City of Ash (11 page)

Her kindness, the sentiment, the hope she raised … I remembered Nathan’s words from the other night.
Remember who you are, Geneva
. Though he had not meant it the same way. I said simply, “I wish I could.”

“You will consider the salon, then?” Mr. Reading asked.

“Assuming I did start it, Mr. Reading, who would even attend?”

Mr. Reading said, “We would. And I am quite certain there are others who would welcome the opportunity.”

“Welcome what opportunity, my dear?” Nathan was suddenly at my shoulder. He said hello to the Readings, then leaned close to say, “They’re calling us to dinner. This way.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” I said to Mr. and Mrs. Reading before Nathan led me away, and it was the most sincere thing I’d said in weeks. The few moments I’d spent in their company had been like breathing again. As we went to the dining room, Nathan said, “Ginny, there are twenty people here at least it would be better for you to meet. Trust you to land in a conversation with James Reading.”

I glanced at him. “He isn’t … inappropriate?”

“Inappropriate? No. But he is unconventional. People were watching. It can’t have done you good.”

“Do you know he’s paid a troupe to rehearse a play with him? He’s always wanted to be an actor.”

“He’s a laughingstock, is what he is,” Nathan said shortly. “The perfect example of what happens to a fool and his money.”

“Perhaps.” I could not help sounding wistful. “But it’s a clever idea. I don’t know why I never thought to do it myself when I was in Chicago.”

He gave me a look that made me wish I’d said nothing. In fact, I wished James Reading had never told me of it. Because all I heard the rest of the night was his laughter, and the things he’d said danced in my head, and I knew I was not done with them, and was afraid of myself, of the things I wanted, of everything I could no longer have.

T
he next morning, Nathan seemed strangely thoughtful. We sat silently at breakfast, but his gaze rested on me now and again as if something troubled him, and finally I put down my coffee and said, “Was it so bad last night, do you think? I … I didn’t realize the Readings were … well, I didn’t realize. It’s a pity, you know. They’re the first people I’ve met here that I actually enjoy.”

“I had a visit from a playwright yesterday afternoon,” Nathan said abruptly.

I blinked in confusion. “A … what?”

“A playwright. I had not wanted to mention it last night, what with the ball, and the governor, but yes, a playwright came to my office. DeWitt, I think his name was. Yes, that was it. Sebastian DeWitt. Have you heard of him?”

“Sebastian DeWitt? No, I don’t think so. Why ever did a playwright come to see you?”

“Because I’ve invested in the Regal Theater.”

I stared at him in surprise. “You invested in a theater?”

“I was looking for opportunities, and the Regal was suggested to me. It’s a popular theater and a good return for my money.”

“And that’s all you care about, the money,” I said bitterly.

He gave me an impatient look. “Your father doesn’t buy art just because he likes it, Ginny. It’s also a good investment.”

“He’s not quite so mercenary as that. And unlike you, he doesn’t care what people think.”

“Don’t deceive yourself. And people understand a good investment, art or no.” He sighed. “In any case, I thought you’d be pleased. It
is
art, of a sort.”

“I thought you cared nothing for art anymore.”

“It’s not that I care nothing for it so much as I care nothing for how foolish you make yourself over it.”

“You once thought my enthusiasm fascinating.”

“I once thought toy soldiers so as well. But eventually one must put aside childish things.”

I was wounded. But I reminded myself of my purpose, my vows, and I managed to keep my voice even as I said, “Why are you telling me all this, Nathan? What has your theater to do with me?”

“The playwright,” he said. “I mentioned him for a reason. He came to me with a play he wanted me to buy. Apparently the manager at the Regal is interested but has no ready cash.”

“And you do.”

Nathan nodded. “DeWitt did his research, I’ll give him that. Few enough people know of my involvement there.”

Carefully, because I wasn’t certain what Nathan wanted from me, I said, “A play. How interesting.”

“Yes. Interesting.” My husband’s tone was dry. “And if it proves to make money, it would be more interesting still. I thought perhaps you would take a look at it. You have an incomparable eye for this sort of thing, and I’m too busy just now to read it. I need you to advise me whether my money would be well spent.”

I felt a surge of excitement. Still, I was cautious. “Why, yes, of course. You know I’d be more than happy to read it.”

“It could be drivel,” Nathan warned.

“Even so. It’s something better than sitting here staring out the windows all day.”

A quick glance, though he made no comment. “I’ve invited him to dinner here tonight to discuss it.”

A playwright. To dinner. “Tonight? Oh … then … well, I’ve so much to do—”

“Try to contain yourself, Ginny,” Nathan said. “Remember what I need from you. This isn’t an invitation to return to your Chicago ways. I thought you would enjoy this, and I value your opinion when it comes to art. I’m trusting you won’t embarrass me. He’s poor as a church mouse, and he could use a good tailor. Just your kind, so don’t think I haven’t considered whether it would be wise for you to meet him at all.”

He’d worded it just precisely enough that I was ashamed. “Nathan, please. Have I not been on my best behavior these last months? Have I done anything the least bit untoward? Deliberately, I mean.”

Nathan hesitated. “Perhaps this is a mistake.”

“How could it be? It’s only dinner, isn’t it? You’ll be there, and I’ll meet him and read his play and tell you what I think. No one can complain of it.”

He considered me, and finally he nodded and put aside the newspaper. “Very well. I’ll be home at my usual time. I’ve told him to come at seven.” He rose, tossing his napkin to his chair. “Don’t make a pet of him, Ginny.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

Once Nathan left for the office, I was in a flurry of anticipation. I told myself that any playwright of worth wouldn’t be in Seattle. I told myself I would be lucky if he had a shred of talent. This could simply be a waste of time, one more pedestrian poet angling for a patron. I had known some like that in Chicago. Poor intellects, worse conversationalists. Only opportunists. Why should I think this Sebastian DeWitt would be anything different?

Still, I called in the cook and changed the menu for the evening. Still, I spent some time considering what would be the best gown to wear. This was no member of Seattle society; there was no need for the more sedate fashions they required. And so I chose one of my favorites, an off-the-shoulder gown in burgundy silk, with a low décolletage, heavy with gold and black embroidery. I wore rubies like plump tears and was satisfied with how their color set off my pale skin and dark eyes. If nothing else, I would measure this man by his reaction to my appearance. I smiled a little as I remembered all the little gallantries, men stumbling over themselves vying for my favor. Was it so bad to admit how much I missed the attention?

I was ready far too early, and all the rest was impatience. I paced, I tried to read, I watched the clock and its slow count of the seconds. I checked the table settings; I went into the kitchen to be certain the cook was not spoiling the beef bourguignon and that the Nesselrode pudding was chilling. I checked the decanters in the parlor—all full: sherry, port, bourbon, and scotch. A bottle of absinthe, for which I had the maid bring ice water and sugar.

I expected Nathan by six; by six-thirty, he still had not returned home. I stared out the window over the haphazard lay
of the city as the sun set, the Olympic mountains on the other side of the Sound fading into deep blue shadows against pink and gold and then disappearing altogether into the empty darkness beyond the haze of the streetlamps. I wondered if he’d forgotten. I wondered if perhaps the dinner had been canceled and he’d neglected to tell me. Six-forty-five, and twilight, and still no Nathan. Then, promptly at seven, there was a knock on the door. Sebastian DeWitt. I felt a little stab of excitement, and worry too, because I could not imagine Nathan meant for me to receive him alone.

But I’d received far more important men alone, and there was the maid, and … I hated that I must think of this. For God’s sake, I intended nothing untoward; what did it matter?

Still, as I heard Bonnie go to the door, murmured talk, I crossed my arms and stared out the window, willing Nathan’s carriage—this was unlike him, to be so late. An hour past his usual time. Undoubtedly something had happened to keep him.

I heard the footsteps down the hall, the pause at the parlor.

Bonnie said, “Mr. DeWitt, ma’am.”

I turned from the window, and when I saw the man standing behind her, I forgot Nathan and everything else.

Sebastian DeWitt was a lean, clean-shaven man with longish dark hair and pale eyes. He was attractive in an underfed way, but more important, he had that muse-driven confidence I recognized. I’d seen it enough in those who’d come to my salon, and his frock coat, which was not in fashion and very worn, only emphasized it. He reminded me immediately of Claude; he had that air about him, whether studied or not, that said art was the only thing that mattered. I was fascinated by him already.

I smiled and held out my hands. “Mr. DeWitt! You are very welcome.”

He came forward, taking one of my hands. His fingers were marked with faded ink stains, as if he’d tried vainly to wash them away. He had a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, as worn as his coat. But his thick hair was neatly combed and shining, and his smile was compelling and confident. “Mrs. Langley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Unfortunately, my husband’s been delayed,” I said. “But I
expect him shortly. We shall just have to carry on without him for a time. Would you care for a drink before dinner? I’ve sherry, or something stronger. There’s absinthe, if you like.”

“No absinthe,” he said. His voice was smooth, an actor’s voice, perfectly pitched. “But I will have some bourbon, if you have it.”

I motioned for him to sit as I poured the bourbon. It seemed forever since I’d entertained someone like him, and the fact that I liked his look, that he reminded me so sharply of Claude—oh, not his features so much, though there was that same aesthetic about him, but his air, his manner.… I bit my lip, trying to harness my thoughts, my reaction.

I turned back to him. His fingers were warm against mine when he took the glass, and he gulped a little hastily, as if he too were nervous, which reassured me. There was a great deal at stake for him, I remembered, and I sat down beside him on the settee and adopted the air of the accomplished hostess I was and said, “My husband tells me you’ve written a play.”

“Yes.” His fingers rested lightly on the satchel.

“What is it about?”

“Revenge. Hauntings. Ghosts and a villain. A heroine attempting valiantly to save her sister and her honor.”

“Revenge? How exciting. I’ve always loved revenge tales.
Macbeth
is one of my favorites.”

“You have a bloody sensibility, then?” he asked.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Mr. DeWitt?” I asked, leaning closer.

He smiled a little warily. “Only if you can afford to have it told.”

“You’re a poor keeper of secrets?”

“I’m a writer, ma’am,” he said. “All secrets end up betrayed by my pen, I’m afraid. I seem incapable of stopping it. I wouldn’t trust me with anything you hold dear.”

“Oh, this is but a small one. And most could discern it, I think, if they looked closely enough.”

“A secret hidden in plain sight. A ‘Purloined Letter,’ perhaps?”

“You’re familiar with Mr. Poe!” I said in delight.

He gave me a curious look. “Isn’t everyone?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised how many are not.” And then,
because I couldn’t help myself, because I liked him so much already, and that drew from me an intimacy I knew better than to risk, I said, “I’d warrant that none of my ‘betters’ here have read him.”

A lifted dark brow. “Your betters?”

“The women who spend their hours working for the Relief Society.”

“You sound disparaging, Mrs. Langley. You have no interest in charitable pursuits?”

I had revealed too much, I knew, but his presence was heady. We were heading toward a conversation I knew I would enjoy, the kind of talk I had missed, and he was exactly the kind of artist I most liked. So few minutes, and already it was like being in my salon again. I could almost feel the heat of the gathered candles and hear the talk in the air. “It seems rather that they have no interest in me.”

“Ah. Your reputation preceded you, I imagine.”

“My … reputation?”

“Forgive me, I should not have mentioned it.”

“Does my reputation trouble you, Mr. DeWitt?” I asked sharply.

“I should not have mentioned it,” he said again, gently. He smiled. His lips were very full. I was taken by them, unable to look away until he said, “You still haven’t told me your secret.”

The talk of my reputation had put me off balance. Hastily I tried to regain myself. “My secret? Oh … oh, well. It … it’s nothing really. Only that I confess I have a rather unseemly fondness for melodramas. And spectacle.”

“Your bloody sensibility,” he noted.

“Indeed. My father despaired of it when I was young. I think even Nathan finds it rather appalling.”

“Does he?” Mr. DeWitt took another sip of his drink. “Well, that’s unfortunate. I imagine he won’t care for
Penelope Justis
, then, and I was rather hoping he would like it enough to buy it.”

“Fortunately for us, he won’t be making the decision,” I said. “He’s left it to me.”

“To you?”

“Between the two of us, Mr. DeWitt, Nathan has many talents, but he wouldn’t know a good drama if it sat upon him.”

He laughed. “Perhaps this isn’t a good drama.”