by Megan Chance
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.”
“You don’t think that,” I said.
He met my gaze, his smile faded in seriousness. “No,” he agreed. “I don’t think it.”
“I much prefer confidence in a writer,” I said. “Or in any artist, frankly. Otherwise, how is it possible to persist in one’s vision? One must often stand alone among the slings and arrows of the world.”
“You sound as one who knows.”
“I’ve known many, many artists,” I said. “Since you know of my … reputation, perhaps you’ve also heard that I held a rather famous salon in Chicago. I’ve hosted writers, artists, actors, intellects of all kinds.”
DeWitt said lightly, “How intimidating.”
But I saw to my satisfaction that he was not the least bit so. I said with a smile, “May I see the play?”
He set his drink on the side table and fumbled with the bag over his shoulder, undoing the buckle holding it closed, flipping it open. He took out a sheaf of papers bound with an old and rather twisted ribbon, and handed it to me.
I glanced down. His handwriting was flourished and looped, yet easy to read. As confident as I’d thought him. That was a good sign. None of that cramped writing that said a man wished his thoughts to be inscrutable. “Penelope Justis,” I read aloud. “Or Revenge of the Spirit.” I glanced up with a smile. “Why, the title alone makes me shiver, Mr. DeWitt.”
I turned the page. The first line: It is the saddest and most familiar story in the world … I scanned the page, past the summary, to the first lines, which took place at a funeral in an ancient graveyard, afraid he would not be what I hoped he was. After only a few minutes I knew; after several I realized he was all I’d wanted him to be and more. I looked up—oh, how casual he wanted to be, and yet I saw his anxiety in the tight set of his jaw.
“Mr. DeWitt,” I said, “this is wonderful. And I am stunned to find an artist of your caliber in this town.”
His eyes glittered in appreciation. “You can tell that from reading only a few lines?”
“I’m rather a connoisseur of plays. I’ve seen more than you can imagine. Some many times. And this … well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew you’d be talented the moment you walked through the door. It simply shines from you.”
“I would rather have thought poverty shone from me.”
I laughed. “You remind me of someone, sir. And that man was very talented indeed.”
“Perhaps I’m nothing like him at all.”
“Oh, I think you are more like than unlike. Shall I make a guess?”
He shrugged. “As you wish.”
I tilted my head to observe him. “You haven’t had a good meal in some time.”
“Unfortunately, I should think that obvious.”
“There are days where you get so lost in your writing you forget the time. You forget to sleep. When the muse comes upon you, you hear nothing and see nothing else.”
A bemused expression. “I’ll give you that one.”
I laid my finger against his cuff, a little flirtation I could not help and one I did not think he’d mind. “You’ve written other plays. None successful. Perhaps … not even performed?”
“Two were.”
“They didn’t take the world by storm.”
An inclined head, an acknowledgment.
“And now you wonder if you’ll ever make a success of it. You’ve never cared for patrons or critics, but now you think it’s time you should. You heard of my reputation, and you thought I could perhaps help you. When you discovered my husband had invested in the Regal, you saw an opportunity.”
“Mostly correct,” he said.
“What of it was wrong?”
“I knew of your husband before I knew of you.”
“Really?” It was the first thing he’d said that I didn’t believe, but artists were sometimes prickly when it came to such things. They didn’t like to admit to such calculation; art should be pure, blessed by the muses, a communication with God. I let Mr. DeWitt keep to his fiction. “Well, you’ve happened upon providence then, haven’t you, Mr. DeWitt? I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”
“Have you?”
“I’d begun to despair that there was anyone worth conversing with in this town. But now I’ve found not just you, but another lovely couple who have more to talk about than the weather. It makes me wish to start my salon again.”
“You’re a collector, then?”
“A collector?” I laughed. “I do own some art, but it’s my father who has the galleries—”
“I meant a collector of people,” he said.
“Oh.” I was taken aback. “Well, yes. Yes, I suppose so. Though the way you make it sound … I assure you I had artists knocking on my door, hoping to make my acquaintance. I had no need to go out looking for them.”
“I didn’t mean that to be disparaging,” he hurried to say. “It’s only that I’ve known some for whom such things are a measure of prestige rather than real interest.”
“Yes, I’ve known people like that as well. But I promise you I am not one of them. I lived for those salons, Mr. DeWitt. I miss them terribly. The conversations we had.…” I took a deep breath, remembering. “I think I would give anything for such a conversation again.”
He studied me; it was not an unpleasant feeling. Dear God, how I had missed this. This simple flirtation, the flare of attraction, like minds, magnetized. “You’re very courageous, Mrs. Langley. Or very foolish. I can’t decide.”
“Perhaps a little of both. I confess that there have been times when I’ve been very, very foolish. I suffer sometimes from an excess of passion.”
“Like most artists, I think.”
“Well, I wouldn’t claim to be that. Though I admit I do have one talent.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m very good at helping to bring talented men out of obscurity.”
“Only men?”
“Thus far,” I said. “Women artists are much rarer, don’t you find?”
“Rare indeed,” he agreed. “Though not extinct, I think.”
“I should like to meet one,” I said. “I think it must be difficult to tread such a different road when all the world really wants from its women are children and domestic bliss.” I heard how wistful I sounded suddenly, how pensive.
“You sound as if you understand,” he said softly.
I met his gaze. “Of course I do. Passion from women is unwelcome, Mr. DeWitt. In Seattle, even more so.”
“Perhaps you mistake it. Perhaps the city might thank you for bringing it a new vision.”
I laughed. “You are idealistic, but I like that.”
There was a movement at the parlor door. I glanced up to see Nathan standing there—I had not even heard him come in, and I felt guilty of a sudden, stupidly so, because there was nothing to feel guilty over. My finger was still on DeWitt’s cuff; I snatched it back and rose in a flurry and pretended not to feel the flush that heated my cheeks.
“Nathan,” I said, too enthusiastically, and he looked at me as if he knew it. “How late you are. Mr. DeWitt and I were just talking about his new play.”
Nathan’s smile was thin. “Hello, darling.” He came fully into the parlor, and Dewitt stood to shake his hand. “DeWitt, how good of you to come. I apologize for my tardiness. I was unavoidably detained. I do hope my wife has been diverting in my absence.”
“Very much so,” Sebastian DeWitt said smoothly. “Her compliments have quite restored my faith.”
“Compliments?”
“I read the beginning of the play,” I said eagerly. “Mr. DeWitt is very talented. I should think you’d be a fool to let him go.”
Nathan raised a brow. “Is that so? Well, then, perhaps we have something to celebrate this evening.”
The three of us went into the dining room, and Bonnie poured wine and brought around a creamy bisque, and Nathan said, “Where do you come from, Mr. DeWitt?”
DeWitt paused in spooning up soup. “San Francisco.”
“Really? I would have thought there was a bigger market for playwrights there. What brings you here?”
DeWitt’s smile was grim. “Disaster, I’m afraid. Two poorly received plays and opportunities lost.” He glanced at me. “The idea that perhaps it was time to stop tilting at windmills.”
Nathan blinked. “Tilting at windmills?”
“Don Quixote,” I said. “You remember, Nathan.”
“Ah yes. The mad Spaniard. Tilting at windmills, you say? That’s my wife, sir, always looking to inspire, to collect the best butterflies—careful, now, or you’ll find yourself caught in her net as well.” He took a large sip of wine.
DeWitt said quietly, “I imagine sometimes there’s an advantage to being caught.”
“Sometimes,” Nathan agreed. His voice softened oddly. “Sometimes one cannot see the beauty right away, and it needs some study to find it.”
Something passed between them, something I didn’t quite understand, and Sebastian DeWitt nodded. “Like a rare jewel.”
“Yes,” Nathan said. He raised his glass to me. “And none rarer than that sitting here at my table. You think she’s a beauty now? Why, six years ago, Ginny was the rarest of jewels herself. The first time I saw her, in fact, she was wearing nearly the same color she has on this evening. When she came into that ballroom, I thought … well, she was not quite an angel, you know, but sometimes a man prefers a little wickedness, doesn’t he?”
DeWitt said, “The world needs both devil and angel, Mr. Langley. I’m not averse myself to exploring both sides.”
Nathan laughed. “A man after my own heart! Do you hear that, Ginny?”
Nathan was more the man I’d married than I had seen in some time. I did not know what made him that way except perhaps for Mr. DeWitt, whose charm had similarly affected me. I was too relieved at it to question. I teased, “I find it a bit disheartening to know that I am no longer the ‘rare jewel’ I was.”
“Well, my dear, now I can see the flaws in the stone—that’s my only reason. As you no doubt can see mine. But flaws often make a thing more precious, and you have evolved to something different, if no less fine.”
“Like a well-loved treasure,” put in Mr. DeWitt.
I smiled. “You are a writer, I see, to so easily make a compliment of an insult.”
“It was not intended as an insult,” Nathan protested. “But, DeWitt, I thank you just the same. I begin to see how you might make my deficiencies more tolerable to my wife.”
“My goal would be to elevate you in her eyes,” DeWitt said.
Nathan leaned back in his chair. “Ah well, good luck with that. But such is marriage, I think. I tell you what, DeWitt. You are an exemplary dinner companion, and such efforts deserve a reward. As my wife tells me you’ve talent as well, I will speak to Greene tomorrow and tell him I’ve bought him a play that requires production immediately. Will fifty dollars be recompense enough?”
Sebastian DeWitt had a wonderful smile. “It’s very generous.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, don’t say that,” I said quickly. “You reveal your hand. Better to hem and haw so he’ll raise the price.”
Nathan said wryly, “You see how well she works to my disadvantage? In any case, fifty is my best price. But you would do well to heed her in
other ways, DeWitt; God knows she’s milked genius out of lesser men. In fact, I daresay she could do you some good, don’t you think so, Ginny? What say you—shall we make you Mr. DeWitt’s patron saint?”
I stared at my husband in surprise. Only this morning he’d warned me not to make a pet of this man, and now here he was, looking for all the world as if it was exactly what he wished me to do. I did not quite believe it, and my good humor fled in sudden suspicion. I knew him well enough to know how quickly this could turn. But he would not like me questioning him in front of Mr. DeWitt, and I’d already pushed things a bit too far this evening, and so I said, “I’d be happy to try.”
“Good,” Nathan said with a smile. “Let my wife serve as my proxy then, DeWitt. She has the advantage when it comes to this patronage business. She knows better how it all works.”
Sebastian DeWitt nodded. I did not think I was imagining the light in his eyes when he turned to me. “I cannot adequately convey my gratitude. To both of you.”
“You’ve done it all yourself, you know. We’ve simply recognized your genius,” I said.
Nathan grabbed up his wine. “Well, then, it’s settled. Shall we have a toast? To the future—may it serve us all well.”
After Sebastian DeWitt took his leave, Nathan and I stood together in the parlor, staring awkwardly at each other. Nathan reached for the glass of port he’d been nursing since dinner.
“Well,” he said. “I thought that went well, didn’t you?”
Echoes of the words he’d said to me that first night in Seattle, after the Browns’ welcoming dinner, and I was uncertain. The entire dinner had felt odd. I had not known what to make of Nathan’s mood then and had less idea now. I said, “He was very … personable.”
“Yes indeed.”
I told myself to be silent, to leave things be. But I could not. “Nathan, it was kind of you to make me your proxy, but I cannot think you meant to do it.”
“Why not? You said he was talented.”
“Not twelve hours before, you warned me not to make a pet of him.”
“And I still caution you not to do so.”
“But I cannot understand why you wish me to have anything to do with him at all. Not after all your warnings and all your talk about atonement and reparation—”
