City of Ash

by Megan Chance

  We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence that lasted until someone said, “Did you see the new shipment of cloth at Schwabacher’s?” and they joined together in palpable relief to speak of silks and worsteds, and I drank my tea in silence.

  It was only later, when Nathan stopped at the doorway of the parlor to say he was fetching our coats, that Mrs. Brown said to me in a low voice, “I feel it only fair to warn you, Mrs. Langley, that there are those here who do not welcome your arrival. In fact”—a pause, as if it troubled her to say it—“there are some who have said already they won’t receive you.” Here she looked at me helplessly.

  “I understand,” I said softly, taking pity on her, wondering what it had cost her to host this supper, to introduce me to a society that had already measured me and found me wanting. “Thank you for being so forthright, Mrs. Brown. I am grateful.”

  Again, that short, firm nod, as if she had dispensed with a difficult duty and was back to the usual nonsense again. “I’ve promised my husband to help you get along until you settle yourself.”

  “I shall not trouble you unduly,” I promised, and I knew I was not imagining the relief in her expression.

  That night, I sat at the dressing table brushing my hair, thinking over the evening, which had been a disappointment, though, if nothing else, I’d gained a good idea of what I was up against. The furnishings, the clothing, the food, the talk … Those who passed for society in Seattle would barely have reached the lower rungs of the social ladder in Chicago. But I was at their mercy, and I saw my task clearly. They were so afraid of any indiscretion that they would band together to keep me out unless I showed myself above reproach in every way. I could win them over eventually, I knew, though it would take every ounce of my charm to do so.

  Just now, the thought made me weary. I stared into the mirror, which was old and wavery, flecked with spots, my reflection hard to see, nothing but the dark shadow of my hair, my eyes like black dots, and suddenly I was thinking of my last salon, the one before the exhibition had turned everything so impossible. I thought of Ambrose laughing, flushed as he drained his glass. Charles Furth saying, “Yes, of course, Rivers, but I wonder sometimes if the world slows to a crawl for you alone. The rest of us see things in motion, details escape us. Which is why Gauguin’s vision is truer than Millais’s. Do you not agree, my dear Ginny?” And my answer, as Claude stood beside me, smiling, “The world moves in slow, does it not, Charles? I think it is we who move too fast. You cannot fault Ambrose for moving with the world.” Furth’s laughter. “She is your devotee as ever, Rivers. You’ve armored her with your Pre-Raphaelites and none of the rest of us can make a dent.” The candlelight flickering, sending dancing shadows upon the walls, glancing across the fat rubies encircling my wrist.

  A movement in the mirror took me from the memory; I looked over my shoulder to see Nathan enter my bedroom.

  “They were kind tonight,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you think so?”

  I sighed and turned back to brushing my hair. “Was it kindness, do you think? I would venture to call it something else. I received a lecture on behavior along with my tea. When I mentioned to Mrs. Brown the possibility of starting a salon—”

  “Good God, Ginny, you didn’t.”

  “Don’t worry. Mrs. Brown made it quite clear how unacceptable they would find it.”

  “And you intend to heed her?” He sounded wary.

  “Oh, but of course,” I said with a bitter laugh. “For now, at least. I have promised to make a new start, and I shall.”

  “You have no one to blame for that but yourself.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “I know it’s not what you’re accustomed to,” he said. “But these are good people.”

  “I suppose next you’ll tell me that Major Shields’s snorting into his tea is an endearing habit.”

  “It’s a young city. They haven’t had time to learn to be pretentious.”

  “You think them as backward as I.”

  “Perhaps. But there’s something to be said for those who act instead of merely talking about it. Here, they’re too busy building a city to natter on about the subtleties of a brushstroke. In any case, I should think you would like the idea of leading them into the future.”

  “It will be like dragging a cow.”

  “So one must go slowly.” Nathan considered me in the mirror. “Slowly, Ginny. We’ve a chance to mold this city, you know.”

  “Mold it?”

  “Which is not the same as stomping it into submission. I see real opportunity here.”

  “Yes indeed. All that political talk. Do you mean to pursue it instead of only talking about it as you did in Chicago?”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Ginny,” he said bluntly, and I saw the quick flare of anger in his eyes. “If you paid half the attention to me that you do to your artists, you’d know that I had intended to run for a city council position in Chicago. Your father and I had already put things in motion.”

  I could not have been more surprised had he told me he was a frog-prince. “You never told me of this.”

  “It required careful study of the landscape first. By the time I decided for certain, you were otherwise engaged.”

  I felt myself flush. “I see.”

  “It was one of the reasons to come here. What with statehood on the horizon, the opportunities are legion.”

  I was surprised again, that he had been so farsighted. “This was no sudden move then. How long have you been planning to come here?”

  “Since it became clear that my political career in Chicago had an impossible liability.”

  “Which was what?”

  “My wife, whom the whole city knew spread her legs for Jean-Claude Marat.”

  In his words I heard the depth of his resentment and anger. “I’ve told you there was no affair. How often must I say it before you believe me?”

  He made an impatient gesture. “My opinion doesn’t matter. Everyone believes you did, which makes it true enough.”

  “It matters to me what you believe,” I said.

  “Does it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully, an expression that made me uncomfortable, before he said, “I hope in time to start a political career here, Ginny. It will depend upon you, of course. They’ll need to accept you.”

  “They’ll need to accept me,” I repeated quietly. I was so disappointed that he had offered me no reassurance, I could not keep myself from saying, “I wonder that you don’t send me away. It would be so much more convenient.”

  “You refused Bloomfield.”

  “I don’t mean an asylum. I mean … to the Continent, perhaps.”

  His smile was thin. “Ah yes, no doubt you’d like that. But what would that avail me? There would only be rumors that you’ve run after him, or that you’re cavorting with some other poor artist in Paris. It would hardly do my career any good. When one cannot control one’s wife, et cetera, et cetera.…”

  How far we were from each other. I despaired that it could ever be otherwise. “You look at me as if you cannot stand the sight of me.”

  He shrugged. “Do you wonder at it? But you could be quite an asset to me, Ginny, if you do as you say and make the fresh start you promise. You’re beautiful and clever. You could be the best hostess this city has ever seen. You bring a fortune with you.”

  “My fortune.” I laughed shortly. “Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you married me.”

  “It has become the reason I keep you,” he said, and the bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

  I turned to look at him, trying to ignore how much I believed that to be true. “Nathan, don’t you remember how we once were? Do you remember how we talked the night away? How we made love—”

  “While you flirted with every artist and writer who came into view?”

  I said bitterly, “I missed you. You’ve ignored me for months and months.”

 
“Yes, of course it was my fault,” he said. “By all means, blame me. It was not as if you had anything to do with it.”

  “Make a new start,” my grandmother had said. And my father: “Nathan knows what’s best.” I could not fight him over the past, not if I meant to salvage anything at all. I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry, Nathan,” I said softly, a whisper.

  He made a sound of dismissal. “It’s too late for that, Ginny. I no longer care about your regret—if you truly feel any. What I care about is atonement. Can you be the wife I need you to be here? After what you’ve seen tonight, can you keep your promise?”

  I met his gaze and nodded. “Yes, I think I can do that.”

  “Good,” he said, and left me.

  Chapter Four

  But it turned out that the promise I’d made Nathan was even less easily kept than I’d anticipated. Nathan went to the office and I sat about the house, waiting for the society women of Seattle to pay their calls, and when they did not, I remembered Mrs. Brown’s words about those who did not intend to receive me. I’d thought she must be overstating their reluctance; I could not imagine the women of this outpost would truly spurn the daughter of Stratford Mining, especially if they were made to realize that I was on my best behavior.

  But the invitations did not come. Oh, Mrs. Brown was as good as she’d promised to be. Those first weeks, she took us to other suppers, other dances—two public affairs, with drunken merchants and their coarse wives hoping to elevate themselves socially and Nathan greeting some of the business owners as if they were old friends.

  “You’ve the charm of a natural politician,” Emery Brown told him with a laugh. I was unused to being in eclipse, and it didn’t matter how I smiled, or what I said, I was given a humoring smile in return, dismissive words, and slowly I came to realize that everyone here meant to keep me firmly in my place, in Nathan’s shadow.

  But I accepted it. My father was quick to remind me of my duty with every letter.

  I understand you are finding life to be somewhat difficult there, but it is to be your home now, and you must put what happened in Chicago behind you. Please make an effort to be circumspect, Ginny. There are several business dealings of mine that would not tolerate your further transgressions. Your grandmother has spent these last weeks bearing down upon doors that are suddenly closed to her—your bad behavior has cost us all. Please consider that your grandmother is seventy-six this year, far too old to reinvent herself in society.

  My father’s admonition hurt—I was afraid I had irrevocably lost the man I’d so adored. I was determined to atone. I told myself that Papa had never managed to stay angry with me for long, and if I were careful, I would be restored to his good graces quickly, no matter the state of my marriage, which looked to become no better. I kept my letters to him chatty and optimistic, but the truth was just the opposite. Nathan remained so firmly distant that any true reconciliation seemed impossible. He spent hardly any time with me and joined the newly established Rainier Club, which kept him away many nights, hobnobbing among the men he’d made his friends, “Important Men” he called them, men who could help him in our newfound home. I languished in our parlor with only the maid for company. I thought of my salons, of the famous and notorious, of every night filled with something new and outrageous, something to make me laugh or think, and I found myself keeping the maid with conversation, her “yes, ma’am, it is quite cold” instead of “Hand, heart, or head, Ginny? Which is it that makes art true? And don’t say all three. That’s too easy.…”

  I was drowning in memories, in the chatter of my past life, and I knew I would languish there if I didn’t push a little harder. Perhaps Seattle matrons were waiting for me to make the first move. I decided to hold a dinner of my own. I invited the Browns and the Porters, of course; but also Mr. Orion Denny, whose father had been one of the founders of Seattle, and his wife, Narcissa; and Henry Yesler, the owner of the sawmill, whose late wife, Sarah, had been rumored to be a spiritualist, so I thought he would not mind my notoriety. I also sent invitations to the Wilcoxes and the Gatzerts, whom Nathan told me were important. It was to be a small, intimate dinner, and I wished very much for someone from my salons—a writer or actor or artist or two; there was no one better than an actor for making conversation. I checked the papers assiduously for any visiting luminary. There were none, and I supposed that was best. I meant to do as Nathan suggested and start slow. I did not want to alarm them. After I proved to them how congenial I could be, I would provide a philosopher or two. Then perhaps I would hold a ball.

  I planned for that dinner like a general. My trunks had finally arrived from Chicago, and I went through them with a critical eye, the petticoats and underthings, the satin and lace corsets in a rainbow of colors, traveling suits and morning gowns, furs and cloaks. I kept boxed the newest Worth gowns, bejeweled and beautiful, instead pulling out those I had not worn for two seasons or more, those with higher necklines and smaller bustles and modest lace inserts that seemed more in kind to those I’d seen at the Browns’ dinner. I filled the dining room with my own plate, elaborate, gold-trimmed. I decorated expansively with expensive gewgaws to remind them of my status—if charm would not do, I was willing to resort to bribery of a kind. I went over menu after menu with the cook until I finally wore her into tackling some of my favorite French dishes, and I had wine sent from our cellar in Chicago.

  And I hardly had time for a breath before the declinations began to arrive.

  Mr. and Mrs. Orion Denny, along with Mr. Yesler, regretted to say they would be out of town. Mrs. Wilcox’s refusal was a simple “I will not be attending,” as was the Gatzerts’. Half my dinner party gone before they’d set foot through the door. There were only the Browns and the Porters left, and though their husbands were smiling when my maid showed them into the parlor that night, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Porter looked pained, as if they’d been told they were going to the opera and been dragged to a bawdy melodrama instead.

  I was on my best behavior. I smiled so that it felt my face might break. I offered wine and sherry. I said nothing when they picked at the unfamiliar French dishes and Mrs. Porter finally put her fork down with a “Sweetbreads, you say? How … unusual.” Instead I thought of how much Ambrose Rivers had adored sweetbreads, and I wanted to cry at how I missed him.

  When the men withdrew to Nathan’s study for cigars, I led Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Brown to the parlor, bowing obediently to tradition. The women looked with studied disinterest at all my careful arrangements, and I saw Mrs. Brown discreetly turn a small but exquisitely sculptured nude so she would not have to look at its naked breasts. It had been a gift from the sculptor who’d made it, “a small token of my gratitude, my dear Ginny, for all you’ve done,” a man so talented it seemed nothing coarse could come from his hands, and here was Mrs. Brown, refusing even to look at it.

  I bit back any comment and instead smiled and offered them both tea, and Mrs. Porter said, “A lovely dinner, Mrs. Langley,” and Mrs. Brown echoed the sentiment, and I said, as casually as I could,

  “Unfortunately we were missing half the party. I hope next time to pick a better date.”

  They glanced at each other.

  Mrs. Brown said, “I hear your husband has joined the Rainier

  Club.”

  “Yes indeed. He seems to quite like it. He’s been there nearly every evening.”

  “They do get involved with their cigars and their talk.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. “I assume your husbands are often there as well?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Porter said.

  “Then you must be as bored as I. Tell me, how do you spend your evenings? I’ve looked through the newspaper, but I’ve seen nothing but phrenologists and temperance lecturers at the Lyceum. Oh, and a cat trained to pick up a bottle and carry it offstage.”

  Mrs. Brown smiled thinly. “There are plays, of course. At the Regal and the Palace. But we don’t go often.”

  “No opera?”

&nbs
p; “Now and again at Frye’s.” Mrs. Porter looked a bit uncomfortable. “Nothing like what you’re used to, I imagine.”

  “Oh, it seems it’s been so long since I’ve been entertained, I imagine I could get used to anything. Even, I suppose, a trained cat.”

  Mrs. Brown’s smile took on a pitying quality. “Our charity work manages to fill the empty hours and then some, Mrs. Langley, though I doubt that would interest you.”

  “Charity work? I used to do some of that as well. My father financed a wing for Mercy Hospital,” I said. “And I helped him organize the financing for the Chicago Art Institute. And the artist studios, of course. They had such need for them, you couldn’t imagine. Why, Miles Ashby was working out of a shed! Can you imagine? A genius such as that! He said it was often so cold his paints would freeze before he could use them.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Porter’s expression was so purely blank it could have been a slab of untouched marble. “Who is Miles Ashby?”

  I laughed; for a moment I thought she was teasing. When I realized she wasn’t, I managed, “Why … you mean you haven’t heard of him?”

  “No,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’ve more pressing concerns than artist studios here. The Relief Society has never been so overwhelmed. Orphans starving, women beaten, men who cannot feed their families … I’m sure you can imagine.”

  I felt myself flush with embarrassment and felt a stab of anger for it, which I quickly tamped. “It is true I was more concerned in Chicago with my father’s art patronage. But what better help can we offer the world than to support those who give us truth and beauty?”

  Mrs. Porter said, “I myself believe that truth and beauty are better appreciated on a full stomach. The starving and downtrodden must rather concern themselves with surviving. What good are artists if there is no population to see them?”