You don’t remember where it is?”
Franklin and I were walking down yet another unfamiliar cobblestone street in Manhattan. Passing mansion after mansion, the flicker of gas lamps flung shadows of elaborate gables and openmouthed gargoyles onto the street. I knew we were somewhere near Fifth Avenue. Nowhere else—possibly in the world—was there such an abundance of wealth encapsulated in such a small area. Franklin’s black evening jacket disappeared, then reappeared, in front of me as he stepped back into the light. He stopped for a moment, neck craning toward the door of a brick home that looked minuscule in comparison to the castle-like monstrosity beside it. Taking a few steps toward the door, he squinted at the number, shook his head, and kept walking.
“No. I do. It’s just that I’ve always taken the New York and Harlem to Eighty-Sixth Street. I’ve never taken the elevated line in. We’re farther south, so . . .” Franklin shrugged and stopped to wait for me to catch up. I walked faster. The black lace lining the white taffeta dress I’d borrowed from Bess was too long, catching on the edges of the cobblestones with each step. Bess didn’t know I’d borrowed it. She’d been in the city all day, selecting materials at O’Neill’s for a hat Alva Vanderbilt had asked her to redo for her fourteen-year-old daughter, Consuelo. She’d be livid when she realized I’d worn the dress, but Mother had insisted I look presentable, and I’d barely noticed which dress she was helping me into. Instead, I’d been lost in thought. I hadn’t seen Charlie in two weeks—not even so much as a glimpse from my window—and though I knew my heart couldn’t bear his presence, it ached in his absence. Every morning, I woke wondering if he’d come for me, if today was the day he’d come to tell me that he’d called off his engagement to marry me instead. But with each passing week my hope was fading. Even if he loved me, he didn’t love me enough.
“I recognize that one,” Frank said, gesturing toward an Italian Renaissance–style mansion with scrolled ornamentation edging the rectangular frame. I wondered how Doctor Hopper had the means to settle among the Fricks and Vanderbilts.
“I thought Hopper was a doctor,” I said, breathlessly, finally catching Franklin.
“He is. This way.” We turned down a narrow alley, past a wrought-iron fence protecting someone’s garden. The light scent of English boxwoods drifted over the pungent wood smoke billowing from surrounding chimneys and I inhaled the November air, huddling into my grandmother’s mink coat—a pelisse that Grandfather had given her on their wedding day.
“Not to discount physicians, but unless he’s invented some new contraption, I don’t understand how he lives here,” I said as I tried to keep up. Franklin strained to see the numbers on another brick house.
“They’re related to the Carnegies somehow,” he said. Stunned at the comment, I watched as Franklin reached into his pocket, flipped his watch open, and glared at the time. “But I don’t know the particulars.” I thought of Mr. Hopper’s comment at the Symphony, his joking—or so I’d believed—about living on Fifth Avenue, and smiled, finding my first impression, and the irony of the whole thing, hilarious.
“Frank, maybe we should knock and ask someone. Surely one of the housekeepers would know where they live.” Franklin’s nose wrinkled.
“It’s nearly eight at night, Gin. I’m not going to go traipsing up to some stranger’s door.” He exhaled in frustration and the cloud of his breath drifted past me, disappearing into the night. I thought of Mother, who was likely already tucked in bed reading the new Ladies’ Home Journal, and knew he was right. “Oh. There it is. Right there.” Franklin tipped his head forward, toward a stream of light coming from a house at the end of the block. My fingers curled around the hard edges of the leather notebook in my pocket. I hadn’t asked Franklin much about this gathering, mostly because I was afraid that if I heard the answer I wouldn’t go. At once, the editorial rejections my writing had accumulated in the past crept to the forefront of my mind—these characters are one-dimensional, the pace of this story is too tedious, the subject is dull. I didn’t want to stand in the middle of a circle reading a manuscript that I knew was far from perfect, reciting words that conjured Charlie. I also knew I wouldn’t be able to hold my tongue if a man like Wayland questioned my being there or insulted my work, as most male artists were wont to do—a diplomatic way of reminding me that I should be at home needlepointing or cooking. Even so, I knew what I wanted and that was to shape this manuscript into something worth reading. To that end, I would need to embrace critique and seek opinions—honest ones.
Franklin was nearly to the door by the time I realized I was still in the road staring at the towering brick chimneys and limestone-edged turrets. He turned around when he didn’t find me beside him and started back down the stairs.
“Come on, Gin,” he said. His cheeks were pink and the front of his hair stood on end. I reached up and smoothed it back down in an attempt to forget the sudden flash of Mother’s face in my mind, her smile when she’d seen me in Bess’s dress. I’d been so occupied with wondering about Charlie’s absence and how my writing would be received at the Society that I hadn’t given her satisfaction much thought. But now, standing outside of the Hopper mansion, the realization dawned on me: Frank’s friends, other men, wouldn’t only be appraising my writing. They’d be considering my appearance, my wit, my suitability as well.
“I’m nervous,” I said. He threw his arm across my shoulders.
“For god’s sake, why?”
“I’ve had plenty of things published for the Review, but I’ve never read anything meaningful out loud . . . especially to strangers or to men . . . well, other than to you or Charlie,” I lied. I’d never considered how other men perceived me, if they found me attractive or interesting. I’d never had to; Charlie’s friendship, his love, had always convinced me that I was both of those things. But now, suddenly without him, I was unsure. I held on to the freezing metal railing and started up the scrolled concrete steps, hearing the muted sounds of laughter and voices behind the glass doors set in gilded wrought-iron frames.
“You’ll never be forced to read anything aloud, though I’ve heard it can prove to be helpful,” Franklin said, opening the door and pulling me inside before I could reply.
We started down a dark hallway and then turned into a drawing room. At first glance, it looked just like Charlie’s friend Wayland’s gathering—smoke so thick we could have been floating down a southern river with Mark Twain’s Huck and Jim, everyone clutching a pencil or paintbrush—but the setting was different. The sweeping gold curtains, the fresco of flying cherubim along the ceiling, and the shiny Weber grand piano in the front corner of the room all pointed to the splendor reserved for the mansions industrialists built—a stark contrast to Wayland’s plain home.
“Come on. Let’s find Lydia,” Franklin said beside me. Having no idea who he was talking about, I squinted into the smoke and dim, and his cold hand found mine. The room was packed. We passed by a few painters working on projects next to easels displaying finished pieces. I watched as groups of people shifted from one painting to the next, gesturing to their peers beside them, leaning into each work as if they were scrutinizing it. We skirted around the fireplace and nearly ran into an assembly of men and women laughing and talking in the middle of the room, as if this sort of intellectual mingling between sexes were common.
“That line about love was magnificent,” I heard one of the women say to a bulky man sitting on a stool, “but the ending could’ve been written by a child.” I waited for the man to respond with a retort about her juvenile scrawling, but only heard a deep chuckle. I dug my fingers into the swathe of black taffeta along my arm and pinched, stunned to find I wasn’t dreaming. Somehow, it seemed John Hopper had located dozens of men who considered women’s artistic endeavors profound. As if my thought conjured him, there he was, reclining in a corner a few feet from the fire in a yellow upholstered armchair, surrounded by a group of at least ten women. Mr. Hopper’s notebook was open on his lap, and as he dipped his head to continue reading, a lady standing beside his chair casually brushed her hand across his shoulder. The gesture was innocent enough, but at once, I recalled Charlie’s comment about Mr. Hopper’s reputation. I recalled the ease of our conversation at the Symphony, the way his focus had given me the impression that he was fully interested in every word I said. Was that how he drew women in?
Frank’s hand jerked me forward, away from Mr. Hopper and his admirers. I inhaled, choking on a particularly pungent cloud of burning tobacco. I heard the hollow wail of a cello beneath the noise and the higher trill of a violin suddenly stop mid-note.
“Frank! You’re here.” The smoke seemed to subside around us and I blinked to clear it from my eyes as a petite blonde shoved her violin into the cellists’ occupied hands and lunged for my brother. Her arms circled his neck and he pulled her close, hands resting on the gray satin wrapping her tiny waist. The embrace was so intimate, so familiar. I stared at him, shocked that he’d clearly fallen in love without mentioning it—just like he’d failed to mention the Society. It was unlike him to withhold things from me.
“Miss Lydia Blaine, this is my dear sister, Miss Virginia Loftin,” Frank said. I tipped my head to Miss Blaine who leaned in and hugged me.
“Oh, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she said. “Franklin has been telling me all about your marvelous family and your incredible writing. Where are your other sisters this evening? I’ve been keen to meet the pianist.” She smiled. Her blue eyes were kind and I forced a grin back despite my irritation at Frank, wondering how long they’d known each other.
“Well, actually, Virginia was the only one officially invited,” Franklin said. Miss Blaine leaned over to pull him close. “We went to the Symphony with John last week and they got to talking, so he asked her to come.”
“Frank tried to invite the others. We were hoping to convince Alevia, the pianist, to attend, but she’s quite shy and doesn’t like to waste her time socializing when she could be practicing,” I said, rolling my eyes at the dedication I wished I had. “And Bessie wasn’t home when we were getting ready to leave so we didn’t ask her.”
“Actually, I chose to leave her out,” Franklin said bluntly. “I didn’t want to coddle her all night. And Mae isn’t artistic, though she was otherwise occupied in any case. She gives English lessons to the orphans at Saint Joseph’s each Friday, and after she’s finished tonight, she has plans to see Mrs. Jarley’s Wax Works with Henry Trent.”
“What?” The word came out of my mouth so quickly, Miss Blaine laughed. Mae hadn’t told me anything. Franklin grinned, fingers drifting over Miss Blaine’s hand, and I looked away, eyes locking on his face. “Why would she keep it from me?” Mae had always been private, but she usually confided in me. I held back my questions, though I kept my eyes fixed on Franklin’s and then cast them toward Miss Blaine, hoping he’d catch my meaning. Why would you conceal so much from me? I thought. His lids widened, suggesting he understood and would tell me later, but then he shrugged.
“She didn’t mention it to me either. I couldn’t find her so I asked Mother if she knew where she was and she told me that Mae was at the orphanage, but had arranged to accompany Henry to the play afterward.” Remembering how taken they’d been with each other at the Symphony, I hoped the affection would remain. Mae had always dreamed of a husband and children, and Mr. Trent shared her same passion for education. The thought struck me. Charlie and I had been well matched, too. Everyone thought so.
“I’m so glad you came,” Miss Blaine said, interrupting. “In the three years we’ve been holding these meetings, I’ve met tons of people, of course—John tends to invite anyone with an affinity for art—but it’s so rare and nice to meet a new friend.” She reached to squeeze my hand. She was lovely and warm; I couldn’t understand why Franklin hadn’t spoken of her.
“I’m thrilled to be here,” I said. “And so glad to have met you, too. Franklin has sung your praises.” I shot a tight-lipped grin at Frank. He cleared his throat.
“Lydia is a remarkable violinist,” Franklin said. On cue, she plucked the violin from the cellist, lifted the instrument to her chin, played an arpeggio, and curtsied.
“I can’t give myself all of the credit. I’m mostly remarkable by force. My cousin is married to Walter Damrosch and my father has a great appreciation for the arts, so since I was a child, I’ve been encouraged to play and play well. I’m not sure why, considering all of this training will likely go by the wayside once I’m married. I don’t really have much interest in it, anyway.” Lydia’s lips dropped into a scowl for a moment, then lifted back as she smiled.
“But what about all of the work you’ve put in? You must love it a little,” I probed.
“I’d stop playing this instant if Frank asked me to, but you wouldn’t, would you?” Inches from Franklin’s face, he shook his head and lifted her hand to his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to say hello to John, wouldn’t you?” Before I had a chance to reply that I didn’t care, she had me by the wrist and was dragging me back through the smoky room, away from my brother who simply waved at me.
Insisting that I meet everyone, Miss Blaine had introduced me to at least fifty people by the time we made it all the way around the room. We listened to romantic poetry, paused to appreciate the matchless styles of several artists who’d drawn or painted everything from hay fields to street dwellers, and finally stopped in front of a cellist playing a piece that wailed with such heartache it brought tears to my eyes.
I blinked as the cellist lifted his bow from the strings. Lydia began clapping, and paced toward the stocky man whose head was still stooped over his instrument.
“Mr. Wrightington. That was divine.” The man’s eyes barely lifted. “The only bit of suggestion I have is that the eighteenth notes at the end could’ve been made a bit more legato.” He finally raised his head and stared at Miss Blaine. His eyes narrowed. My fingers drew into my palm. Each time we’d stopped, Lydia had offered some type of comment to the artist, as had the other guests around us. Most of the time, she was complimentary, but a few times, she’d offered criticism. I’d expected at least one of the artists to lash out, but no one had. I’d mentioned this expectation after the second piece of analysis she’d offered, but she’d simply laughed and said that artists expected reactions at the Society, or at any salon for that matter. “No one forces you to put your art on display,” she’d said, echoing Franklin’s earlier words.
“You’re right, Miss Blaine.” The cellist’s lips parted in a grin. “I thought the same directly after that measure.” Miss Blaine beckoned me forward. I introduced myself, certain that I’d forget Mr. Wrightington’s name the moment we departed his company. I’d met too many to remember all of them, though I desperately wanted to. Miss Blaine began to turn away and I followed, thinking that perhaps I was so eager to know them because they were such a contradiction to the flighty female artists I was accustomed to back in Mott Haven—the amiable sort that gathered in parlors giving lectures on novels and writing poems, affecting a love for literature until the topic turned to beaus and marriage. The neighborhood women meant well, but the artists here were serious about their art, and welcoming to boot. Each had put their paintings or notebooks aside to smile elatedly at my introduction.
“There’s one more person I want you to meet and then I’ll take you to John,” Miss Blaine said, squinting through the smoke. I couldn’t figure why she thought me so eager to get to Mr. Hopper, unless she assumed I’d been intoxicated by his mysterious charms like the rest.
“I’m in no hurry, I—” I thought to tell her that my heart had recently been broken and that I hadn’t any interest in Mr. Hopper beyond a friendly acquaintance, but that would be entirely too forward.
We were standing in the middle of the room beneath a chandelier dripping with crystals, wedged between a cluster of writers sharing excerpts from their stories and an artist painting a plain-looking woman with an exceptional nose.
“Have you ever seen Franklin’s portraits?” I asked her, watching the artist dunk his brush into the paint.
“Of course. They’re incredible. He painted me at the last meeting. It’s a shame he can’t focus on his art full-time.” She lifted her gloved hand, running her fingers over her blond hair done up in a fanciful fleur-de-lis coiffure. “My only complaint is that he was slightly too true to life. He even added the tiny scar above my lip—boating accident.”
“Miss Blaine, how long have you and Franklin been, uh . . .” Unable to define what I didn’t know, I shook my head. “I mean, how long have you known each other?”
“Lydia, please,” she said, squeezing my hand. “And just a month or so.” She pulled at the elaborate ivory silk gauze puff at her shoulder and then looked at me, blue eyes locked on mine. “We met at the last Society meeting and have rendezvoused a few times to visit the picture gallery at the Metropolitan Museum and to play a few games of whist with John, though Frank’s traveling doesn’t seem to allow him much time.” She paused and leaned into me. No wonder Franklin had been so scarce at home. “Miss Loftin, it was one of those things . . . well, I don’t quite know how to explain it, but the moment I met him I felt like I’d known him my whole life.” I knew exactly what she meant, and my chest throbbed. “Oh, there he is.” Lydia’s words jolted me back. She took my wrist, cold fingers digging into my skin. “Tom always hides when he’s writing.” Wondering why this Tom fellow was so important, I looked over my shoulder toward the towering arched windows where I’d last seen Franklin and nearly stepped on a girl sewing some sort of shawl.
“Excuse me,” I said, sidestepping her. I followed Lydia to an alcove adjacent to the drawing room. No larger than a closet, a circle of pink and white stained glass rained tinted starlight on a blond-headed man. His back was to us, pencil scratching furiously against the paper. Lydia cleared her throat. “Tom?” He didn’t turn around but held up his hand instead. “I apologize. He’s so rude,” she whispered.
“It’s fine,” I said, understanding the annoyance that came with being forced to stop midsentence. Suddenly, Tom tossed his pencil down and slapped his hand on the desk, causing a tiny brown glass bottle emblazoned with a Celtic circle knot to tip over and roll into his lap. He snatched it, shoved it into his green windowpane plaid jacket, and spun around. Expecting to be greeted with irritation, I was stunned to find him beaming at me, perfect white teeth gleaming against the dim of the room.
“Hi. I’m Thomas Blaine . . . Tom,” he said. He smoothed the front of his jacket. The sleeve of his right arm was rolled up to his elbow—likely to avoid smudge marks on his cuff—exposing an angry welt on his forearm.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blaine,” I said. “I’m Virginia Loftin.” He rubbed his thumb across the side of his forefinger and I noticed his fingers were rough across his knuckles—calluses from holding the pencil, just like I had.
“Tom’s my brother,” Lydia said. “And Tom, Miss Loftin is Franklin’s sister. She’s a writer, too.”
“You can call me Virginia—or Ginny—please,” I said. Lydia already felt like an old friend.
“Ah, yes. I think I remember Frank mentioning you,” Mr. Blaine said. He dropped his hand to his side and seemed to stumble a bit, though he hadn’t taken a step. I thought of the small glass bottle and wondered if he’d been drinking. It wasn’t uncommon to have a drink or two in a social setting, but it was entirely unseemly to have too much. I’d only seen two people intoxicated in my life—my uncle Richard after my father’s funeral and an old neighbor, Mr. Spivey, who’d consumed so much he’d fallen down his front steps. “I believe I met one of your sisters the other week. She was coming out of the Astors’ place as I was going in.” Mr. Blaine seemed to steady, his blue eyes, identical to Lydia’s, met mine. His cheeks flushed. Apparently something besides simply meeting had occurred.
“Bess?” I asked, knowing without a doubt neither Alevia nor Mae had the capability or desire to discombobulate a man so severely. It wasn’t that Mae and Alevia weren’t as beautiful as Bess—on the contrary, I supposed we were all pretty in our own way. It was that Bess was the only one of us who’d mastered the skill of flirtation.
“Yes. I’m fairly certain that’s her name.” He sighed. “She’s quite lovely.” His face burned deeper against the natural pale of his skin and I coughed, feeling as though the walls of the small room were closing in around me. Mr. Blaine cleared his throat. “At any rate, have you had an opportunity to read your writing for the room?” I opened my mouth to reply that I hadn’t, but he cut me off, continuing to speak. “It’s quite an effective exercise. In fact, I read a bit of my new novel at the beginning of the night. Everyone seemed to find it smart and compelling. Several people begged me to share the next installment as soon as it was completed. I was relieved, though in truth I knew it would be well received. My stories often are and—”
“I’m so thrilled you’ve written another piece,” Lydia thankfully interrupted Mr. Blaine’s exasperating self-praise. “I should like to hear more about it, but we’re on our way to say hello to John.” My lips pressed into a smile.
“Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Blaine,” I said. Lydia led us out of the alcove and into the drawing room.
“Isn’t he amazing?” Lydia gushed. I nodded, knowing I didn’t have the capacity to vocalize a lie at the moment. Though I thought him friendly and pleasant enough—and his passion admirable—I couldn’t stand arrogance in men, especially in artists. “I told Franklin the minute he told me about you that I thought you and Tom would be a good match. You’re both lovely and both writers. It’s important to have similar interests in a marriage, don’t you think?” Her words stunned me. The notion that I’d been paired with someone other than Charlie, even in conversation, filled me with grief. I glanced around the room, across the faces of countless men I’d passed by or met without thought, suitable men who were considered prospects. At once, I could feel sweat prickle my palms. I wasn’t ready. “Virginia?” Lydia shook me and I turned to face her.
“I . . . I agree that he is a nice man,” I stammered, “though it seems that he’s quite taken with my sister Bess. Perhaps they’d be a better match.” Lydia shrugged and exited the drawing room, leading me down a darkened hallway. I was relieved that she hadn’t pressed the matter. Candlelight flickered against the walls and a cool draft floated over me. I shivered. The notion that I was about to entertain a conversation with another bachelor, and a womanizer at that, made my stomach tumble with nerves. I thought to turn around and find Franklin, but Lydia’s hand found mine and led me further down the hall. Without bothering to knock, she opened the closed door. Caught immediately by a bear head on the alternate wall, I stared at its teeth bared in a snarl, barely aware that Lydia had left my side.
“Oh good. I won’t have to come fetch you after all.” Mr. Hopper’s voice echoed across a room that was dark with mahogany walls, leather settees, and red and gold tapestries. His quip reminded me of something Franklin would say, and my unease settled.
“You know, I really didn’t come here to humor you, Mr. Hopper,” I said, avoiding his eyes by following Lydia’s unnecessary path around the perimeter of the room.
“Oh?” He started to interrupt me, but I cut him off.
“I thought I’d asked you, quite nicely in fact, to keep your carriage off of my lawn. I simply came here to tell you that if I see one more divot, I’ll have my gardener yank up all of your beautiful roses and plant them at my house,” I said, raising my voice. I finally looked at him, finding his black leather boots propped lackadaisically on the bronze top of his gargantuan mahogany desk, his hands threaded behind his head. Mr. Hopper’s lips turned up in a grin as he remembered our conversation at the Symphony.
“I’m um . . . I’m going to find Franklin,” Lydia said abruptly. The thought that she was going to leave me unaccompanied made my chest tighten, but I took a breath. Mr. Hopper was a friend of my brother’s, and a man who clearly had the means and charisma to draw the attention of any society woman or famed artist he wished. I was a modest writer from the Bronx with no fortune or acclaim. His interest would not extend beyond that of an acquaintance. I calmed at the thought. I smiled at Lydia and crossed toward Mr. Hopper, pausing in the middle of the room to watch as she made her way back around the perimeter and out of the door. The door shut behind me and Mr. Hopper laughed.
“I suppose you find it ironic that I do, in fact, live in a mansion on Fifth Avenue?” he said. I grinned, sinking into a leather chair across from him.
“I suppose you’re right. What was wrong with her?” I asked, wondering why Lydia had taken such great pains to avoid crossing the room.
“What do you mean?” He swung his legs to the floor and set his pen on the desk. “Oh, you mean the way she walked around the room like that? She probably didn’t want to walk on the rug. A very close friend of ours, Will Carter, was found dead in here a few months ago, laid out in the middle of the room. It was a terrible tragedy, and the loss was quite a blow to all of us.” A cloud passed over his face, a pale that eclipsed his jovial countenance. “He was a talented man, a promising sculptor.” Mr. Hopper met my eyes and the color slowly returned to his cheeks. “However, Will’s greatest gift was his humor. He had the solitary ability to pull all of us out of the worst sorts of depressions. Father said it was heart failure that killed him. There was no sign of a struggle, but Lyd found him first.” Somewhat relieved that he hadn’t been murdered, a shiver crept up my spine all the same. I’d just walked across that rug. I swallowed hard, stifling the urge to look over my shoulder.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, though the sentiment was insufficient.
“It’s all right. He’ll always be with us, really.” Mr. Hopper leaned back in his chair. My eyes drifted over his shoulder to a portrait of a gentleman in Union army garb. I laughed.
“What?” He leaned forward.
“No, I apologize. My amusement was misplaced. I was just looking at that portrait there. He’s smiling.” John looked over his shoulder. Though it wasn’t uncommon to see a slight grin on the closed lips of a few portrait subjects, I had yet to see a portrayal quite like this one. His lips were parted, exposing a row of square teeth.
“Yes. You wouldn’t be able to tell it without the beard, but that’s my father. His mother asked him to sit for a nice, serious portrait. As you can see, it turned out quite well.” He grinned at me, holding my gaze. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight, Miss Loftin?” He stood and rounded the desk. He was doing it again, the same thing he’d done at the Symphony. I couldn’t tell if it was his tone, his proximity, or the use of my name, but in the course of a few moments, he’d made me feel at ease, as though he knew me and was genuinely interested in my response.
“Very much. Though I have to admit I’m overwhelmed, in a good way. My limited exposure to artist gatherings has consisted of ladies’ groups, and—” Mr. Hopper coughed. “I don’t mean to discount them,” I said quickly. “It’s only that they’re not serious about writing. It’s a pastime until they procure a proper husband, which isn’t a dishonorable goal in the slightest, but . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to appear as though I thought myself superior, or come off as one of those women who looked upon marriage as declared warfare.
“You want something more,” Mr. Hopper said, mouth quirking up. “You want to make more of your writing.” I nodded, pressing my palms to the leather seat. “It’s rare,” he continued, leaning against his desk. “There aren’t many women keen to make a career of their prose, even here.” He gestured toward the drawing room. “I suppose most believe that men prefer the naïve over the ambitious and intelligent. It’s unfortunate. Especially for a man who believes that the splendor of a woman’s beauty is only magnified by a clever mind.” He held my eyes, and I felt my cheeks redden, instantly hoping he’d mistake my color for the warmth in the room.
“It is,” I said, composing myself. The thought that a woman would balk from her talents in order to please a man saddened me, though I knew it happened often. “I’ve only met one other female who aimed to make writing a career. She was an acquaintance of my sister Mae’s, a student at Hunter College. We’d thought to begin meeting to share our writing, but she married and her husband had work in Milwaukee.” I broke from his gaze. “I am so thankful for your invitation, Mr. Hopper. This, the Society, is incredible, the number of men and women sharing ideas, respecting each other’s art. I was turned away from a men’s writing group once, and when I walked into your drawing room, I was sure I was dreaming.”
“Artistic interaction between the sexes is not at all uncommon in France. I’m convinced that it’ll eventually become commonplace here, so long as people like us make a point to encourage it,” he said, gesturing from him to me and back again. “I’m glad you’re pleased. Have you met anyone of particular interest? I know Lydia mentioned wanting to introduce you to Tom.” I kept silent and he smiled at me. “What is it?”
“It seems that he’s already met my sister Bessie. Perhaps they’ll be a match.”
“You think he’s that terrible?” Mr. Hopper grinned and held up his hand. “Forgive me. I don’t know her. I’ve only heard the few stories Franklin has told me.”
“She’s undoubtedly more pleasant than Franklin has made her out to be. He loves her, but they’ve always been at odds. Frank can be so carefree, and Bess is always so calculated.” Bess had been old enough to remember my parents’ miniscule apartment in the city, the dirty, rodent-infested building we’d lived in before our move to Mott Haven. At times, she’d mention it, and I knew that those memories, coupled with Great-aunt Rose’s influence, had impelled her to want more for her life, to desire the comfort afforded high society.
“So the sentiment that she’s a fortune hunter is an incorrect one?” he asked, amber eyes dancing. He fit his hands in his pockets. “And what of your other sisters? What’re they like? I feel now that Franklin might’ve stymied my understanding of your entire family.”
I laughed.
“I doubt it. He’s quite devoted to the rest of us. You met Mae; she’s lovely, completely committed to education, and Alevia is beautiful and so talented on the piano. You’ve seen her before.” The last sentence came out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“I have? She wasn’t at the Symphony, was she?” His eyes squinted, as if the effort to try to remember was too much for them.
“Oh, right. Maybe you haven’t,” I said quickly, but he shook his head, thinking.
“I remember the name.” He tapped his fingers on the table and then looked up suddenly. “Oh, Charlie Aldridge’s party. You were there, too, weren’t you?” His eyes flashed with emotion, then dulled, though the edges of his mouth twitched with an impending smile. “I thought you looked familiar at Carnegie Hall.”
“Yes, I was at-at Charlie’s,” I stuttered, barely able to force his name from my lips, “but you and I didn’t meet.” I prayed that Mr. Hopper hadn’t noticed my heartbreak that night. “I just heard your name.”
“Did you now? Tell me. What did you hear?” Heat crept from my neck to my face. I knew how my words had come across. I cleared my throat.
“Nothing at all, really. It’s just that . . . I was in the library during the party and at one point I looked out and noticed . . . well, noticed your friend with the beard staring at my sister, and asked Charlie who the man was. He mistook my inquiry. He thought I was asking after you.” I got up from my chair. I’d embarrassed myself as well as Mr. Hopper and needed to go. I started to cross the room, but his hand caught my arm.
“Don’t leave,” he said. I turned, nearly colliding with his chest. He didn’t back away or let go. Nerves tumbled in my stomach. I wouldn’t allow him to assume that I could be another one of his conquests. “Please sit back down.” He smiled and I broke from his stare to pace past him toward the chair I’d just abandoned. I needed to continue the conversation to reiterate that I hadn’t been asking after him. “To be clear, that man is not my friend. Mr. Roger Williams is a first cousin of Miss Kent’s . . . Rachel’s. He’s quite irritating.” The mention of her name was unwelcome. I stared into my lap, trying in vain to think of a topic that would steer my mind away from the worst night of my life. Mr. Hopper twirled his pencil between his fingertips and sighed, taking his seat behind his desk. “I asked who you were, too. I saw you standing beside Charlie and Rachel and didn’t recognize you.” He lifted his eyes and met my gaze. My mouth went dry. As much as I tried to ignore the image of Charlie down on one knee, I couldn’t. Hurt echoed in my chest.
“Then I suppose we were both dishonest at the Symphony.” My voice was strained.
“I wouldn’t call it dishonest, just polite. We hadn’t been properly introduced. I couldn’t say, ‘Well, hello, Miss Loftin. I asked about you at Aldridge’s party the other week’ without the connotation being misconstrued.” He winked and I smiled gratefully.
“By some, perhaps, but not by me.” I didn’t feel the need to elaborate further. How could I explain that I’d never entertained the thought of a man’s interest because I’d loved the same one, blindly, for so long? We sat in silence for a few moments and then he stood up and rounded the desk to face me.
“Would you tell me something, Miss Loftin? What do you write about? I’m just wondering. That’s the purpose of all of this anyway, you know—to talk about it.”
“Then why aren’t you still out there?” I tipped my head toward the drawing room.
“After I hear reactions, I need to think,” he said. “It’s nice to read through a passage while listening to the music. But I can’t concentrate enough to figure out how I’ll change a piece until I’m alone—especially if I’ve received a bit of criticism as I did tonight. Some people could write through doomsday, but I need silence.”
“Likewise.” I sighed, fell back against the chair, and tilted my neck forward to look at him. “I write a monthly column for the Bronx Review, mostly about current events, though at times they ask me to write a women’s opinion piece since I’m the only female columnist. And I write down our family’s stories for fun.” I paused, considering whether or not I should mention the rejected article I’d submitted to Scribner’s and Atlantic Monthly, and decided against it. “But the book I wrote is just a silly story about a man and woman who grow up together, find love in each other. It’s my first attempt at a novel and I have to admit that I’m quite unsure that it’s any good at all.” I stopped, noticing John was looking up at the ceiling, studying the deep squares of crown molding, obviously bored. He didn’t say anything but crossed to the opposite wall, opened a cabinet, and turned to me.
“What would you like to drink? Bourbon? Scotch? I don’t have ice.” I stared at his back, shocked at the forwardness of his question. Proper women never drank liquor and rarely alcohol, only imbibing a bit of wine behind the veil of their homes or a glass of sparkling wine at the theater. I started to get up. Why would he bother asking about my work? He clearly didn’t care about my reputation or my writing.
“I’ve got to go find Franklin. It’s getting late.” It was. If Mother woke to find us absent at this hour, we’d be in quite a bit of trouble. Mr. Hopper turned mid-pour, sloshing scotch all over his black silk vest and down the side of the wall.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I apologize for my language. Don’t go. I want to talk about your book. I just thought it’d be nice to have a drink while we do,” he said. I kept walking. “Please, Miss Loftin. I didn’t mean to offend you by offering spirits. It’s only that I’ve found having a small nip clears my head.”
“Very well,” I said, stepping gingerly across the expanse of the rug to Mr. Hopper’s outstretched hand. I was desperate to talk about my writing with another author, with someone who had proficiently written a novel and could help me better my own. Feeling very defiant, I took a sip, inhaling the earthy smell of it, tasting the smooth hint of caramel on my tongue.
“Is it a true story?” His words took me by surprise and I choked on the scotch.
“What?”
“Your book. Is it based on real life?” I took another drink.
“No,” I lied.
“That’s a pity. I was hoping I’d get to learn more about you.”
I fidgeted with the black lace that trimmed the end of my sleeve above my elbow.
“I’m afraid it’s just a notion I had. Some romantic fantasy that will never see the literary shelves, but may entertain a housewife or two.” Mr. Hopper’s brows furrowed.
“Just because it’s romantic doesn’t mean it’s not literature. The one novel I’ve had published had a bit of romance.”
“But it was mostly based on some lofty theme, right? I mean, that’s what all the greats do, write about something they notice in human nature.” He leaned against the desk.
“You just got done saying that your story is about a lifelong relationship. If that’s the case, then you’re no different. You’re writing about the test of loyalty—about how difficult it must be to stand by someone throughout an entire lifetime, yet how it’s possible.” I was impressed. He’d captured the purpose of my story without knowing anything about it.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Isn’t that what we’re all asking ourselves? Who will stand by us? Who will love us?” He dipped his head for a moment, then lifted his eyes to the room and took a sip of scotch. “And yes. My novel is called The Blood Runs from Antietam. It’s about war and what it is that makes men want to declare it.”
“Let me hazard a guess. Blood, lust, and the want for power?” Mr. Hopper chuckled and shook his head. “What’s the answer then?”
“You’ll have to read it to find out,” he said, winking at me again. Lifting his glass, he downed what remained. “I know you said you weren’t ready to read your book to strangers, but since I’m at least a little more familiar, would you share it with me?”
I nodded, thankful that I’d taken the time to rewrite it without Charlie’s name.
“I can’t promise that it’ll be good,” I said.
“First drafts never are.” Mr. Hopper set the glass down and held out his hand. I gave him the notebook, feeling as though I’d just severed a limb. “I’m eager to read it, Miss Loftin. Would you like me to tell you my thoughts or simply read it and keep my opinion to myself?”
“Of course I’d appreciate your thoughts,” I said. “I’m well aware that publishable writing comes with the price of criticism.” His eyebrow quirked up.
“You’re serious indeed,” he said, as though he questioned it even after I’d stated my intentions. “When I’ve finished revising my new story, I’d like you to tell me what you think of it. It’s about a wealthy society man who flees his life to travel the world like a vagabond.”
“Of course. But let me guess the theme. Something about the making of a man, whether or not he can escape the life he’s been bred to live?” Mr. Hopper’s eyes glinted.
“Something along those lines,” he said, turning to put my book in the top drawer of his desk.
“I look forward to reading it.” I started to stand. It was getting late. “It’s been so lovely speaking with you, Mr. Hopper. I hope—”
“There’s one more thing,” he said, cutting me off. “Of course you don’t have to take my advice, but you might want to speak further with Tom.” He couldn’t be serious. I wouldn’t be pushed into a courtship, especially with a man I found exasperating—never mind the fact that he clearly fancied my sister. I felt my eyes narrow and Mr. Hopper grinned. “No, not in that manner,” he said. “I’m not suggesting the two of you as a love match, but he is a talented writer. You’ll need more than one opinion if you plan to make this a career, and it’s helpful to know another writer striving toward publication . . . at least it helped me. You have no idea how cathartic it can be to commiserate with someone else on the prepublication seesaw of promise and rejection. The two of you could share publishing ideas, read each other’s writing.” I cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Share your writing with Mr. Blaine?” I asked. Mr. Hopper shook his head.
“I used to. I don’t anymore, but that wasn’t my decision,” he said. “After I got published, he acted as though he didn’t want my help. It’s just his pride. I know he hoped we’d be published around the same time, but he’s had a string of poor luck with editors and publishers alike.” Mr. Hopper pressed his lips together and shrugged. “I simply thought that knowing him—and his knowing you—might be beneficial.”
“Perhaps it would be,” I said, “if he could stop praising his work long enough to hear of mine.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Forgive me. I’ve spoken out of turn.” Mr. Hopper chuckled.
“It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, Miss Loftin.” He swept my hand from my side and lifted it to his lips, the kiss he placed upon it as light and quick as a butterfly landing on my skin. “As to Tom,” he said. “He’s only trying to conceal his insecurity. Though if you do decide to make a habit of speaking with him, it’d be wise to throw propriety out of the window and learn to interrupt him.”
I found Mr. Blaine where Lydia and I had left him, hunched over the carved mahogany writing desk in the alcove. Lifting my hand to knock on the doorframe, I paused for a moment, arm suspended in midair, wondering if taking Mr. Hopper’s advice would be a mistake. Then again, if this didn’t go well, I didn’t have to talk to either of them again.
Tapping my fist into the wood frame before I could second guess myself, I jumped as Mr. Blaine pushed back from the desk and slammed his hand on the top.
“What is it now, Lyd?” he said. “I told you I was in the middle of a scene the last time you—” Swiveling his neck around to look at me, he stopped midsentence and straightened in his chair. “Oh. Miss Loftin. I apologize.”
“That’s all right. I can come back later,” I said, realizing as his blue eyes met mine that the nervousness I’d felt earlier had returned. My conversation with Mr. Hopper had settled me temporarily—or perhaps it was the scotch—but now, I felt nervous. I took one step backward and whirled toward the door, but Mr. Blaine started toward me before I could reach it.
“No. Stay, Miss Loftin. I-I wasn’t really writing anyway,” he said. His breath wavered across my face, rank with the stench of whisky.
“It looked like you were. Writing, I mean,” I clarified, glancing down at the desk to avoid his eyes. I took a breath and forced calm. I’d only come to speak to Mr. Blaine as a fellow writer. There was no harm or expectation in that.
“Oh,” he said abruptly as if he’d somehow forgotten how to speak. Running a hand through his cropped blond hair, he blinked and sat down in the desk chair. “I suppose I was writing, but not my novel, see. I just thought you were Lydia and wanted her to leave me alone. She always seems to break my concentration when I need it the most.” He lifted a shoulder. “But your presence, Miss Loftin, is certainly welcome,” he said. Leaning back in the chair, Tom grinned.
“I wanted to talk to you about publishing,” I said.
“Publishing,” he repeated. Biting his bottom lip, he leaned forward, shook his head as if to clear it, and glanced up at me. “What about it?” Mr. Blaine slumped down in the chair, posture completely different from a second before. Clearly he’d thought my presence driven by something else. Perhaps he’d assumed I’d come to request a private reading, lured back by the intrigue of his self-proclaimed brilliance.
“Well, I’ve been a writer my whole life—short stories mostly—but I just wrote a novel and haven’t the slightest idea if it’s good or not or how to go about getting a book published,” I began.
“You’re asking me about publishing a book.” It was a statement, not a question. I nodded. “Why didn’t you ask John?” The question came out airy and he plucked the pencil from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. I opened my mouth to answer, but didn’t know what to say, if I should tell him that Mr. Hopper had suggested I seek him out. He glanced at me. “Oh. You already have.” Mr. Blaine dropped the pencil onto the desk and stared up at the pink and white stained glass above him. “I don’t know why you’re here then. You’ve likely found all of the answers you need.”
“Actually, I didn’t ask him,” I said honestly. “He’s already been published and it’s been quite some time since he’s had to seek out a publisher.” I was treading on thin ice. Surely Mr. Blaine didn’t like to be reminded that Mr. Hopper had been published and he hadn’t.
“That’s true.” Tom smiled at me and I felt the tension drop from my shoulders. “I suppose I’m a little sore over it taking me this long to find a publisher myself. Sorry for my tone.” He paused. “Poker. You’re familiar?”
“Vaguely. My uncles played in the war.”
“Publishing is about as random as a poker hand—that is, if your material is good—the wild cards being who you know and what the publishers want—and their tastes are fickle.”
“It seems that attempting acceptance in any of the literary—” I started to sympathize, to say that being well received by a literary magazine appeared to be as random, but Mr. Blaine cut me off.
“In my case, I know my writing is compelling, and I’ve got the first wild card in my back pocket. I have a rather known last name and am acquainted with plenty of publishers and editors, they just refuse to give my books a chance. As much as they say they want something different, they don’t. For example, John’s editor, Fred Harvey at Henry Holt. He read both of our books. He loved John’s romanticized novel about war, but was disgusted with mine about the disparity between the classes.”
“I doubt he was disgusted,” I said. All of my rejections had been pointed, but polite.
“You don’t believe me? I still have his letter. I’ll bring it next time. He didn’t like the way I made the upper class seem so unfeeling and, I quote, ‘the lower class seem so disgustingly desolate.’ He thought I was using class extremes instead of averages and was absolutely appalled by my love scene between a woman of the streets, if you will, and a man of means.” Choosing to ignore the mention of a love scene, I was stunned by the brutal honesty of Mr. Blaine’s rejection. I couldn’t fathom that sort of dismissal—if I were ever brave enough to face publishers. “But, I’ve decided to go a different route.” Mr. Blaine pushed a piece of paper off the top of a copy of The Century magazine, and waved the volume in front of me. I’d already read this particular edition at least ten times over. “I’ve decided to read for a change.” He paused to stare at the cover adorned with an illustration of a Greek goddess. “They say that Richard Gilder selects the best writers in the world for his magazine. I’m hoping their excellence will inspire.”
“I often hope the same,” I said. The magazine always included literary greats like Mark Twain and Henry James and the illustrator Monty Flagg, as well as articles and short stories from promising debut writers. Suddenly, an idea dawned on me and I plucked the magazine from Mr. Blaine’s hand. He laughed as I flipped through.
“If you’d like me to procure a copy for you, I’m sure that John subscribes—”
“I’ve been rejected, too, Mr. Blaine. Never from this magazine, but from several others.” I’d submitted the story of Grandfather James to Scribner’s and Atlantic Monthly last March. The magazines had been running Civil War stories commemorating the twenty-fifth year of the Union’s victory, and I’d thought my grandfather’s story a heartening tale of American resilience. The editors felt differently, and I’d been so discouraged by their rejections that I hadn’t tried other publications. “But I’m willing to give it another go and I think you should as well. We should write stories to submit to The Century. Nearly every name on these pages has made something of their writing.”
“I think that that’s a marvelous idea, Miss Loftin.” Mr. Blaine pulled the magazine from my grasp and set it on the desk behind him. “And you’re correct. It’s commonly known that editors from all of the most prominent houses peruse it, even those with their own monthly publications—Charles Scribner’s Sons, Henry Holt, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, among others. G. P. Putnam’s Sons are particularly interested in The Century’s writers, I’ve heard. It’s as easy as one of them reading your story and loving your style.”
“G. P. Putnam’s Sons?” The name came out of my mouth before I could stop it, a girly squeak that caused Mr. Blaine to cock his head at me.
“Have your eye on that one, do you?” He laughed.
“Not really,” I sputtered. “I mean, I suppose.” I felt myself blushing and turned my head.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has their favorites,” Mr. Blaine said, weaving his hands behind his head. “It’s rumored that the Putnam brothers are especially loyal readers since their former magazine, Putnam’s Monthly Magazine of American Literature, Science, and Art, was bought by The Century. If you’re keen on catching their eye, submitting a story to Gilder would be a smart idea.” He scribbled a few words on a loose sheet of paper. “Shall we agree to hold each other accountable for these stories? Perhaps read each other’s work? I’d be happy to review yours if you’ll take a look at mine.” I barely heard him. I was sure I’d be rejected, but the possibility that my writing could be read by George Putnam made nerves fly madly around my stomach like a thousand fleeing bats.
“I’d love that,” I said bleakly.
“Well, in that case, could you come over here for a moment? I’ve made a list of possible book ideas and suppose I could use one for my story. I’d like your opinion.” I stepped forward to take a look. He shuffled the papers on the desk and flattened one on top. Barely able to see the letters against the dim of the room, I leaned closer to read the bullet-pointed list. “Ben Franklin and his relation to the post; The French Huguenots and their exodus to the United States.” “I know that they’re both superb ideas. Simply choose the one you find most appealing.” I felt my eyes begin to roll, but stopped them before he could see me.
“I like both, but find the Franklin idea particularly interesting,” I said, swallowing the compulsion to deem them both boring out of spite.
“Thank you, Miss Loftin,” he said. “Do you know how I came upon it? I was up in Rye on holiday when I came across a marker of sorts near the road. It seemed to speak to me, to tell me that if I only regarded it long enough, it would give me an idea that would change the world. I know that—”
“I must go, Mr. Blaine,” I interrupted, taking Mr. Hopper’s advice. “I apologize for interrupting. I look forward to reading your story. Farewell for now,” I said hurriedly. Opening the door, I stepped into the hallway before he could insist I stay to hear the last of his tale.
Walking quickly toward the trill of a flute over the lulling notes of the piano and someone shouting the name “Rebecca!” over and over, I eyed the large-faced grandfather clock with a carved shell motif, stunned that it was nearing two in the morning. I turned sharply into the drawing room, expecting a thinned crowd at best, even given the noise, but was shocked to find it just as crammed as before. Forcing my way through the throng, I looked for Franklin.
“Miss Loftin?” A short brunette girl wearing a gorgeous black gown with undulating bands of deep emerald velvet and gold braid materialized out of the dim. I nodded, wracking my brain for her name. Lydia had just introduced us. “What fortune that our paths crossed. I know you mentioned you’d just penned a novel. Would you mind listening to the opening paragraph of my story? I’m on my way to read it. I often write poetry and shorter works, but this is my first attempt at a novella and I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. It’ll only take a moment.”
“I’d love to,” I said and grinned at her, wishing she’d mentioned her name.
“Thank you,” she said. “I would’ve read it earlier, but my husband, Teddy, summoned me back to my parents’ home for a few hours to greet some friends going on to the country with us tomorrow. Never mind that I see them nearly every day back home in Newport.” She paused. “He means well, but doesn’t understand,” she said, almost to herself. I followed her through the maze of people gathered around the fireplace and waited as she laughed with a lone harpist for a moment before leaning down and grabbing a disheveled stack of papers from a spot against the wall.
The woman sunk into a waiting armchair by the fire. I looked at the crowd gathered around me waiting to hear her words, and wondered why she’d felt the need to ask me to join them. She lifted her face to us and her eyes squinted, as though she was thinking. “I’ll be reading a short passage, only the first paragraph of my novella, which is all I’ve got so far.” She laughed, a high-pitched jingle that made me grin. “I haven’t worked it all out in my head, but here’s the premise: it’s about a man whose career is falling apart, but who needs to be successful to marry his fiancée,” she said, tapping her fingers on the mound of paper in her hand. The problem of money seemed to be a common theme, both in fiction and reality. I focused on her words. I wasn’t going to let Charlie into my head. Not now. “Knowing there’s no way to salvage his career, he searches his brain and remembers these letters he has from a famous, but deceased former lover, so he removes his name from the letters and sells them for a fortune. There will, of course, be complications with his plan, but that’s as far as I’ve thought so far. Do you find it boring?” Hanging on her words, I found myself staring at her waiting for more, and shook my head, wishing I could’ve come up with a premise that seemed half as enticing.
“Absolutely not! It sounds incredible,” someone said. Her thin lips drew up.
“I think you’re all just kind.” Sorting through the stack of papers, she yanked one out and set it on top of the others. “There’s a chance that it’ll be entirely awful. If it is, that’s all right, but I want you to tell me. Be brutal.”
“I promise,” a thin man with a curling mustache proclaimed loudly. She smiled.
“I’ll be counting on that, Mr. Daniels,” she said.
“I’ve remained tonight for the sole purpose of hearing her prose. Her poetry speaks to me.” A young woman who appeared to be no older than sixteen whispered in my ear, “It’s incredible . . . what Mr. Hopper has created here.” I turned my head in time to see her cheeks flush at his name. “Do you know that he was inspired by a Parisian salon? He spoke to me . . . privately . . . about how he came to form it.” With her words, I felt foolish for thinking that Mr. Hopper was actually interested in my writing. His reputation was clearly valid: he was versed in making all women feel exceptional. “This society has inspired me to continue with ceramics, even though my parents don’t approve.”
“I’m glad to hear it, I—”
“Glennard dropped the Spectator and sat looking into the fire.” The reading began. I was thankful for the interruption. “The club was filling up, but he still had to himself the small inner room, with its darkening outlook down the rain-streaked prospect of Fifth Avenue.” She read with feeling. The scene reflected not only in her words but also in her face. “It was all dull and dismal enough, yet a moment earlier his boredom had been perversely tinged by a sense of resentment at the thought that, as things were going, he might in time have to surrender even the despised privilege of boring himself within those particular four walls.” She looked across all of us, and then her lips turned up. “And that is all I have, I’m afraid.” Everyone remained silent for a moment longer before the first bold soul offered an opinion. Soon the rest of her audience surged forward, and the sound of comments and praise were lost to the hum of the room. I remained standing where I was, reveling in the scene she’d created, wishing she’d written more. Her prose was so lovely and immersive, I’d felt as though I’d been in the room with Glennard.
After her audience had gone on to the next reading or painting, I made my way toward her. I tried to think of something critical to say, but was unable come up with anything. I wasn’t going to be at all helpful in my critique. At first listen, it was perfect. I thought of my muddled manuscript in Mr. Hopper’s drawer and cringed at the dissonance between the seamless brilliance of what she’d just read and my words.
“It’s an exquisite start,” I said loudly, my voice projecting over the small orchestra that had once again started playing. I felt like a fraud. What did I know of novel writing? I’d only just written one terrible draft myself. Bent over her friend Mr. Daniels’s shoulder, squinting at his notepad, she jolted up, and plastered a hand to her heart.
“Good Lord, you startled me.” She laughed and turned back to Mr. Daniels. “I like it. I really do,” I heard her say to him, “but I can already tell where it’s going. Sophie is going to choose Joseph over Harold, am I right?” He nodded and frowned at the page. “My advice? Even them out a little. Don’t make Joseph such a catch and Harold such a dolt and it’ll be wonderful,” she continued. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” Turning, she grinned at me and nodded to a space near the doorway.
“Thank you for your sincerity, Mrs. Wharton,” Mr. Daniels called out behind us and she nodded at him as we walked away. Edith, I remembered suddenly. That was her name.
“All right. Be honest,” she said when we stopped. “I’m eager to hear the opinion of another female writer. The general consensus seemed to be that it was satisfactory, but I’m not so sure. Is it compelling enough?”
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help,” I started. “I don’t have much to say other than I wanted to read more. I was there. I was in that room with Glennard.”
“Oh wonderful! That’s exactly what I was after. Thank you.” Mrs. Wharton clapped her hands. She bundled her stack of papers under her arm and began to walk toward the door, but I stopped her.
“Are you sure you don’t live in town?” I asked stupidly. She cocked her head at me, no doubt wondering what I was after by asking. “It’s just . . . I wish you did. I’d love to read more of your story and hear your thoughts on mine. There aren’t many of us and it was so nice to run into you.” I was babbling, but meant what I said. It had been evident by the crowd gathered around her and in the words of the young girl I’d stood beside that her poetry had already made its mark. I’d never been in the company of such a promising female writer, and found myself inspired. I knew the world would someday know her name. When it did, I wanted to be there alongside.
“Oh.” She laughed under her breath. “Believe me, I wish I did, too. I lived here before I got married and used to treasure these meetings. Being around this many artists is good for the soul.” Gripping my hand, she smiled and let go, walking into the foyer. “It was lovely to meet you. Thank you again, Miss Loftin.”
I turned and shuffled back into the drawing room yawning. Squinting, I spotted Mr. Hopper leaning against one of the bookshelves, book between his fingers. He caught sight of me and beckoned me over.
“Do they ever get tired and go home?” I asked loudly, attempting to speak over the instrumentalists now playing what sounded like Bach.
“Eventually,” Mr. Hopper said, grinning into the room.
“I just met the most talented writer, Mrs. Edith Wharton,” I said. “Do you know her?”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Hopper said, shrugging. “I don’t recognize the name, but might know her face. Did you have an enjoyable talk with Tom?” I didn’t say anything, so Mr. Hopper turned to look at me, grimacing at my pursed lips and tapered eyes. “Sorry.” Chuckling under his breath, he shrugged.
“That’s all right. I’m just being dramatic. It wasn’t bad, really,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re going to exchange work and it was nice to talk about publication. I could do without the boasting, though.”
“Perhaps you should work on your own bravado,” Mr. Hopper nudged me. “It’s quite irritating, I’ll admit, though I’m glad talking with him was helpful. Come, let’s find Frank. It’s late and he’s probably been looking for you.” The thought of the hour made me fretful. Mother had always been clear that we weren’t to ever be out past eleven, and that was only permitted if we were attending a performance. As glad as she’d been for me to attend the Society with Frank, I doubted she’d dismiss my absence in the wee hours of the morning if she woke to find our beds empty.
We walked past two people gathered under the chandelier. I looked over the shoulder of the taller man to find he’d almost completed a painting of the room. The heavy cloud of smoke had been left out of his depiction and the details of the room—the flames licking the etched fireplaces, the flying angels along the ceiling—were accurate and vivid behind the immaculately garbed crowd and the obvious focus on a lovely brunette woman tucked against the wall across from us. Mr. Hopper leaned into me as we walked past. “He might as well take advantage of the view while he can,” he whispered, nodding toward the woman who was sitting alone, legs pressed against the wall as though she’d like to dissolve into it.
“Who is that?” I asked. She looked familiar, naturally flushed cheeks atop pouty lips. I looked away when she noticed me staring.
“Maude Adams. I’m shocked she’s here.”
“The actress?” I asked, recognizing her easily upon second glance. Her face was often plastered on the front page of the papers. She’d been on the stage since a child, most recently playing Dora Prescott in Men and Women.
“Yes. I haven’t seen her off the stage in some time—I don’t think anyone has.” Mr. Hopper lifted his hand to wave at her, but she blushed and turned to face the wall.
“Really? Why?” The hum of the cello beneath the high staccato notes of the violin grew louder as we neared and Franklin materialized beside me.
“Where’ve you been? I’ve circled the room at least five times looking for you.” Frank grinned at Mr. Hopper and I yawned.
“Talking to Mr. Hopper in the study and then Mr. Blaine and another author for a bit,” I said, when my jaw finally settled back into place. Franklin’s nose scrunched.
“I’d avoid going in there if I were you. Someone passed on in that room a few months back,” he whispered to me, eyeing Mr. Hopper out of the corner of his eye.
“I’m well aware. It was a dear friend of Mr. Hopper’s and Lydia’s,” I said.
Mr. Hopper crossed the room, toward Maude Adams, leaving Franklin and me to watch Lydia as she played. Her eyes were closed, brows lifting and dipping with the inflection of the notes, fingers flying along the fingerboard.
“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” I kept my focus on Lydia, but felt Franklin’s eyes on my face. I glanced at him, realizing he was actually looking over my head at Mr. Hopper as he attempted to talk to Miss Adams.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to,” he said. “But she’s . . . unlike any woman I’ve ever met. She is eccentric and fierce, unguarded. I didn’t know quite what our relationship would become.” He looked at me. “You are so devoted to me, to my happiness. I couldn’t introduce the possibility without knowing for sure.”
“Are you in love?”
“Yes,” he said simply, and turned his eyes back to Lydia, smiling as he watched her play. “Like you are in love with—” He stopped midsentence and looked at me. “I didn’t think, Gin. I’m sorry,” he said quickly. I reached to squeeze his hand, realizing that this time my heart hadn’t plunged to my stomach.
“It’s all right,” I said, but he shook his head, draped his arm across my shoulders and took my other hand. He clutched my fingers hard and stared at me.
“You’ll not lose the next one,” he said evenly. “I can’t imagine if I lost . . . it’s only been a short time.”
“I’m all right, Frank,” I protested, attempting to turn away, but his arm constricted around me.
“You’re not, but you will be and you’ll love again.” He cleared his throat and his eyes narrowed, boring into mine. His jaw locked, lips pressed together in determination. “But I swear it, Gin, you’ll not lose another on account of money. I will not let that happen.”