m a woman?” Words were flying from my mouth as quickly as I thought them. I tried to calm down, but couldn’t, and started to stand. I had to get out of there.
“Of course not. Please, Miss Loftin. Let me explain.”
“There’s apparently nothing to discuss.” I opened the door, but Harvey edged in front of me and slammed it shut.
“You deserve the truth,” he said. His eyes were watery, and I noticed on second glance that veins had started to snake across them as if he’d been up for days. “Please sit.” He whispered the words and when I complied, he exhaled loudly and ran a hand across his face. Practically falling into his desk chair, he yanked the wire-framed glasses from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. I waited, counting the muted ticks coming from the cuckoo clock on the wall so as to keep my composure. In truth, I wanted to throw something. I wanted to go to John and let him tell me how unfair it was, to hear that he’d endured similar hardships, but he was gone and the Society that had inspired me gone with him.
“This is hard for me to discuss, Virginia, as I don’t agree with any of it,” Harvey started. Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out the decanter and poured himself another glass. He took a gulp and cleared his throat. “It comes down to this: the association with . . . with your last name. Mr. Holt feels that we can’t afford an additional connection to this scandal without compromising the firm’s reputation and—”
“That is absurd!” I was out of my chair before I could stop myself. I slammed my hand on his desk, rattling the pens in his holder and sloshing the liquor in his glass. “I don’t even know where my brother is! Why should I have to pay for what he’s done?” Harvey pressed his lips together. He wasn’t going to say anything because he didn’t have the answers. I whirled away from him and glared out of the windows at the J. L. Mott building that I’d worked so hard to avoid minutes earlier. “I hate you, Frank.” The words came out so softly that I barely heard them myself. I knew Mr. Harvey hadn’t heard me, but I clapped my hand over my mouth, shocked by the words I loathed hearing Alevia and Bessie say, words that I’d said countless times in my head but never permitted myself to say aloud. I swallowed hard, hoping to dissolve the lump in my throat, but it didn’t budge. “I didn’t mean that,” I whispered again, as if he could actually hear me. “Please. Just come back.”
“You shouldn’t.” Harvey’s voice came from behind me. I faced him, not entirely sure what he meant. “You shouldn’t have to pay for what he’s done,” he clarified. Running his finger around the rim of his glass, he shifted in his chair and the old wood screeched. “It’s not fair and I told Holt the same, but he won’t listen. For what it’s worth, Holt has asked me to revoke John’s contract, too . . . if he’s ever found.” He flipped his hand at the desk, but his breath hitched on the last syllable. He clenched his jaw to stop the emotion.
“I know they couldn’t have done it on purpose if they did it at all,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. I heard Harvey sniff once and glanced up at him to find his eyes dry. I wasn’t quite sure why John’s disappearance was affecting him so deeply—other than the nuisance of having officers barging into your workplace once a week. He didn’t say anything, but plucked the glass from his desk, stood, and swirled the scotch once more. Staring out of the window at the street below, he shook his head. Unable to bear the silence, I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair. “A while ago you told me to turn my sadness into something good. I think it helped,” I said. “Perhaps you should try it.”
“I know,” he said, gripping the top of his chair. “You’re probably wondering why I care so much—or maybe you’re not.” I shrugged, figuring he had his reasons. “It’s hard to explain, really, and you may not understand, but I chose not to have a family. As a young man, I wasn’t interested. I was too involved in my work. When I met John, I knew I’d met the man my son would have been if I’d had one.” Harvey’s words didn’t surprise me. John’s kindness and wit had affected so many people. “I know it’s silly, but with him gone, it’s like I’ve lost a son, and a writer, and I worry for him.”
Harvey took a deep breath and sat back down in his chair. He yanked at a drawer, withdrew a checkbook, scribbled on it, and handed it to me. “It’s only for half of what I promised you, but it’s all I can personally afford.”
“I can’t take this.” I pushed the check back on his desk. As much as we needed the money, I couldn’t.
“You’ll take it. I promised publication and failed you.”
“You didn’t fail me. It’s not your fault.” I fiddled with the ivory ribbon at my waist and concentrated on keeping my breath steady. Even though my greatest dream had been dangled in front of me and taken away, I couldn’t blame Mr. Harvey. It was done—at least for now—another casualty of Franklin’s misstep, and neither of us could do anything to change it.
“Look at me,” he said. I met his eyes and he smiled. “I know this is a defeat, but this is not the last the world will see of The Web. Someone will take the chance on it. I promise you. Just give it time. The world will know your writing, Miss Loftin.” I nodded, appreciative of the words, even if I didn’t believe them. So far, he’d been the only one to take an interest in my novel. In three months I had yet to hear anything from G. P. Putnam’s Sons or Charles Scribner’s Sons.
“Thank you for believing in me.”
“I don’t say it to humor you either. It’s the truth.” He grunted as he leaned across the desk, snatched the check, and forced it firmly into my hands. “And you will take this,” he insisted and then leaned back in his chair and laughed. I looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “I’m sorry. But it just dawned on me. The saying is right. You know the one—money can’t buy happiness. In this case, it can’t. Not even close. If it could, I’d clean out my checkbook.” He reached once again into his drawer, and lit a cigar. The sweet smell of charring tobacco drifted through my nostrils.
“If only it could.” I flattened the check onto Mr. Harvey’s desk. “It would have been a pleasure to work with you.” Mr. Harvey started to insist that I accept the payment, but I shook my head and left his office.
Please don’t tell me any of you have forgotten Father at Great-uncle Edmund’s funeral.” Mae started laughing and I coughed, choking on the sourdough bread I’d just shoved in my mouth. Even though I’d tried to forget Mr. Holt’s rejection and move on—I couldn’t do anything about it, after all—I hadn’t laughed in weeks, and it felt good. Mother started giggling at the head of the table.
“I don’t think there’s any way we could,” Alevia said. “We were all shoved into Edmund’s little general store on the corner sitting two to a chair around his open casket. The priest—”
“Who just happened to be wearing some unofficial yellow robe on account of the fact that he’d been defrocked,” I interrupted.
“Kept droning on and on about what a good man he was,” Mae continued. “It was so hot in there and suddenly a loud snore rose up next to Mother.”
“He never was one to fake interest in something,” Mother said. She glanced at the portrait of Father over my head.
“I don’t think it was a matter of interest. The man couldn’t sit down without falling asleep. Mr. Mott always said he’d fall asleep on a break in the middle of the iron plant during peak hours,” Bessie said. Her lips turned up slightly and she tucked a loose auburn tendril back into the black paste jeweled pin at the side of her head.
“I did try nudging him during the funeral. It was rude.” Mother swirled her fork in her mashed potatoes and Alevia giggled.
“But he didn’t wake up. He snored through the entire thing and everyone else just pretended they didn’t notice,” I said, remembering my father’s head tilted back against the chair, mouth gaping open.
“Until the end when—” Bessie stopped abruptly, momentarily forgetting that Franklin was no longer a part of the family. Only six years old at the time, he’d pinched Father after an especially loud snore. Father had jumped in his chair and bellowed “damn it” at the top of his lungs, right into the face of the priest.
I laughed to myself, but the rest of the table sat in silence. I looked around at my family. Merry just moments earlier, their faces had suddenly turned to stone as they stared at their plates. I recalled Mr. Harvey’s words dismissing me and clutched my fingers into my palm, willing the fire away. I was tired of it—tired of our anger. I’d lost my brother, a love, the Society, my chance at publication, and still, despite my fury at Franklin, I missed him.
I glanced down at my half-eaten rosemary chicken breast and set my fork down. In the few years since we’d lost Father, we always had a family dinner on his birthday. We laughed about our memories, what he would say about the mischief we’d gotten into over the past year. Franklin had been here last year, sitting at the head of the table across from Mother. I could still see the way Mother had looked at him as he’d told a story, the way her eyes had gleamed with simultaneous hilarity and grief. Franklin had always reminded her of Father. He had his sense of humor, but more than that, he had his heart.
“Ginny?” Mae nudged me, forcing me back to the silence of the dining room. Silverware scraped across china and I had an urge to yank the tablecloth with all of its contents off the table. “I thought you’d fallen asleep like Father.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” I stood from the table. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, so I turned at the doorway. “I’m not feeling well,” I said, knowing the tone of my voice had given me away.
“Don’t do this, Virginia. Not now. We’ve been having such a pleasant evening. I’ve made Father’s favorite, Grandmother Loftin’s coconut pound cake. Have a seat and celebrate with the rest of us.” Mother’s blue eyes were soft with fatigue. For a moment I felt sorry for her—sorry that my father was gone, sorry that she couldn’t reconcile the faults of her son—and then the pity flung away as quickly as the drawing of curtains at a play. Did anyone else miss Frank? My hands clutched my silk skirt and I scanned each of their faces, at Bessie then Alevia, who was wiping a drop of mashed potatoes off her brocaded bodice, and finally at Mother. None of them seemed to mind that he’d been removed from our family, that he was gone forever. The front door flew open down the hall and I jumped.
“Hello, Gin.” Charlie smiled at me. His cheeks were rosy with cold and he was covered head to boots in snow. He held a box and turned for a moment to brush the top of it before stepping inside. At once, my fury settled.
“Charlie? Is that you?” Mother called from the table.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Give me a moment to dry off and I’ll be right in. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner. I know it’s a special day.” Charlie glanced at me, eyes flickering in the candlelight. He set the box down next to him and hooked his black bowler hat on the coatrack. I left the dining room and started down the hall toward him. He stared at me, gray wool coat dripping on the rug. “Wait a moment, I’m soaked,” he said, but I didn’t listen. Relieved at the sight of my oldest friend, I wrapped my arms around him, fully aware of the snow melting down the front of my dress.
“Recently, you seem to appear the moment I need you most,” I whispered into his ear. He leaned back, and planted a kiss on my forehead.
“I’m glad for it,” Charlie said. His eyes dropped to the ground in front of him, but I could see his telltale dimple emerging. “But if you’re not going to agree to be my wife, you can’t keep doing that to me.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes met mine and his head cocked to the side.
“As if you don’t know,” he whispered, glancing down my neck to the saturated pink silk now clinging to my body. “The moment I walk through the door you throw yourself into my arms and press against me. It takes all of my willpower to avoid pulling you down on that couch right there.” His words conjured John, the way he’d pulled me onto his couch the last time, the way he’d kissed me. In spite of the melancholy that seeped in at the memory, my stomach fluttered with desire for Charlie. As much as my heart longed for me to accept him, my mind refused. I didn’t know if I could trust him, and until I could be sure, I couldn’t consider his offer. I grabbed his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” He laughed hoarsely and reached down for the box.
“Did you bring Father a gift?” I asked, and Charlie glanced down at the sagging cardboard under his arm.
“I don’t think he needs any gifts where he is. This was on your front porch.” We walked into the dining room and everyone looked up from their plates to smile at Charlie. Mae’s eyes met mine, widening as they traveled down my dress.
She started to mouth at me, hand drifting down the front of her white shirtwaist in illustration. I crossed my arms over my soaked bodice, hoping to block the manner in which it clung to my every curve.
“Did you bring a gift, Charlie? How kind,” Mother said, standing up from her seat to hug him. Charlie set the box down on the buffet.
“That’s what Ginny just asked. No, it was on the front porch. I thought I would bring it in.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten. Cassie said she was going to send a few ribbons over to the girls. She bought more than she needed in France.” My aunt Cassie had never married, lived with her older sister and her sister’s husband in Newport, and pretty much went about her life as she wished, beholden to no one.
“Perfect. Then I won’t have to buy more next week for Catherine Vander—I mean LaFitte’s hat.” Bessie started to move toward the box, no doubt more thrilled than ever about the possibility of what she could make for Cornelius’s newlywed daughter.
“After cake,” Mother said, motioning for her to sit down.
“It seems that I’ve arrived just in time,” Charlie said, taking a seat between Bessie and Henry. Alevia leaned across Bess to squeeze Charlie’s hand.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said.
“What is it that you tell your wife when you come here?” Bessie asked, refusing to look at him. She glanced at me instead, eyebrows rising at my indecent appearance.
“That I’m going to visit my dearest friends and my mother,” Charlie said calmly. He plucked Henry’s fork from his plate, swiveled to his other side, and shoveled a sizable amount of Bessie’s mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Those are delicious, Mrs. Loftin,” Charlie said through a full mouth. He set the fork down and grinned at Mae beside me who was laughing under her breath at his complete disregard for Bessie’s question.
“And she believes you?” Bessie persisted. Her neck began to flame in blotches from the black lace neckline of her dress. In her eyes, the love of my life had come back to me—even though that wasn’t the case—but Tom hadn’t even allowed her the kindness of a word. In spite of the way she was questioning Charlie, I felt for her. She’d gone down to the Blaines after her appointment at the Vanderbilts this afternoon, only to be turned away again. “She doesn’t mind that you’re . . . that you’re embarrassingly in love with my sister?”
“That’s enough,” Mother snapped from the doorway. She’d gone to get the cake and stopped to narrow her eyes at Bessie, cake tray balanced in her hands.
“It’s all right,” Charlie said. His face paled for a moment, but then he lifted his eyes to me and shrugged. “They’re fair questions considering I am married.” My heart began to pound. “She knows about all of you. She knows what you’re going through and she knows how much I care for this family, so yes, she believes me.” He kept his eyes on me as he spoke.
“We know, Charlie. You’re like a b-brother to us.” Alevia stumbled on the word, no doubt finding it difficult given the fact that she’d disowned the one given to her by blood. “We’re glad you’re here. You don’t have to answer Bessie.”
“And as for understanding how deeply I love Ginny, she couldn’t possibly. No one can,” he said, disregarding Alevia. My face burned, but as uncomfortable as I was, I understood why he hadn’t ignored Bess’s question. My family was as close as his. When he’d hurt me, he’d hurt them, and he was trying to make things right. Charlie cleared his throat. “I’m sure Rachel minds, but I’ve never been dishonest with her about it. She asked me once, right after we were married, if I’d ever loved anyone else, particularly Ginny. I told her that I had and always would.” Mae gripped my leg under the table. I hadn’t known he’d ever spoken of me to her. The weight of the shame I’d felt for loving him suddenly lightened.
“I went to find Gin at the Society that night. I was feeling tremendously guilty that I didn’t love my wife and prayed that when I saw Ginny, I’d feel either homesick for Rachel or nothing at all. Instead, I burned for her more intensely than I ever had. I was disgusted with myself.” I blinked at him, instantly recalling the way he’d avoided my eyes that night, leaving me standing alone on Fifth Avenue. “All of you know that I’ve loved her since I was a boy. My marrying someone else was a tragic mistake . . . one for which I’ll have to pay for the rest of my life. But, embarrassing or not, Bessie, I can’t stop loving your sister. As wrong as it is, I can’t.” Bess’s eyes blurred with tears and she stood from the table with a clatter.
“Then he never loved me,” she said. “He wouldn’t have been able to let me go.” She started to walk out of the room, but Mother grabbed her wrist.
“Sit,” she hissed. “Tom is still in crisis. He can’t think of anything but the death of his sister.”
“Shall I play while you cut the cake?” Alevia asked. She started through the pocket doors toward the piano before she got a reply and I was glad for it. We all needed a distraction. Mae squeezed my leg under the table again and tipped her head toward Charlie. His face was cast into his lap likely in an attempt to avoid my family’s reaction to his confession.
“It’s too bad things didn’t turn out differently,” she whispered, so low I could barely hear her. “Good lord, you have him under a spell.”
“I wish I didn’t,” I whispered back. “Too much has changed. Even if . . . even if he divorced her, I don’t think I could marry him. Not now . . . not after everything.”
“But you love him.”
“I do,” I said. “But I can’t be his wife.” The largest piece of coconut pound cake I’d ever seen landed in front of me. Flakes drifted off the top to the floor of the plate, mimicking the snow pouring down outside. Alevia was playing an upbeat tune I recognized. At once, I was back in the Hoppers’ drawing room coughing through the smoke. I could see Lydia’s blue eyes focused intently on the music in front of her, arm barely moving on the strings, and Franklin watching behind her.
“If you’re not going to eat your cake, I will.” Henry’s voice woke me from the memory.
“I’m sure Mother will be happy to give you another slice,” I said, still reeling from the notion that half of the people I’d cared for that night were gone or dead. I took a bite, though the spongy cake and toasted coconut turned to mortar in my mouth. Mae patted me on the back as I coughed and I could feel Charlie’s eyes on my face. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was wondering if I was all right. I shook my head just enough for him to see.
“I think it’s high time we found out what was in that box,” Charlie said cheerily, still staring at me. Bessie jumped up from her chair.
“It’s only fair that I open it,” she said, crossing to the buffet. She looked from Mae to me and back again. I shrugged. I didn’t care if she took all of the ribbon. Alevia’s hands lifted from the piano and she materialized in the doorway.
“At least save me a few, Bess. I haven’t had new trimmings in months.” She pulled the tattered end of her navy blue ribbon toward her face in illustration.
“Very well,” Bessie said, though as she turned away she rolled her eyes. Mother handed Bess a small knife from the buffet drawer.
Suddenly Bessie screamed beside me and then I heard my mother sob, a deep, gutting hiccup in her throat. Whirling around, I saw a bit of white drop back into the box. Bessie backed away, mouth hanging open.
“What?” I asked alarmed. Alevia and Mother were staring at the box as though whatever had come out of it had turned them to stone. No one would answer me, but I noticed that Mae had begun shaking. My eyes locked on Charlie’s across the table and I watched as he craned his neck forward and swallowed hard.
“Ginny,” he said hoarsely. “It’s . . . it’s . . .” Mother was bawling. I could feel tension starting to constrict my neck, blocking my breath. Bessie was on the ground now, face between her knees, but Alevia still stood staring at the box, tears pouring from the corners of her eyes. No one could talk. I paced toward the box and threw the edges open. The crisp white sleeves of a gentleman’s shirt were balled on top and the tightness in my chest gave a little as I clutched the fabric and pulled it out. I couldn’t breathe, but I could feel my body trying to, lungs begging me to inhale. An enormous brown-red ring stretched from the collarbone to the waistline, dried and crusty along a torn gap in the middle. Snow had leaked through the box, wetting the dry material, and the metallic stench of spilled blood filtered through my nostrils. Alevia was whimpering behind me and I was barely aware of my mother and my sisters sobbing as I fell to the floor. The room was spinning and the sides of my vision seemed to close in. I forced my arm toward one of the table legs to steady myself.
“Gin, you’re all right. It’s all right.” Charlie’s fingers locked around my arms as a water glass was pressed to my lips. My dizziness slowed as the water trickled down my throat and down my neck, mixing with tears.
“My brother,” I whispered. I pitched forward. Charlie’s fingertips were rough across my chest as he forced me back up. My heart had torn in two.
“I don’t think this is Franklin’s.” Charlie’s voice sounded like he was speaking through a funnel, but I lifted my head. He was holding the edge of the shirt. “It’s a seventeen and a half by thirty-five. Franklin is a sixteen by thirty-five. I know. We used to get fitted together when the tailor came to the neighborhood.”
“His size could’ve changed.” Mae’s high voice came from above me. “Or maybe he was wearing another man’s shirt.” John. Charlie had said it was a 17.5 x 35. That shirt would have been small on John. The only option was my brother.
“It has to be his. Why else would someone send it here?” Henry’s voice was calm amid the hiccups and sobs echoing through the room. Bess, Alevia, and Mother had yet to speak. Franklin’s grinning face jumped into my mind and something sparked in my chest. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe Franklin was still alive.
“I don’t know. To make everyone think he’s dead? To scare your family? I’m telling you, I don’t think it’s his shirt. It’s not right.” Charlie was looking at me. I could feel his eyes on the top of my head and then his arms wrapped around me and he pulled me into my chair. “You’ve got to have faith, Gin. I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
“I’ll not have this in my house.” Mother’s voice trembled with hysteria and I looked over Charlie’s shoulder in time to see her clutch the box and walk out of the door. I jumped to my feet to go after her. I didn’t know what she planned to do, but she couldn’t get rid of the only thing I had left of my brother.
“Let her go.” Charlie grabbed my arm, but I glared at him and pulled loose, running down the hallway. I could see Mother’s slight frame pacing toward the back door and the white shirt gripped in her hand.
“Mother! Mother, stop!” I yelled, but she didn’t listen to me. She opened the door and flung the shirt into the snow. She exhaled loudly into the silent night and then the door shut. She turned and her icy blue eyes prodded into mine. Her body was trembling with what I guessed was fury and I pushed past her toward the door. She caught my arm. “Leave it. He’s gone.”
“He was your son. You’re supposed to forgive him. Father would have.” Before I could duck, she lifted her hand and slapped me.
“I love all of you,” she growled. “But he ruined us, all of us. Even you.”
“Franklin,” I said out loud as she went back toward the dining room, wishing more than anything she could find it within herself to say his name. I stared through the window at the brown-red blotch on pure snow. The wind was blowing hard now, scattering flakes over the ground. I couldn’t move from the window. The snow was covering the shirt. I closed my eyes, praying that wherever he was—dead or alive—he could be freed of the guilt, of his part in Lydia’s death, of his knowledge that what he’d done had stolen all of his sisters’ dreams. A strange sense of calm drifted through me and I opened my eyes to the yard, once again covered in white. The red was gone.
I continued to stare out the window, at the old oak tree with its gnarled branches, remembering the ribbon Franklin had hung from it to make a May pole for Mother’s birthday two years back—something she hadn’t had for her birthday since she was a girl. I remembered how touched she’d been and the tears in her eyes as she’d hugged him. Somewhere inside, I knew she still held him in her heart. I’d give my life to hear his voice one more time. The pain hit me. The past—good and bad—would never go away.
I could feel Charlie standing behind me. I hadn’t even heard his footsteps, but knew he was there.
“I knew she was angry with Frank, but I didn’t expect this.” He said it gently so that he wouldn’t upset me further. Charlie’s arms came warm and solid around my waist. I leaned against him. His untrimmed chin tickled the top of my forehead.
“Mother disowned him,” I said. “She couldn’t accept the drugs and Lydia and the fact that he . . . he loved John.” Saying the last bit made it sound so inconsequential, and as far as I was concerned it was—even given the fact that John had nearly been my fiancé. My fiancé. I couldn’t help but wonder when we would have married. I pushed the thought from my mind. It was pointless. Charlie was silent and I started to pull away from him, sure he’d react to Frank’s love for John like most of my family had—revulsion on top of their hatred and disappointment—but his arms tightened around me, refusing to let me go.
“Oh,” he said finally. “John, eh?” Charlie smiled. “I didn’t think he’d prefer a man like John.” I stared at him.
“John didn’t . . . doesn’t know,” I said. “How did you know about Frank?” His confession had taken me completely by surprise. As far as I knew he’d been in love with Lydia. Charlie reached for my hands and I let him. I searched his eyes needing to know what he knew.
“Well, I suppose I didn’t know for sure, but I wasn’t feeling so well after Mrs. Windemere’s fiftieth-birthday luncheon, remember?” I nodded, recalling Charlie’s clammy skin and pale face. “I excused myself to the library thinking I’d lie down and when I opened the door I saw your brother and a dark-haired fellow I’d never seen before standing a little too close to each other. Frank was leaning on his chest when I walked in. He babbled something about catching up with an old friend and then they both left immediately. I never mentioned it to him, of course, but thought it was a bit odd.” The thought that my brother had been interested in multiple men made his memory feel foreign. I blinked, holding back tears. He’d lived his entire life feeling he had to lie about who he was, who he loved.
“And it didn’t make you angry?” I asked.
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand it, Gin, because I don’t feel that way,” he said. “But no, it doesn’t. Then again, it could be because Frank’s not the first man I’ve known with that, uh, preference. My uncle James. Not that he or anyone else would have ever admitted it, of course, but he never married and from time to time one of us would find him in a compromising position with his butler.” I smiled at that, wishing more than anything that I could kiss him.
“Ginny, you’ve got to believe me. It’s not his shirt. I feel it. He’s not dead,” he said.
“And if you’re wrong? We may never know. Even if he isn’t, I don’t think he’ll ever come back.” Charlie wiped the tears falling now from my cheeks.
“If you never see him again, dead or not, at least he knew you loved him with your whole heart.” I looked down. “What is it?” Charlie kissed my mouth, a soft, closemouthed peck that made my heart skip in spite of my grief.
“He’d be alive if it wasn’t for me,” I whispered. “At Christmas, he snuck in to get Father’s gold watch to sell for ship fare. I was so relieved to see him that I woke the others. That’s the night Mother disowned him. He left without the watch.” Charlie pressed the side of his face to mine and I felt his chest lift with a deep breath.
“Frank’s fate—whatever it was or will be—wasn’t dealt by your hand. He’s one of the cleverest men I’ve ever known. If he wanted to find a way out of the country, rest assured he did, even without the watch.” Pulling back, I looked at him, doubtful. “Guilt and I have become well acquainted over the past years, but most of my regret is earned. Yours isn’t. He loved you, Gin. He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.” I thought of Frank’s hug in the graveyard and his words as he left, “Don’t tell the others, but you know I love you more than the rest.”
“I miss him.”
“You always will,” Charlie said. In all of the chaos, I’d forgotten that Charlie had lost a brother, too. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of George. At the beginning—well, you know how I was—the thought that he was dead had the power to knock me down with guilt for letting him get hit by that sleigh. In those days, I wondered if the pain would ever stop. Now I know it does, but you’ll never stop thinking of him.” Charlie hugged me tightly and then let me go.
“I’ll be in Frank’s room if you need me,” he said. I watched him walk down the hallway and up the stairs, thankful that he’d decided to stay. I needed him here.
I turned back toward the window and looked out at the lawn where the bloodied shirt lay inches under the snow. The house was completely quiet, save the familiar striking of the grandfather clock in the parlor. I shivered at the draft seeping in from the crack in the back door. “Remember.” That was the last thing Franklin said to me before he’d disappeared into the Christmas Eve night.
“How could I ever forget you?” I whispered to the silent house. I thought about Father, about the way we continued to celebrate him and the stories we told about Grandfather. Even though there was no way I’d ever forget Franklin, he’d thought it important to remind me anyway. By that point he knew the rest of our family would do their best to forget him. I looked away from the window and started down the hallway.
There was a puddle in the foyer. Moonlight gleamed off the moisture where the snow had melted and dripped from Charlie’s jacket. I grabbed a rag from the linen closet. My body felt heavy as I leaned over to soak it up. Patting the spot, I moved one of Charlie’s boots and an envelope fell from the space between them. The paper was wet, ink bleeding down the paper, but I could still make out my name scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. I sank to the floor, my finger hesitating on the seam, chest gripped with dread.
Dear Miss Loftin,
I so appreciated the opportunity to read your book, The Web.
I paused at the first line, never so relieved by another rejection. Turning my eyes back to the page, I figured I would go ahead and read it. Right now none of it mattered.
I know that it has taken me quite a long while to get to your book—it is embarrassing to think that I have had it since August—but I would like to arrange a meeting at your convenience to discuss a possible partnership.
I blinked at the words and read it again.
Your storytelling is remarkable both in your novel and in your work on Mrs. Emilie Helm in The Century. I began reading The Web last week and was immersed in the characters from the first sentence—in their deep, unrealized desires—but was most impressed by the theme. You see, I find it speaks to a rare but beautiful truth: that how, out of incomparable loss, some of the most brilliant art emerges. As I know you are aware from your mention of it in your cover letter, my father was quite intimately acquainted with Washington Irving. He was an interesting sort of man who once told my father that the ills he had undergone in this life had been dealt to him drop by drop and he had tasted all of their bitterness. He lost the love of his life, his fiancée, Matilda Hoffmann, at the young age of seventeen to consumption. It was always my father’s belief that it was his grief that drove his determination to prevail. Though he never married or got over losing Matilda, he poured his undying love and loyalty to her into his writing. I am telling you all of this because—and I hope you won’t find it too forward of me to say—I believe you have done the same. This story is too honest to suggest that it was created from pure imagination. I also hesitate to mention, for fear that I will grieve you by doing so, that I have heard of your brother’s disappearance and alleged involvement in the death of Miss Blaine. Please know, Miss Loftin, that though we have never met, I have kept your family in my prayers. My hope is that through all of this you have been able to canvas your pain in the solace of your words as I often do, as Mr. Washington Irving often did, while facing adversity beyond our control. I look forward to receiving your reply.
Most Sincerely,
George H. Putnam, President
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
My hands shook as I finished the letter and ran my fingers over the writing. George Putnam wanted my book. My greatest dream had just been realized and yet all I could think about were Putnam’s last words—his encouragement to canvas my pain by writing. It reminded me of Franklin, of his smile as he’d lugged the easel into the study encouraging me to paint, to write. I closed my eyes, hearing the creaks and groans of the winter wind shaking our quiet house. Franklin had known how desperately I’d wanted this moment. So had John. They’d been my greatest supporters. Even though I had the support of one of the most respected publishers in the world, I still couldn’t believe how much I’d lost.
Picking myself up from the floor, I stumbled up the stairs, barely able to hold myself up. I ran my hand along the wall, turned into my room, and collapsed on the bed. Staring into the dark, my eyes caught the spine of the thin notebook on my dresser. A few months ago, it had held the first chapter of a manuscript about the Society, but after Lydia’s death, I’d torn every page out save the first. I smiled remembering the one scrawled sentence I’d kept: “My brother was notoriously attracted to adventure, which is why, as I stood at the edge of the grand drawing room filled to the brim with eccentric artist-types and smoke as thick as the clouds, I was nervous.” I reached for my pencil on the side table and stood to grab the notebook. I’d do what Putnam said. I’d channel Irving and write through the pain. I’d done it before and knew Frank would want me to do it again—and so would John and Frederick Harvey—because they knew it would save me. Once again, Franklin’s last whispered word rang in my head and I lit a new taper candle and flipped to a clean page. In the pages of a book, a person could become immortal.