by Joy Callaway
Frank’s hand jerked me forward, away from Mr. Hopper and his admirers. I inhaled, choking on a particularly pungent cloud of burning tobacco. I heard the hollow wail of a cello beneath the noise and the higher trill of a violin suddenly stop mid-note.
“Frank! You’re here.” The smoke seemed to subside around us and I blinked to clear it from my eyes as a petite blonde shoved her violin into the cellists’ occupied hands and lunged for my brother. Her arms circled his neck and he pulled her close, hands resting on the gray satin wrapping her tiny waist. The embrace was so intimate, so familiar. I stared at him, shocked that he’d clearly fallen in love without mentioning it—just like he’d failed to mention the Society. It was unlike him to withhold things from me.
“Miss Lydia Blaine, this is my dear sister, Miss Virginia Loftin,” Frank said. I tipped my head to Miss Blaine who leaned in and hugged me.
“Oh, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she said. “Franklin has been telling me all about your marvelous family and your incredible writing. Where are your other sisters this evening? I’ve been keen to meet the pianist.” She smiled. Her blue eyes were kind and I forced a grin back despite my irritation at Frank, wondering how long they’d known each other.
“Well, actually, Virginia was the only one officially invited,” Franklin said. Miss Blaine leaned over to pull him close. “We went to the Symphony with John last week and they got to talking, so he asked her to come.”
“Frank tried to invite the others. We were hoping to convince Alevia, the pianist, to attend, but she’s quite shy and doesn’t like to waste her time socializing when she could be practicing,” I said, rolling my eyes at the dedication I wished I had. “And Bessie wasn’t home when we were getting ready to leave so we didn’t ask her.”
“Actually, I chose to leave her out,” Franklin said bluntly. “I didn’t want to coddle her all night. And Mae isn’t artistic, though she was otherwise occupied in any case. She gives English lessons to the orphans at Saint Joseph’s each Friday, and after she’s finished tonight, she has plans to see Mrs. Jarley’s Wax Works with Henry Trent.”
“What?” The word came out of my mouth so quickly, Miss Blaine laughed. Mae hadn’t told me anything. Franklin grinned, fingers drifting over Miss Blaine’s hand, and I looked away, eyes locking on his face. “Why would she keep it from me?” Mae had always been private, but she usually confided in me. I held back my questions, though I kept my eyes fixed on Franklin’s and then cast them toward Miss Blaine, hoping he’d catch my meaning. Why would you conceal so much from me? I thought. His lids widened, suggesting he understood and would tell me later, but then he shrugged.
“She didn’t mention it to me either. I couldn’t find her so I asked Mother if she knew where she was and she told me that Mae was at the orphanage, but had arranged to accompany Henry to the play afterward.” Remembering how taken they’d been with each other at the Symphony, I hoped the affection would remain. Mae had always dreamed of a husband and children, and Mr. Trent shared her same passion for education. The thought struck me. Charlie and I had been well matched, too. Everyone thought so.
“I’m so glad you came,” Miss Blaine said, interrupting. “In the three years we’ve been holding these meetings, I’ve met tons of people, of course—John tends to invite anyone with an affinity for art—but it’s so rare and nice to meet a new friend.” She reached to squeeze my hand. She was lovely and warm; I couldn’t understand why Franklin hadn’t spoken of her.
“I’m thrilled to be here,” I said. “And so glad to have met you, too. Franklin has sung your praises.” I shot a tight-lipped grin at Frank. He cleared his throat.
“Lydia is a remarkable violinist,” Franklin said. On cue, she plucked the violin from the cellist, lifted the instrument to her chin, played an arpeggio, and curtsied.
“I can’t give myself all of the credit. I’m mostly remarkable by force. My cousin is married to Walter Damrosch and my father has a great appreciation for the arts, so since I was a child, I’ve been encouraged to play and play well. I’m not sure why, considering all of this training will likely go by the wayside once I’m married. I don’t really have much interest in it, anyway.” Lydia’s lips dropped into a scowl for a moment, then lifted back as she smiled.
“But what about all of the work you’ve put in? You must love it a little,” I probed.
“I’d stop playing this instant if Frank asked me to, but you wouldn’t, would you?” Inches from Franklin’s face, he shook his head and lifted her hand to his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to say hello to John, wouldn’t you?” Before I had a chance to reply that I didn’t care, she had me by the wrist and was dragging me back through the smoky room, away from my brother who simply waved at me.
Insisting that I meet everyone, Miss Blaine had introduced me to at least fifty people by the time we made it all the way around the room. We listened to romantic poetry, paused to appreciate the matchless styles of several artists who’d drawn or painted everything from hay fields to street dwellers, and finally stopped in front of a cellist playing a piece that wailed with such heartache it brought tears to my eyes.
I blinked as the cellist lifted his bow from the strings. Lydia began clapping, and paced toward the stocky man whose head was still stooped over his instrument.
“Mr. Wrightington. That was divine.” The man’s eyes barely lifted. “The only bit of suggestion I have is that the eighteenth notes at the end could’ve been made a bit more legato.” He finally raised his head and stared at Miss Blaine. His eyes narrowed. My fingers drew into my palm. Each time we’d stopped, Lydia had offered some type of comment to the artist, as had the other guests around us. Most of the time, she was complimentary, but a few times, she’d offered criticism. I’d expected at least one of the artists to lash out, but no one had. I’d mentioned this expectation after the second piece of analysis she’d offered, but she’d simply laughed and said that artists expected reactions at the Society, or at any salon for that matter. “No one forces you to put your art on display,” she’d said, echoing Franklin’s earlier words.
“You’re right, Miss Blaine.” The cellist’s lips parted in a grin. “I thought the same directly after that measure.” Miss Blaine beckoned me forward. I introduced myself, certain that I’d forget Mr. Wrightington’s name the moment we departed his company. I’d met too many to remember all of them, though I desperately wanted to. Miss Blaine began to turn away and I followed, thinking that perhaps I was so eager to know them because they were such a contradiction to the flighty female artists I was accustomed to back in Mott Haven—the amiable sort that gathered in parlors giving lectures on novels and writing poems, affecting a love for literature until the topic turned to beaus and marriage. The neighborhood women meant well, but the artists here were serious about their art, and welcoming to boot. Each had put their paintings or notebooks aside to smile elatedly at my introduction.
“There’s one more person I want you to meet and then I’ll take you to John,” Miss Blaine said, squinting through the smoke. I couldn’t figure why she thought me so eager to get to Mr. Hopper, unless she assumed I’d been intoxicated by his mysterious charms like the rest.
“I’m in no hurry, I—” I thought to tell her that my heart had recently been broken and that I hadn’t any interest in Mr. Hopper beyond a friendly acquaintance, but that would be entirely too forward.
We were standing in the middle of the room beneath a chandelier dripping with crystals, wedged between a cluster of writers sharing excerpts from their stories and an artist painting a plain-looking woman with an exceptional nose.
“Have you ever seen Franklin’s portraits?” I asked her, watching the artist dunk his brush into the paint.
“Of course. They’re incredible. He painted me at the last meeting. It’s a shame he can’t focus on his art full-time.” She lifted her gloved hand, running her fingers over her blond hair done up in a fanciful fleur-de-lis coiffure. “My only complaint is that he
was slightly too true to life. He even added the tiny scar above my lip—boating accident.”
“Miss Blaine, how long have you and Franklin been, uh . . .” Unable to define what I didn’t know, I shook my head. “I mean, how long have you known each other?”
“Lydia, please,” she said, squeezing my hand. “And just a month or so.” She pulled at the elaborate ivory silk gauze puff at her shoulder and then looked at me, blue eyes locked on mine. “We met at the last Society meeting and have rendezvoused a few times to visit the picture gallery at the Metropolitan Museum and to play a few games of whist with John, though Frank’s traveling doesn’t seem to allow him much time.” She paused and leaned into me. No wonder Franklin had been so scarce at home. “Miss Loftin, it was one of those things . . . well, I don’t quite know how to explain it, but the moment I met him I felt like I’d known him my whole life.” I knew exactly what she meant, and my chest throbbed. “Oh, there he is.” Lydia’s words jolted me back. She took my wrist, cold fingers digging into my skin. “Tom always hides when he’s writing.” Wondering why this Tom fellow was so important, I looked over my shoulder toward the towering arched windows where I’d last seen Franklin and nearly stepped on a girl sewing some sort of shawl.
“Excuse me,” I said, sidestepping her. I followed Lydia to an alcove adjacent to the drawing room. No larger than a closet, a circle of pink and white stained glass rained tinted starlight on a blond-headed man. His back was to us, pencil scratching furiously against the paper. Lydia cleared her throat. “Tom?” He didn’t turn around but held up his hand instead. “I apologize. He’s so rude,” she whispered.
“It’s fine,” I said, understanding the annoyance that came with being forced to stop midsentence. Suddenly, Tom tossed his pencil down and slapped his hand on the desk, causing a tiny brown glass bottle emblazoned with a Celtic circle knot to tip over and roll into his lap. He snatched it, shoved it into his green windowpane plaid jacket, and spun around. Expecting to be greeted with irritation, I was stunned to find him beaming at me, perfect white teeth gleaming against the dim of the room.
“Hi. I’m Thomas Blaine . . . Tom,” he said. He smoothed the front of his jacket. The sleeve of his right arm was rolled up to his elbow—likely to avoid smudge marks on his cuff—exposing an angry welt on his forearm.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blaine,” I said. “I’m Virginia Loftin.” He rubbed his thumb across the side of his forefinger and I noticed his fingers were rough across his knuckles—calluses from holding the pencil, just like I had.
“Tom’s my brother,” Lydia said. “And Tom, Miss Loftin is Franklin’s sister. She’s a writer, too.”
“You can call me Virginia—or Ginny—please,” I said. Lydia already felt like an old friend.
“Ah, yes. I think I remember Frank mentioning you,” Mr. Blaine said. He dropped his hand to his side and seemed to stumble a bit, though he hadn’t taken a step. I thought of the small glass bottle and wondered if he’d been drinking. It wasn’t uncommon to have a drink or two in a social setting, but it was entirely unseemly to have too much. I’d only seen two people intoxicated in my life—my uncle Richard after my father’s funeral and an old neighbor, Mr. Spivey, who’d consumed so much he’d fallen down his front steps. “I believe I met one of your sisters the other week. She was coming out of the Astors’ place as I was going in.” Mr. Blaine seemed to steady, his blue eyes, identical to Lydia’s, met mine. His cheeks flushed. Apparently something besides simply meeting had occurred.
“Bess?” I asked, knowing without a doubt neither Alevia nor Mae had the capability or desire to discombobulate a man so severely. It wasn’t that Mae and Alevia weren’t as beautiful as Bess—on the contrary, I supposed we were all pretty in our own way. It was that Bess was the only one of us who’d mastered the skill of flirtation.
“Yes. I’m fairly certain that’s her name.” He sighed. “She’s quite lovely.” His face burned deeper against the natural pale of his skin and I coughed, feeling as though the walls of the small room were closing in around me. Mr. Blaine cleared his throat. “At any rate, have you had an opportunity to read your writing for the room?” I opened my mouth to reply that I hadn’t, but he cut me off, continuing to speak. “It’s quite an effective exercise. In fact, I read a bit of my new novel at the beginning of the night. Everyone seemed to find it smart and compelling. Several people begged me to share the next installment as soon as it was completed. I was relieved, though in truth I knew it would be well received. My stories often are and—”
“I’m so thrilled you’ve written another piece,” Lydia thankfully interrupted Mr. Blaine’s exasperating self-praise. “I should like to hear more about it, but we’re on our way to say hello to John.” My lips pressed into a smile.
“Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Blaine,” I said. Lydia led us out of the alcove and into the drawing room.
“Isn’t he amazing?” Lydia gushed. I nodded, knowing I didn’t have the capacity to vocalize a lie at the moment. Though I thought him friendly and pleasant enough—and his passion admirable—I couldn’t stand arrogance in men, especially in artists. “I told Franklin the minute he told me about you that I thought you and Tom would be a good match. You’re both lovely and both writers. It’s important to have similar interests in a marriage, don’t you think?” Her words stunned me. The notion that I’d been paired with someone other than Charlie, even in conversation, filled me with grief. I glanced around the room, across the faces of countless men I’d passed by or met without thought, suitable men who were considered prospects. At once, I could feel sweat prickle my palms. I wasn’t ready. “Virginia?” Lydia shook me and I turned to face her.
“I . . . I agree that he is a nice man,” I stammered, “though it seems that he’s quite taken with my sister Bess. Perhaps they’d be a better match.” Lydia shrugged and exited the drawing room, leading me down a darkened hallway. I was relieved that she hadn’t pressed the matter. Candlelight flickered against the walls and a cool draft floated over me. I shivered. The notion that I was about to entertain a conversation with another bachelor, and a womanizer at that, made my stomach tumble with nerves. I thought to turn around and find Franklin, but Lydia’s hand found mine and led me further down the hall. Without bothering to knock, she opened the closed door. Caught immediately by a bear head on the alternate wall, I stared at its teeth bared in a snarl, barely aware that Lydia had left my side.
“Oh good. I won’t have to come fetch you after all.” Mr. Hopper’s voice echoed across a room that was dark with mahogany walls, leather settees, and red and gold tapestries. His quip reminded me of something Franklin would say, and my unease settled.
“You know, I really didn’t come here to humor you, Mr. Hopper,” I said, avoiding his eyes by following Lydia’s unnecessary path around the perimeter of the room.
“Oh?” He started to interrupt me, but I cut him off.
“I thought I’d asked you, quite nicely in fact, to keep your carriage off of my lawn. I simply came here to tell you that if I see one more divot, I’ll have my gardener yank up all of your beautiful roses and plant them at my house,” I said, raising my voice. I finally looked at him, finding his black leather boots propped lackadaisically on the bronze top of his gargantuan mahogany desk, his hands threaded behind his head. Mr. Hopper’s lips turned up in a grin as he remembered our conversation at the Symphony.
“I’m um . . . I’m going to find Franklin,” Lydia said abruptly. The thought that she was going to leave me unaccompanied made my chest tighten, but I took a breath. Mr. Hopper was a friend of my brother’s, and a man who clearly had the means and charisma to draw the attention of any society woman or famed artist he wished. I was a modest writer from the Bronx with no fortune or acclaim. His interest would not extend beyond that of an acquaintance. I calmed at the thought. I smiled at Lydia and crossed toward Mr. Hopper, pausing in the middle of the room to watch as she made her way back around the perimeter and out of the door. The do
or shut behind me and Mr. Hopper laughed.
“I suppose you find it ironic that I do, in fact, live in a mansion on Fifth Avenue?” he said. I grinned, sinking into a leather chair across from him.
“I suppose you’re right. What was wrong with her?” I asked, wondering why Lydia had taken such great pains to avoid crossing the room.
“What do you mean?” He swung his legs to the floor and set his pen on the desk. “Oh, you mean the way she walked around the room like that? She probably didn’t want to walk on the rug. A very close friend of ours, Will Carter, was found dead in here a few months ago, laid out in the middle of the room. It was a terrible tragedy, and the loss was quite a blow to all of us.” A cloud passed over his face, a pale that eclipsed his jovial countenance. “He was a talented man, a promising sculptor.” Mr. Hopper met my eyes and the color slowly returned to his cheeks. “However, Will’s greatest gift was his humor. He had the solitary ability to pull all of us out of the worst sorts of depressions. Father said it was heart failure that killed him. There was no sign of a struggle, but Lyd found him first.” Somewhat relieved that he hadn’t been murdered, a shiver crept up my spine all the same. I’d just walked across that rug. I swallowed hard, stifling the urge to look over my shoulder.
