The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (4 page)

“I was writing,” I said. “Why are you here?”

I turned to face him. He stared at his hands, opening and closing his grandfather's pocket watch at his hip, hair hanging in
his eyes. I could see his profile in the mirror on top of Mother's armoire, his straight brows pinched, full bottom lip clutched in his teeth.

“I . . . umm,” he mumbled, then looked up at me. Nerves curled in my stomach, forbidding the rest of my body to move. I stared at him—at the somber eyes and lips that had paused on an unspoken word. He held my gaze. “Ginny, I love you.” His words shocked my heart and warmed me through. I'd wanted to hear him say it for so many years, sentiments I'd long felt but propriety forbid me to say. He wouldn't marry Miss Kent. He loved me. He'd come back to me. I reached down to take his hand. Clammy with sweat, his fingers were limp against mine.

“Charlie,” I whispered. “I love you, too. I always have.” He smiled thinly and looked down at our linked hands. “What is it?” He squeezed my hand so hard I flinched, and hugged me.

“I love you, Gin,” he said into my hair, “but I . . . I have to marry her.” I pushed him away and he stumbled back, catching himself against the wall.

“No, actually. You don't. You coward!” Heat burned my cheeks. He'd given me hope only to crush it once again. “Why would you bother coming here? Why would you tell me you love me if it doesn't matter?” I snapped, backing away from him. “To make yourself feel better?” My hands clenched at my side. His eyes were glassy, but I didn't care. I wanted to hurt him as much as he'd hurt me. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and stared down at his shoes. “You can explain yourself or you can get out,” I said. Physically too weak to yell at him, anger still churned through me, stealing what little strength I had. Charlie straightened and started toward me. I put my hand out to stop him.

“Ginny, you know we don't have any money.”

“We don't either,” I said. My neck felt tight. “We barely have
enough to spare for food by the time our bills are paid, but we're happy. How does that—”

“I . . . I haven't told you everything.” He cleared his throat to compose himself. “Mother and Father . . . when they got married they didn't have the money to buy a house. My father's uncle, Harry, offered to buy it for them on the condition that they'd pay him back. It was working out fine, but now without Father, we can't afford it. The
Review
pays so minimally for my drawings that we're four payments behind. Harry's company folded a few months back. If we don't reimburse him in full by next month, he'll have to sell the house. Mother won't have anywhere to go. If I marry, we're saved. The initial three thousand from Rachel's father will pay Harry off and then when I inherit the estate and ten thousand from Rachel's family—”

“I don't want to hear her name,” I said. He tried to take my outstretched hand but I snatched it away. “Don't touch me.”

“I don't love her,” he whispered. “My heart. You have it.” He put his palm on the silk above my chest.

“Then marry me instead and risk ruin,” I said. “We could find other jobs. Your mother could move in with us if she had to.” I removed his hand from my chest, feeling the cold air rush over my skin with its absence. He didn't say anything, but closed his eyes and shook his head.

“You know she'd never agree to that,” he said finally. “Our home is all she has left of my father, of George.”

“Then you've made your choice.”

“No. I can't. I don't want to lose you . . . please, Gin.”

“What would you have me do? Wait for years until Rachel dies? Be your mistress?” He looked up from the floor and his body went rigid.

“I know that I can't will you to do anything,” he said softly. “You'll do what you want. You always have.” I laughed hollowly
and caught a glimpse of my reflection as I turned away from him, stringy hair and ashen face harrowing in the dim evening light. I was a mess. Everything Miss Kent wasn't. I pivoted to face him. His shoulders were slumped, the dark rings around his eyes even more pronounced than before.

“I'll see you around the neighborhood, of course,” I said as pleasantly as I could. Charlie had been as much a part of me as I was, but the man standing before me was foreign, a stranger to my soul. Charlie's brows furrowed and he crossed the room, gathering me awkwardly in his arms. I stood against him, puppet-like as he hugged me. “You need to go now.” I untangled myself from his embrace. He backed away, staring at me as he went, and then finally turned. “Take care of yourself, Charlie,” I whispered. As the door clicked shut, I stood in my mother's room alone, regretting my words and wishing that I could have been weak enough to keep him.

I
eyed the old wooden clock on my nightstand. Just past 5:20. Less than ten minutes until Franklin and Mae would appear in my doorway, tear the notebook from my fingers, and demand that I come with them, though I didn't want to go. Neither tolerated tardiness—or my need to be alone. Since Charlie's surprise visit a week ago, they'd barely left me to my own devices, appearing in my room to distract me every few minutes as if their presence could somehow cause me to forget. Instead, they were driving me mad.

I glanced down at the page and read the sentences for the tenth time. The first ran on and had to be fixed, but I couldn't figure out how. “
In all the time I'd known him, he'd never begged
for anything, not because he was necessarily against it by principle,
but because he'd always been perfectly intentioned in everything he did,
and felt that if a person didn't react to his intentions in the affirmative, well then, they didn't, and life went on. So the fact that he was begging now startled me.
” I circled the sentences, slammed the notebook shut, and flung
it across my bed. Perhaps my problem wasn't my ability to edit, but the fact that these particular sentences required me to recall the misery on Charlie's face. Even though I knew I'd done the right thing, Charlie had been my best friend for eighteen years. We'd grown accustomed to consoling each other. In spite of everything, it was strange that I couldn't be the one to cheer him, that he was the source of my own sorrow.

I glanced at the discarded notebook, not entirely sure why I was bothering to edit it in the first place. It wasn't as if anyone would ever read it. It was too personal, not to mention terribly written. I was a short story writer; I had no idea how to write a proper novel. I hadn't attempted a longer work in twelve years, since I was a child. My family and the Aldridges had gone to see P. T. Barnum's circus in Brooklyn, and the glitz and the wildness of it had left us all inspired. The next day, I was commissioned by Charlie and my siblings to write a book about the ringmaster. In my ten-year-old mind, I'd thought a story of a ringmaster who could speak to animals a genius idea. I'd written the fifty pages with great fervor, while Charlie sketched the scenes and Franklin painted dramatic depictions of the ringmaster. Even Mae, Alevia, and Bess had been convinced to participate. Alevia obligingly played
Gavotte Circus Renz
by Hermann Fliege over and over for inspiration, while Bess created replicas of the performer's costumes. When we'd finished the book, we were sure it would eclipse Stevenson's
Treasure Island
in popularity. Our hopes were only provoked by our parents. After Mae's dramatic reading, they'd deemed it brilliant. Father had bound the volume with two thin sheets of wood and Mother had covered it in a scrap of red silk. We'd given the finished copy to Charlie for his eleventh birthday.

I stood and crossed to my dresser, running my fingers along the chipping white paint on my windowsill as I went. Glancing
in the mirror, I laughed wryly at the hints of black lead smudged across my cheeks and under my eyes as if I'd actually been writing rather than crossing out, erasing, and rewriting the same sentence over again. I thought of Charlie's library, of the one place I'd always retreated when I couldn't seem to find the right words. I knew that part of its magic had to do with Charlie's presence, his encouragements and suggestions, but within its walls, I'd always been able to sort my thoughts. He'd stolen my only hideaway from me.

I scrubbed the pencil marks away with the tip of my finger and smoothed the pink silk rose petals attached to the Brussels lace at my shoulder. It had taken Bess three nights to arrange all of them and affix them to the sleeve in the latest fall fashion. Bess refused to create anything short of perfection, even if the costume was being made for one of us.

Pulling my grandfather's worn copy of Irving's
The Sketch Book
from the drawer beneath my mirror, I flipped it open. How many times had I read it and found solace in its pages? Stopping on the title page, I stared at the colophon, “
published by George Putnam
.” Putnam and Irving had been fast friends, though Putnam had been Irving's junior by decades. Late in Irving's life, press after press had passed up the chance to publish an updated edition of Irving's work, but Putnam had decided to take it on, convinced that the words Irving had written were still relevant and needed. It was one of the most profitable decisions Putnam ever made, and the reason I'd been introduced to Irving's work as a child. My grandfather had started reading the new anthology and was so taken with it that he'd demanded his entire household read it. My father then passed it on to me.

I closed Irving and went to retrieve my discarded notebook. Perhaps it was a vain and foolish ambition, but the desire for someone to read and cherish my stories as I cherished Irving's swelled in
my chest. I closed my eyes and ran my hand over the worn cover, imagining it as a threadbare hardback on the dresser of a girl I would never know. That possibility eclipsed the hole in my heart with a strange new sense of purpose, and I knew that the feeling alone was worth whatever would come next. I would make something of this manuscript—somehow. I would find a way to learn what it would take to transform my scattered words into something of worth.

“Well, what a welcome surprise.” I jumped at the sound of Franklin's voice and whirled to face him. Propped against my doorframe in a black tailcoat, he grinned at me and flicked his gold pocket watch open. “Five-thirty precisely and you're actually ready.”

“Good thing, too. At least for your sake,” Mae said to me, materializing beside Franklin in the doorway. “I stalled as long as I could. I helped Mother with the laundry and even washed the dishes twice, but Frank said he'd be hauling you off with us at five-thirty whether you were ready or not.”

“Oh really? And if I wasn't?” I laughed, narrowing my eyes at the two of them.

“I'd just sling you over my shoulder.” Franklin shrugged and scratched at the corner of his mustache. He glanced down the length of my turquoise blue satin dress. “In any case, I have to admit that I'm relieved you're dressed. Mae and I were taking bets on whether or not we'd have to endure the Symphony next to the stench of that horrendous pink dressing gown.” I grinned and snatched my small black purse from my bedside table.

“You would've survived,” I said, shoving past them. “But I doubt I would've. I'm afraid the spectacle of a woman in her nightclothes wasn't the sort of entertainment Mr. Carnegie had in mind.”

F
ranklin coughed, hand masking his face to keep from laughing out loud. I looked around wondering what in the world he thought was so funny, but saw nothing beyond Mae beside me fiddling with the ruched collar of her plain purple-velvet dress.

Franklin turned to face us, eyes glistening with hilarity. “Do you see Louise Carnegie over there?” he whispered, nodding toward the balcony across from us. All five stories of the new hall were packed tonight—the papers said that most of its two thousand eight hundred seats had been occupied for every performance since its opening in May—but I found Andrew Carnegie's sparse white hair and full beard as easily as a spotlight amid the darkness of his hall. I laughed under my breath at his wife next to him.

“You can't miss her. She's wearing one of Bessie's hats,” Mae noted, no doubt thinking what we all did: that the joke was on Bess's customers. Mrs. Carnegie's head looked as if it'd been wrapped up like a Christmas package in red silk with a gargantuan gold bow attached to the side.

“The bow keeps hitting Adelaide Frick in the face.” Franklin chuckled through the last word, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to keep his composure. “I'm thankful Bess is busy sewing. We would've been subject to a monologue on her inspiration for that dreadful accessory.” Unable to look away from the huge hat, I watched as Mrs. Carnegie turned toward her husband, sweeping one of the bow tails across Mrs. Frick's cheek. Glaring at the fabric hanging in her face, Mrs. Frick batted it and scooted away. I laughed out loud, and clapped my hand over my mouth, feeling the eyes of the patrons around me.

“It's a wonder she's not wearing that wretched stork hat she had Bessie make after Caroline Astor's party.” Mae scrunched her nose, tucking a stray mahogany tendril behind her ear.

“I'm honestly shocked that anyone was inspired by the pelican hat enough to request anything remotely related,” I said.

“I'm not. If one of them has it, the rest want it . . . well, not the same thing of course, something similar.” Franklin rolled his eyes and fiddled with his new gold cuff links. “That's the only reason Bess has customers anyway. Hodgepodge a hat for Caroline Astor and they all come flocking.”

“Frank, I don't want you to think I'm unappreciative. This is amazing,” I said. Looking away from Franklin's expensive cuff links, I gestured to the Carnegie Hall stage right below me. “But you invited the whole family!” Franklin had been excited to invite Mother, though a headache kept her home. Her parents, Sarah and George VanPelt, had kept a reserved box at the Academy of Music since its opening in 1854. She often spoke of the performances she'd seen as a young woman—
The Barber of Seville, La Sonnambula
,
Don Pasquale
—though she rarely mentioned fond memories of her parents at all. Her mother, a hard-nosed woman, had passed on from some type of fever when Mother was sixteen, and her father
succumbed to a ruptured aneurysm a few weeks before my parents' wedding—a match of which he adamantly disapproved.

“Frank,” I said again, nudging his arm. “Surely we can't afford this. And those cuff links had to cost at least fifteen dollars.” I didn't want to harass him about his spending, especially because his salary and Bess's financed the majority of our charges, but I knew that seats like this cost at least five dollars apiece and we'd only had twenty dollars to spare last month.

Franklin lit a cigar, puffing on the end. “We can't,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “I met a man on the train to Connecticut last month whose father—some entrepreneur sort—has reserved this box for the season. We got on quite well and we've kept in touch. They should be by to join us shortly.” He took a drag and coughed. “And the cuff links only cost ten. They were discounted at Wanamaker's.” He lifted his arm in front of his face. “Handsome aren't they? I've been saving a few quarters here and there and finally had enough to buy them.”

I smiled, inhaling the charred smoke from Franklin's cigar. It reminded me of wandering past the Manor of Morrisania as a child before it was parceled off, of the old gardeners puffing away while they worked on the lawn.

Everyone suddenly stood around me and I joined them, pulling my skirt from the chair cushion as the players began to take the stage. Orderly and slow, black tuxedo after black tuxedo, they filed into their seats in front of the columns trimmed with gilded filigree, waiting for Walter Damrosch. I felt a bit guilty coming to see the Symphony. Franklin had hoped Alevia would attend, but none of us were surprised when she begged off to practice. She'd auditioned for the sixth time, and been denied, just a few weeks before, on the grounds that her playing wasn't satisfactory, though the truth was Damrosch didn't want to cause conflict between the
male players by admitting a female. I'd grown tired of both the Philharmonic and the Symphony pretending that they were rejecting her based on the quality of her playing.

Walter Damrosch came on stage to a roar of applause, tipped his head, and forced his thin lips into a mediocre smile. His lack of enthusiasm annoyed me and I looked away, scanning the guests in orchestra seating. A woman in an elaborate red dress trimmed with rose chiffon and black velvet ribbon was doubled over laughing in the second row, her face nearly as crimson as the fabric. Righting, she drew her fingers to her mouth to whistle and I recognized her immediately as Anna Katharine Green, bestselling writer of detective fiction. She nudged a dark-haired man to her left and he turned to face her, the full beard, kind eyes, and wide smile unmistakably belonging to her publisher, George Haven Putnam, president of G. P. Putnam's Sons. I stared at them for what seemed like minutes, watching them laugh and clap like old friends, imagining Mr. Putnam's father and Washington Irving sharing the same camaraderie. My heart lifted in my chest. I wanted desperately to feel the excitement for my book alive in someone else, and knew, in that moment, that someone was George Putnam—a man whose literary ancestry ran parallel to the author I admired the most. Mr. Putnam leaned in and whispered something, pointing toward the velvet curtains drawn back from the stage. Anna's eyes followed. I wondered if they were talking about ideas for a new story.

“Excuse me. Sorry. I'm sorry we're late.” A tall man with nearly black hair edged past Mae, disrupting my focus on George and Anna, and deposited himself in the empty seat beside me. He was followed by an older gentleman with round glasses and a long beard, and a younger man with golden hair and a straight, confident posture I recognized immediately to be the man I'd seen standing next to the author, John Hopper, at Charlie's party.
Frozen against the hard chair back, I leaned into the shadow of the box above us and shielded my face with my hand, wishing I could melt into the red velour upholstery. I couldn't let him see me. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance he'd recognize me as the girl who'd stood heartbroken next to Charlie as he proposed to Rachel and I had no idea if he would have enough tact to avoid the topic. Franklin started to get up, but the Symphony launched into the opening notes of Berlioz's
Te Deum
, and he was forced to take his seat, thankfully leaving no time for introductions. Leaning over Mae and me, Franklin nodded at the row of men beside me and I turned the other way, staring at the velvet curtains hanging next to our box.

“What's wrong with you?” Mae whispered. “You're sitting as though that man next to you has some type of plague.” Her eyes danced in amusement, and I looked down noticing I'd managed to fold myself onto about half of the seat, leaving at least six inches of space between myself and the gentleman beside me.

“Frank's friend, the one on the end,” I whispered. “He was at Charlie's and I—”

“You're being foolish. I doubt anyone besides Alevia even suspected you were upset,” she said. Pursing her lips, she sank back against the chair, fixed her eyes on the orchestra for a moment, and then turned back to me. “And even if he did notice, there's no way he would've known about you and Charlie. He doesn't even know you.”

As the music continued, I grew bored. I'd heard
Te Deum
hundreds of times and the rhythmic piano chords that Alevia had played over and over in our home seemed to drone on and on. Though Mae's words had settled my worry for a moment, from time to time I would feel someone's attention crawling across my skin, and assumed it was the man I'd seen at Charlie's. The music
reached a crescendo, every instrument in the hall moving to the jabs and swings of Damrosch's arms, and I felt a gaze again. Rolling my eyes, I turned sharply in his direction, but found the man next to me staring at Mae instead. Startled, he straightened hastily in his seat, and cleared his throat.

“Wasn't that remarkable?” he asked later, when the music finally stopped for intermission. He smiled in my direction, but his eyes drifted again beyond me to my sister, who had stood up to take a glass of sparkling white wine.

“The music was fine, but if it's her you're actually talking about, she is,” I said bluntly, and he laughed.

“She looks familiar. I'm Henry Trent.” As much as he was trying to look at me, he couldn't. His dark eyes kept darting from me to Mae and back again. “I'm . . . um. I'm a student at Columbia, studying English.” Trying to pretend I didn't notice him glancing at her, I pinched myself to keep from either smiling like a buffoon or laughing. Mr. Trent blinked a few times as if he was trying to rid himself of whatever spell had overcome him.

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Trent. That's probably how you know her . . . Miss Mae Loftin,” I said, tipping my head toward my sister. I caught the eye of the man from the party who was conversing with her and Franklin and jerked back to Mr. Trent. My heart began to race. I didn't know what I'd say if he mentioned seeing me at Charlie's. Mr. Trent was staring at me, no doubt wondering why I was gaping dumbly over his shoulder. “You've probably seen her at a literary seminar,” I said, forcing myself back to the conversation. “She goes to all of them at Columbia. I've been to a few with her if an author I like is speaking. We went to see Ambrose Bierce last month.”

“I was there, too,” he said, fidgeting with the corner of his gray tweed jacket. Finding his distraction suddenly more annoying than
endearing, I stood up knowing I'd have to face Frank's friend at some point, and turned toward Mae.

Standing in the corner of the balcony, Mae shook her head at Franklin who was leaning a little too far over the edge, a second cigar balanced between his teeth. His friend stood beside him, cheeks eclipsing his marked cheekbones as he laughed at something Frank had just said.

“I'm just saying that I'd think twice about siring her child because there's half a chance it would turn out crazy,” I heard the man say as I walked closer. I was thankful that I'd missed this gem of a conversation. The man chuckled under his breath and Franklin grit his teeth, nose scrunching in disgust. I wondered who they were talking about.

“I wouldn't touch her with a barge pole, though
you
didn't seem so averse last time.” Franklin clapped him on the back, then noticed me standing there and straightened up. “Oh. Mr. John Hopper and Doctor Joseph Hopper, this is my sister, Miss Virginia Loftin.” I blinked, confused, before I realized that Charlie had mistaken my inquiry of the short man for the one before me. I swallowed hard, determined to keep it together. I extended my hand to the older of the two and forced a smile.

“So you're an entrepreneur, Doctor Hopper?” I asked, automatically wishing I'd said something simple and polite instead of coming right out and asking about his profession. The older man smiled graciously, the same exact grin I'd just seen on his son beside him.

“Your brother is kind. I'm simply a doctor who prefers innovation to stagnancy.” He removed his eyeglasses to clean them on the edge of his jacket and I looked around for Mae, finding her sitting behind me talking to Mr. Trent.

“I'm a writer,” Mr. Hopper volunteered before I could ask, and I turned back to face him. Grinning goofily, he cleared his throat.
“Which means I bathe in money, employ many servants, and live in a tidy little mansion on Fifth Avenue.” Mr. Hopper raised his eyebrows at me and Franklin choked on his cigar.

“Right. You know, I think we're neighbors,” I said, straight-faced. Mr. Hopper started to say something, but Franklin stopped him.

“Ginny's a writer, too. She just finished her first novel,” he said. I nodded, relieved that Mr. Hopper hadn't mentioned recognizing me—so far.

“You should join our little group then,” Mr. Hopper said. His brown eyes were kind. “It's just a gathering of amateur artists, really. Well, artists, musicians, writers, and the like.” He adjusted the sprig of Lilly of the Valley tucked into his buttonhole. “I was quite taken with the idea of creating a salon in New York after having the pleasure of speaking with Mathilde Bonaparte in Paris a few years ago. She hosted one of the most popular salons until her exile to Belgium.” He laughed. “Not to say that mine is anywhere near as grand as hers was. In any case, it would be a pleasure to have you attend.” I'd read something about Parisian salons recently, a brief citation in an article about Proust, mentioning that men and women were encouraged to mingle and collaborate. In a sense, in my own life, the fact that my brother and Charlie read my work was revolutionary and rare.

“Oh, you should.” Franklin nodded at me. “Gin, it's wonderful. I've only been the one time, but I meant to tell you of it right after, to invite you with me the next time. I suppose I've been traveling so much that exhaustion has wiped my mind clean of functional thought. Forgive me.” I smiled at Frank.