As it turned out, Franklin was right. I was surprised by Mr. Hopper, but by his persistence more than anything else. The day after I received his letter, an enormous bouquet of white calla lilies landed on our front porch. I’d thought they were Mae’s. Mae and Mr. Trent had gotten engaged—as I’d predicted—the day before. It had been a joyful day, but the moment I heard the news, Mr. Smith’s cold eyes and counterfeit smile flashed in my memory. The only way I’d gotten over the possibility of my sister being regarded with such callousness was to realize that it wasn’t an option. Mae wasn’t an artist and she’d always wanted a family. There was nothing to stop her from giving herself wholeheartedly to the man that loved her save her teaching, and education was a perfectly suitable profession.
My mind was focused on Mr. Trent’s ardent love for Mae, when Mae handed the calla lilies back to me. They were from Mr. Hopper. Then roses the next day. And they kept coming. He’d sent me a different bouquet of flowers every day with a letter begging my attendance at La bohème. Flattered as I was by the attention, as much as it suggested that Frank was right about his reputation—he couldn’t possibly find the time to woo multiple women this way—I wasn’t entirely convinced. Even though Franklin had done his best to assure me that overstated gestures were simply what Mr. Hopper did and that the flowers didn’t necessarily mean anything, I still felt uneasy. What was I to him? Was I simply the most interesting prospect at the moment, or was he trying to court me? Neither possibility alleviated my confusion.
Yet somehow, despite my perplexed feelings, here I was, standing in the hazy drawing room after attending La bohème, watching Alevia—who Franklin had fooled into coming to the Society this time—walk toward the piano, arm crooked in Frank’s. It had been a cruel trick. Alevia had thought she was going to have a quiet evening at the Blaines’ talking music with Lydia while Franklin played cards with Mr. Blaine. The moment they arrived, Alevia found me in the foyer, pressing herself against me when we’d walked into the drawing room, hand clutching mine. It was something she always did in large crowds, an attempt to disappear, and the avant-garde mix of men and women was a scene that took getting used to.
Alevia sat down at the bench. Her shoulders relaxed as her hands found the keys. She looked like a painting, her silhouette poised in front of the long frosted windows displaying the starting flakes of a late-night snow. She was always comfortable behind the piano. A handsome man stepped from his easel displaying a photograph of the ocean and a craggy northern shore to stare at her, ignoring three women appraising his work. Lydia emerged from a group of string players and laid a hand on Alevia’s shoulder. Alevia smiled up at her and Lydia lifted a hand to me.
As worry for my sister subsided, my head began to spin with thoughts I couldn’t pin down. Mr. Hopper hadn’t attempted to touch me beyond kissing my hand in greeting, or acted any differently than normal at the opera, but I’d felt his attention as alive as an electrical current. The knowledge of his attraction struck through me, and I looked around for him—for the eyes that had lighted when he saw me, for the wool tailcoat fitted to his broad shoulders. I found him walking under the chandelier, head bowed to a woman who looped her gloved hand through his arm. I felt nauseous. I should’ve known better than to believe Franklin’s assurances about Mr. Hopper. He had baited me with his charm, he’d gotten me to concede my reservations, and in less than two hours, he’d transferred his infatuation with me to another. I felt idiotic and homesick for Charlie, for the ease of his friendship. For eighteen years, it had always been he and I, no one else. I’d never questioned our connection . . . until he blindsided me with his proposal to Miss Kent. I swore under my breath and pushed him out of my mind. I’d resolved not to think of him and I wouldn’t.
I turned around, thinking I would assemble a few people to hear my story for The Century. As nervous as I was to read aloud, Mr. Hopper’s critique had proven immensely helpful in improving my novel, and I was confident I’d glean something of worth from the comments I’d receive from a reading. I hadn’t seen Mr. Blaine and wasn’t going to miss the deadline for the next edition on account of his absence. Skirting around a crowd gathered to watch a play, I stared as the two characters dove at each other pretending to brawl. Someone pushed into me and I turned to find Mr. Blaine.
“Good evening, Miss Loftin,” he said cheerily, and glanced over my head toward the gold curtains along the front windows. It was much more crowded than the past two Society meetings I’d attended, occupied mostly by musicians who’d come to practice for auditions the following week. I stared as a woman wearing striped trousers, the legs of them matching the style of her gigot sleeves, charged past me. It wasn’t that trousers were entirely uncommon—women wore bloomers for riding wheels and actresses had begun to wear them on the stage—but I’d never seen them worn so confidently in a formal evening setting.
Ripping my eyes away from the woman, I found Franklin on the other side of the room, black suit blending into the corner. His head dipped as he alternated between glancing at the easel in front of him and his subjects—Lydia and Alevia next to the piano. I watched what I could see of his face in the dark—the gleam of his eyes and the grip of his teeth on his lip as he concentrated on the brushstrokes. Startled by the sensation of eyes burning my face, I realized I had completely forgotten about Mr. Blaine.
“I apologize,” I said. “Where’s Bess?” Mr. Blaine shrugged and his smile widened. He lifted a glass to his lips, taking a long drink of what looked to be scotch or bourbon.
“B-being stubborn,” he stuttered. Blinking slowly as though he had suddenly lost his train of thought, he stumbled forward, nearly knocking into a girl in front of him. I grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Are you all right?”
He laughed.
“Yes. Of course,” he said, taking another sip as I stared at him. I’d heard that drunkards were irresponsible, sloppy, and at times violent, nothing I wanted for a beau of Bess’s. “I just meant that uh, that Franklin didn’t want Bessie here—or so she thought—so she refused to come with me. It’s all for the best though. I needed to get some . . . some writing in anyway and read your story, if you remembered to bring it.” He shivered, rubbing his arms. “I’m freezing.” I wondered how he could possibly be cold; in close proximity to two roaring fireplaces and over one hundred bodies pumping heat into the room, I was sweating myself.
“I remembered,” I said, choosing to ignore his strange revelation. “In fact, I was on my way to read a bit of it when I ran into you.” I turned to the cluster of players tuning at the front of the room. Though I knew I needed to read my work to perfect it, nerves still twisted in my gut at the thought. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a look before I read it?” I ran my fingers over my waist, decorated in gold Indian embroidery adorned with beetle wing cases—a gift from Franklin—and scanned the guests in front of me. Most were well into their work by now, noses in notebooks or sketch pads.
“Of course,” Mr. Blaine said. I caught something moving out of the corner of my eye and glanced toward it. It was just a man sitting by the fireplace writing, but his hand shook wildly, pencil moving so quickly I had no idea how in the world his brain could keep up.
“Do you know him?”
Mr. Blaine was still shivering.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” My worry for Bess’s future had transformed to concern for Mr. Blaine. He seemed terribly ill.
“Yes, quite,” he said. “Who?” He asked, referring to my earlier question. I tipped my head toward the man who stopped writing momentarily to dig in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a new pencil and a small brown bottle emblazoned with a Celtic circle knot that he shoved back into his jacket as quickly. Mr. Blaine’s eyes narrowed. “Oh. Yes. That’s Marcus Carter. We grew up together. His brother Will’s the one who passed away in the study. He and Lydia used to be engaged until . . . until they weren’t anymore.” Mr. Blaine’s words were beginning to slur together. I recalled Uncle Richard’s impromptu eulogy following Father’s funeral and recognized the similar smearing of consonants. Mr. Blaine was clearly intoxicated, but I ignored my worry for Bess at the moment, stunned by what he’d said. I stared at the man crouched over his notebook, arm flying again, wondering whether Franklin knew and why Lydia hadn’t married him. I recalled her speaking of a former beau the day Frank bought the Benz. Was this the same man? I would have to ask her about him later.
“What happened?” I asked, but the musicians started to play and my question was lost. The tune was hauntingly beautiful and I watched Alevia’s eyes close, fingers resting on one chord after another. Suddenly, the bass and cello struck two sullen notes and her eyes opened at once, hands sprinting the keys to the tune of a powerful war march. I glanced in the direction of the man who had noticed Alevia earlier to find him intermittently conversing with an older gentleman in front of him and gazing at her.
“Tchaikovsky’s 1812,” Mr. Blaine said. He tipped his glass to his mouth and swallowed what remained. I thought to ask him how many drinks he’d had, to remind him that gentlemen were never to imbibe more than two in public, but decided against it. He’d been groomed in manners. He knew the rules. “That’ll be the first Philharmonic performance next season.” As the music began to crescendo, the bows moved violently with the demand of the eighteenth notes. Lydia was at the back of the string group, a half beat behind, completely out of sync with the others, though her eyes were trained on her music as though nothing was amiss. I looked over at Franklin, thinking that he would notice, but found him glaring down at his canvas.
“Is Lydia all right?” I whispered to Mr. Blaine.
“Yes. She finds that run challenging. It’s a gift, you know, to master a craft so easily that you don’t often have to rehearse it.” He cleared his throat. “I attempt to steer away from conversation about my writing with Lydia. My first drafts are typically quite close to perfect, and she has to work so hard at her music. I feel bad for her.” I grimaced at his pompousness, and looked around for Mr. Hopper, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’d decided to entertain that woman elsewhere. “I have told her often that my secret is to outline first, to know where your mind should be so that—”
“Let’s exchange stories now,” I said, before he could enlighten me further. “Do you want to or not?” I asked. His face paled and he rocked into me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t feel well.” He swallowed and straightened his posture, the color returning to his cheeks.
“Perhaps you should consult with Doctor Hopper,” I snapped. His affliction was clearly self-imposed.
“No need. I was just a bit dizzy.” He grinned. “I have been quite busy with a new novel idea and haven’t written my story yet, but I would be happy to read yours. I decided on the Ben Franklin piece, in case you were interested. I’ll bring it next time.” Slightly irritated that he hadn’t upheld his end of the bargain, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my story anyway. I knew it was good; I felt pride whenever I thought of it and couldn’t wait to see Mr. Blaine’s reaction.
He sunk onto a tufted ottoman and began to read. I forced my eyes to the front of the room instead of trying to decipher his facial expressions, knowing that if he so much as furrowed his eyebrows I would worry.
Alevia was still playing, though the other musicians seemed to have taken a break. A cluster of men and women were gathered around the piano watching her, until she transitioned into the flowing introduction to Charles Everest’s “Beautiful Moon.” Alevia wasn’t overly fond of contemporary pieces, generally preferring the classical greats, but I knew that she enjoyed this song. A powerful alto voice suddenly soared from the crowd around Alevia, “Beautiful moon, thou queen of night, beaming with thy placid light.” My sister grinned as a short, plump woman stepped out of the group to stand beside her, her voice so hypnotizing that the room seemed to silence.
“Miss Loftin.” Mr. Blaine pulled on the sleeve of my dress. I ignored him, mesmerized by the woman and Alevia. “Miss Loftin,” he said again, this time yanking my chiffon sleeve so hard I fell onto the ottoman and half on his lap. Scooting away, I pulled my eyes from the piano.
“What is it?” I asked, wishing he’d waited for the song to end.
“I’ve finished reading.” He shrugged and tossed a bit of hair out of his face.
“Oh. Good,” I said, wondering if I would gain any insight at all from a man who’d consumed much more alcohol than he could handle. “Go on.”
“You write spectacularly,” he started. “Your words are vivid; your sentences are beautiful.” He paused and pressed his lips together, drawing them into his mouth and then out again. “However, I’m concerned about the subject matter. Honestly, I find it a bit shallow.” He laughed under his breath. I felt my forehead scrunch, but forced my expression blank. I’d asked for his opinion. I couldn’t show him that he’d already offended me. Great writing required honest criticism and I needed to embrace it. My acceptance of Mr. Hopper’s comments had already made my manuscript stronger. “Emilie Todd Helm, Miss Loftin? She’s barely a blip in history. It’s not as if she fought in the war herself, so her story really had no impact on the American public, beyond making our kind angry. I’d advise against your reading this story here. It’s—”
“Our kind? What does that mean?” The questions came out too quickly, too defensively, and Mr. Blaine’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, our kind. The Yankees. The victors.” Alevia’s hands lifted from the keys and Mr. Blaine’s last word rang over the quiet that had befallen the room. “Listen, Miss Loftin, I’m not telling you that your writing is bad. It’s truly lovely and you can submit what you want.” He sighed and shook his head. “All I’m saying is that I don’t think a story about an unimportant traitor will be seen in a very sympathetic light by a New York that still very much remembers the war. Hell, The Century’s editor, Richard Gilder, fought the blasted Confederates.” I took a deep breath and let the tension drop from my shoulders. He wasn’t being unnecessarily brutal or trying to offend me by disliking my idea. I’d overlooked the editorial prejudices of the magazine. That was my fault.
“I suppose you have a point,” I muttered. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said softly, patting my hand. “But I didn’t want you to get turned down on account of the subject matter. It’s already difficult for women to break through, and you’re much too talented. Do you have any other ideas?”
“Too many. I had a page of them, and then I thought of the story on Emilie. Most of the other topics were also historic women—Anne Bradstreet, Mary Musgrove, Sacagawea, Alexandrine Tinné, Isabella Bird. I suppose I could write about famous women explorers and their lack of recognition in history. Ouch!” Someone slammed into my leg as they shoved through the hordes of people gathered around us. I looked up in time to see the glint of narrowed green eyes beneath cropped curls. Charlie? I blinked a few times, certain I was seeing things. Craning my neck over a group of violinists behind me, I could barely see the man anymore, but watched the motion of his shoulders, familiar and broad, as he pushed through the crowd. “Mr. Blaine, excuse me. I’ll be back.” On my feet in an instant, I went after him. I knew that I shouldn’t. I’d never pursued him before, purposefully leaving our fate in his hands, but he was here.
“Charlie!” He was only a few feet in front of me. Lunging toward him, I snatched his wrist, half praying I had it wrong, half praying it was him. “Charlie!” He stopped under the arched doorway leading into the drawing room. Fingers drawn into fists, he didn’t try to sling my hand away, but paused for a moment, then turned to face me.
“There you are, Gin.” His voice was low and breathy. He looked almost as miserable as when we’d stood in Mother’s room—eyes watery with emotion and fatigue, bags hanging loose and dark at the base of them. I wouldn’t feel sorry for him.
“What are you doing here?” I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his hands on my back as he’d held me, hearing the desperation in his voice when he’d told me he loved me. He gently pulled his wrist from my grip and stared over my head at the chandelier.
“I’m . . . I’m having trouble. The Times wants my drawings and Valentine and Sons has asked me to try my hand at etching for their penny cards—”
“What could possibly be the trouble with that? Charlie, that’s wonderful!” Illustrating the news and creating card company prints wasn’t the same as collaborating with a writer as he’d always dreamed, but it was a step toward it.
“I can’t. I can’t concentrate . . .” he stuttered. His jaw clenched and he took a ragged breath. “I went by your house. Your mother said I would find you here.” After everything, I was surprised Mother had told him where I was. No one save Franklin had mentioned Charlie or Mrs. Aldridge since his engagement unless I’d brought one of them up. It was as if the moment he’d broken my heart, the Aldridges ceased to exist to my family. “I must go. I’ll miss my train.” He’d been on his way out—in a hurry—when I’d caught up to him. He’d come looking for me, but changed his mind.
Charlie stared down at me. His mouth opened as if he was about to say something else, but didn’t. Instead he twisted the wedding band on his left hand and closed his eyes, likely trying to contain emotion he didn’t want to show. Before I could stop myself, my hand lifted to his cheek, palm flat against the spiky stubble. Instantly angry with myself, I pulled my hand away, forcing my arms to my sides.
“Charlie, I’m—”
“I-I can’t,” he whispered to himself. Charlie’s eyes flashed with something I couldn’t place and he stepped away from me. Turning to walk into the elaborate foyer adorned with a cornice of spiral rose vines and a twin chandelier dripping with crystals, he strode toward the door without a glance back.
“Wait!” I ran onto the porch, following him, but he was already halfway down the block. Pitching my satin skirt to my ankles, I flew into the darkness of the vacant street, hearing the heavy glass door click into the gilded iron frame behind me. “Charlie!” He kept walking without looking back, a figure vanishing then reappearing in the flickering glow of the Fifth Avenue streetlamps. “Charlie, stop!” My voice echoed against the brick and limestone. Finally stopping, he turned around, but didn’t look at me, staring down at the toe of his Balmoral boots instead. I wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d come back to me—I’d learned that lesson last time—but I deserved to know why he’d sought me out, why he’d come all the way in from the country to find me.
“Where are you going?” I said when I reached him. I forced a smile to break the tension, but he didn’t return it.
“I can’t . . . shouldn’t be here, Gin.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Surely you haven’t been exiled from Manhattan.” I laughed.
“Nothing. Nothing makes sense anymore,” he said softly, ignoring my teasing. Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets, scuffing his boots along the road. I sobered.
“Look at me.” He complied, eyes still watery with whatever had driven him to find me in the first place. “Has something happened?”
“No!” he barked. I flinched at his tone, and stepped away from him, but he grabbed my hand.
“If nothing’s happened, then why were you looking for me? Why did you come here?” I yanked my hand from his grasp and his eyes tapered.
“I don’t know!” he yelled. Charlie drew a deep breath. “I won’t argue with you, Gin. Not tonight.” He stared up at the cloud-streaked moon and then back down at me. The streetlamps’ flame cast shadows on his face. “Nothing at all has happened, but I just thought if I could see you, Ginny, if I could talk to you, I could find clarity, everything would be all right.” He leaned into me, eyes holding mine as if he were about to tell me he couldn’t live another day without me, but I knew better. I’d been here before. I didn’t owe him anything, and yet, it was as if I had no other option. His thumb drifted across the back of my hand and my fury crumbled.
“I’m here.” My free hand found his jacket and his palm closed over it. Shutting his eyes, he wrapped his arms around me. I could feel his breath against my ear, and let my head drop to his chest. He sighed and pulled away from me, but just barely.
“I know I’m not making any sense, but nothing about my life makes sense anymore. I can’t draw. She consumes me. She’s stolen every thought, every moment.” My fingers went slack in his clutch, the elation of seeing him quickly deadening. His grip tightened around my hand. “Ginny, I’m worthless . . . so worthless. I . . . I miss you.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. He had just told me that he loved someone else. He couldn’t possibly miss me. “You’re worth at least three thousand.” Charlie’s eyes widened and he dropped my hand. “Surely you’re happy. Surely the money made up for your loving me.” He grit his teeth and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black wool overcoat.
“It’s getting late. I need to go. My wife will be worried.” His voice was emotionless and dry and he started to walk away. “I never should have come. This was a mistake.” I opened my mouth to say something sharp, but nothing came, so I stood in the shadow of a turret, watching him go until he finally disappeared into the night.
Back inside, I began to wander aimlessly through the room, past clusters of guests laughing and appraising art, while the writers next to them kept their heads down scribbling and solitary artists mixed paints or brushed careful strokes on their canvases.
“Miss Loftin. You’ll do.” Recognizing the thin man with the curling mustache as Mrs. Wharton’s friend Mr. Daniels, he motioned for me to follow him toward a group of people clearly in the middle of a heated discussion. “Oscar is trying his hand at writing a play and there’s some conflict about the main character. His reading spurred quite a disagreement. We need one more person’s opinion to break the tie on the matter,” he explained as we neared. Having no idea who Oscar was, but figuring I’d met him at some point in Lydia’s series of hurried introductions the first time, I nodded.
“All right. Should I know anything about the play before—”
“Thank you for so kindly settling this dispute. I’m Oscar Wilde, and you are?” A man with a long face tipped his head at me and I stared, stunned that I was standing before the famed Oscar Wilde. His lips turned up and he straightened under a peculiar red velvet cape tied around his neck with a silk ivory bow.
“Mr. Wilde,” I said when I found my voice, “I’ve just read The Picture of Dorian Gray and—”
“Ask her,” Mr. Daniels said, nudging Mr. Wilde and interrupting me. I hadn’t even introduced myself. The two women beside him, clearly sisters judging by their identical swarms of black hair and cat-like eyes, looked angry—arms crossed, mouths pressed into twin scowls. Mr. Wilde cleared his throat and pushed a lock of wavy shoulder-length hair behind his ear.
“My main character conceals an indiscretion from his wife, a business dealing made when he was young. It happened many years prior to their marriage and he is ashamed of it, but his fortune was made as a result,” he said, his Irish lilt rising and falling with the words. He flipped his wrist. “As with most dishonorable transactions, it surfaces years later and he’s forced to tell his wife. She’s angry. Should she forgive him?” His eyebrows rose with his question and the women stared at me, waiting for my reaction. Stunned that Oscar Wilde was asking my opinion, still reeling from seeing Charlie, I shook my head.
“I don’t know. You’re correct that he’s at fault,” I said. The women started to nod, thinking they’d won, but I wasn’t finished. “But I think it would depend on her love for him and if her love could triumph her anger.”
“Hear, hear!” Mr. Daniels shouted.
“Thank you for convincing me that I’m not crazy after all,” Mr. Wilde said. He took my hand, turned it over, pushed Mother’s gold linked bracelet to the top of my wrist, and kissed my palm. It was a strange gesture, but he was famously unconventional. “That is exactly what she does eventually. She forgives him.”
“I’m glad for it,” I said, avoiding the glare of the others. “It was lovely to meet you. If you’ll excuse me.” I circled toward the windows, toward Franklin and the musicians who’d begun to play again, this time Vivaldi’s Winter. I looked back once, astonished that I’d just met Oscar Wilde. Thinking on his question made me wonder about Rachel, how she would react if she knew of Charlie’s motivation for marrying her. I forced the thought from my mind, craning my neck over the crowd in the hopes of spotting Alevia and Franklin.
A glass pressed to the back of my hand. I inhaled the exotic scent of cloves and gardenia in Mr. Hopper’s cologne and surveyed the amber contents in the crystal tumbler.
“I couldn’t. Not in front of all of these people,” I said, gesturing around me. “But thank you. They’ve put on quite a performance tonight.” I wanted to ask where he’d been and if he’d had an enjoyable time entertaining that woman, but I nodded toward the musicians instead.
“Please come with me right now.” I stared at Mr. Hopper, half-expecting him to burst into laughter, but he didn’t. His face was stony, square jaw tipped away from me as though he couldn’t bear to look into my face.
“Why?” I whispered, but he’d already started to walk away. I trailed him from the drawing room down the hallway, mousseline de soie along the hem of my new dress shuffling along the wood floor. The burning sconces along the wall cast flickering light across his back. In the hours since the opera, something had come undone. His black jacket was rumpled, hugging tensed muscles, and his hair stuck out in the back as though he’d been pulling on it. I followed him into the study.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Mr. Hopper’s lips dropped into a scowl. He leaned across his desk and grabbed my notebook, raising it in front of me. I wasn’t near finished, but had given him a few chapters to see what he thought.
“This. This is what’s wrong,” he said, slamming the notebook on the table. I rolled my eyes, unsure what I could’ve written that would’ve upset him so much.
“Why? What’s the trouble?” I sat down in the leather chair, thinking through the early chapters. There was nothing of offense. Unwilling to look at him, I glanced over his head at the absurd portrait of his father. Mr. Hopper didn’t answer, so I sighed, and met his narrowed eyes.
“He will not get away with this.” He started toward me, thought better of it, and crushed his fist to the desktop. He’d lost his mind. I started to stand.
“If my characters have upset you, then by all means, don’t read the book,” I said, anger drumming in my chest. He wasn’t making any sense. “It’s a novel, Mr. Hopper. Please don’t allow a fictional character to get you so out of sorts.” He barked out a laugh.
“Surely you don’t take me for that much of a fool.” Mr. Hopper’s brown eyes, usually so alight with gold, were nearly black. His lips pressed together, gaze steady on mine. “You told me it wasn’t based on your life, but your character, Carlisle, is Charlie Aldridge.” He didn’t stutter or mince words as Charlie had an hour earlier. Mr. Hopper wasn’t asking. He was telling. My breath caught.
“N-no,” I stammered. “That’s ridiculous. He’s a family friend of course, but—”
“If you regard me with any sort of care at all, Miss Loftin, don’t lie to me.” I rose from my chair, and he turned away without apology and crossed the room. I didn’t understand his anger. Even if he knew the truth, why would it affect him? Mr. Hopper opened the doors of the bar and braced himself against the frame. The careless way he’d accused me echoed in my mind. Perhaps he was accustomed to having the last word, but he wouldn’t have it this time.
“I don’t owe you any sort of reassurance, but I will not allow you to call me a liar, Mr. Hopper. It’s fiction,” I said bluntly and he whirled on me.
“Maybe a part of it, but it’s him. I saw you together tonight. Anyone would’ve been able to deduce you were lovers.” I shook my head, blood rising in my cheeks. Charlie was a married man, a man who’d never even kissed me. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mr. Hopper continued. “And the party in the book? I was there. I was at his party, remember?” Even across the room I could see that his knuckles had gone white around the rim of his green crystal lowball glass. “When I picked you up tonight and realized you lived next door to him, I should’ve known.” Was he jealous? Surely not. I’d seen him in the company of another beautiful woman only hours before.
“That’s absurd,” I said, finally composing myself enough to speak without my voice shaking. “I told you. He’s a family friend. The party in the book isn’t remotely similar.” I hoped he could be convinced. I’d changed the location of the party to a random industrialist’s ballroom, afraid that readers would connect the dots. Apparently one had regardless. I cursed under my breath for running after Charlie like a lovesick fool and mentioning that I’d seen Mr. Hopper at Charlie’s party in the first place.
“I don’t believe you,” he said evenly. Turning to the bar, he rummaged through the drawers. I walked across the rug, hearing the clatter of bottles behind me followed by the slap of his palm on the wood when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. I looked back once, in time to see him tip a glass of scotch to his mouth. I was nearly to the door when something shattered behind me and a thud punctuated the aftermath. I whirled around, finding Mr. Hopper’s broad frame crumpled against the cabinet, shattered crystal clutched in his hand.
I ran toward him and lifted his head from his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head, full lips quivering. Fleetingly, I wondered if he was dying and began to shake him.
“Mr. Hopper?” He blinked, and I jerked away from him, startled by the white occupying the expanse of his eye sockets. I rose, stumbling toward the door to fetch Doctor Hopper. I turned back to find him rubbing his eyes—his irises swung back into place. He groaned, a guttural sound that echoed through the room, and then his eyes met mine.
“What happened?” Mr. Hopper’s voice was a hoarse whisper. He didn’t bother to get up, likely because he couldn’t. “I was so angry at him, so angry for you, and then I . . .” He trailed off, and cast his gaze to his lap. He still wasn’t making sense. I knelt down in front of him.
“It seems you fainted,” I said, though I had never seen anyone look as he had. He shook his head as though the prospect was an impossibility. “We should summon your father.”
“There’s no need. I feel fine now.” He ran a hand across his face and straightened against the cabinet, but didn’t attempt to rise. “I’m terribly sorry for my behavior, Miss Loftin.” I tipped my head at him and started to stand, but his fingers swept across my arm, stopping me. “My words were misplaced. I didn’t intend them; anger overtook me. I’ll understand if my behavior has tainted your perception of the man I am. But before you go, I’d like to explain.” Mr. Hopper’s right hand curled into a fist and he dug it into the oriental rug. Whatever the reason for his rage, it hadn’t cooled. “That night at Aldridge’s party I lost Miss Kent, the only woman I’ve ever loved.” I blinked at Mr. Hopper, shocked. His jaw clenched. Mr. Hopper had loved Miss Kent the way I’d loved Charlie. “And then I saw him tonight, stalking around the room like he was looking for someone. Eventually, he found me and asked where you were. I’d been reading your book right before. I remembered the proposal, and it struck me that there were similarities . . .”
He looked at me, and something in his gaze quickened my heart, pumping fury through my veins. Is that why he’d decided to pursue me? Because Miss Kent had broken his heart and he needed a replacement? Her face flashed in my mind—her doll-like eyes and rosebud lips gilding what I recalled as an ordinary personality. I turned away from Mr. Hopper, disgusted. And then I remembered the way I’d felt watching Charlie propose—rejected, small, pathetic. Mr. Hopper had likely experienced the same debilitating heartbreak. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to move on, to forget her. Hadn’t I accepted his invitation to the opera because I wanted the same?
“You were there when Charlie asked Miss Kent to marry him, as Eleanor was present for Carlisle’s proposal. You lived next door to Charlie as Eleanor lives next door to Carlisle,” Mr. Hopper continued. He reached for my hand and I let him take it. “And in your novel, Eleanor trusted that he loved her. She trusted Carlisle her whole life and he broke her heart. The thought that Charlie hurt you, a woman so worthy of admiration and love . . . it made me hate him more than I already did.” I diverted my eyes, blinking back tears. Charlie’s rejection, the disregard he’d shown me tonight, had freshly seared my heart. “So I lied to him, Miss Loftin. I told him that I hadn’t seen you. I couldn’t stand to look at him for a moment longer, so I asked him to leave. It took all of my strength to keep my hands from him, to let him leave unscathed. If I’m right, if he broke your heart—”
“Why? Why didn’t you say anything before?”
Not that I’d confessed either, I thought, but he’d barely reacted when we’d talked about seeing each other at the party. Then again, neither of us had mentioned the proposal and because of that, I’d been able to keep my composure, too.
“I suppose I don’t prefer to suffer pity. I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me,” he said. “I was ignorant to think I could lure Miss Kent with my money.” Mr. Hopper waved a hand at the mahogany walls and the tapestries. “We met at a talk I gave at Columbia right after The Blood Runs from Antietam was published. I saw her in the audience and, as cliché as it sounds, I loved her immediately. She was sitting next to her father sewing a handkerchief. It was clear that she’d only attended to humor him.” Mr. Hopper’s lips quirked up just slightly and he ran a hand across a poppy woven into the rug. “After the talk, her father came over to speak with me. He’d loved the book, and so out of curiosity, I asked Miss Kent if she’d read it.” He laughed under his breath. I fiddled with the lace cuffs around my wrist in an attempt to distract the jealousy I felt at the repeated mention of her name. “She said she pitied me, that anyone with the capacity to write about that level of brutality must be in need of kindness.” Mr. Hopper’s eyes creased. “Miss Kent was always honest. She never loved me, Miss Loftin. At first I thought she was put off by my despicable reputation.” He paused, doubtless trying to decipher whether I knew of it, too. When I didn’t ask, his lips pinched. “It is like a cancer, and entirely untrue, a blemish on my character won by being friendly, I suppose. I’ve no idea of the origin or reason behind the rumor. In any case, she knew I wasn’t the philanderer others assumed, but she still didn’t love me. I knew that and yet I kept making excuses to see her, to hold on. It was pathetic and desperate, embarrassing even. She’s always loved Charlie. She talked about him often, reminding me of her talented illustrator cousin in case any writers I knew ever needed an artist. He never seemed to give her the time of day though until—”
“Until he needed her money,” I interrupted, and Mr. Hopper gawked at me.
“What?” His forehead crinkled.
“Of course you were right. The story—it’s about us, about Charlie and me. I loved him, but tonight—” I stopped midsentence, unable to talk about the disgust on his face when I’d mentioned his love for me. “But that night at his party,” I started again, “he chose Miss Kent and her money over me because he thought he needed it.” Mr. Hopper shook his head and his thumb drifted over the back of mine. Despite my heartbreak, my stomach fluttered at his touch. He wasn’t the man I’d thought him to be. His interest was genuine and he cared for me enough to feel protective.
“It’s a beautiful story, Miss Loftin,” he said softly, “beyond the fact that the truth of it has destroyed both of us.” His sleeve brushed against my arm as he moved closer to me.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and saw Charlie’s face in the dim of Mother’s room. I heard his voice as clearly as if he were standing in front of me, “Ginny, I love you” and then felt his mouth on mine. His lips were soft, but his stubble was rough against my skin. He tasted like vanilla and oak as his tongue tangled with mine. I pulled away, opened my eyes, and gasped.
“I have already lost her to him. I will not lose you,” Mr. Hopper whispered against my mouth and I felt the color drain from my face.