The Fifth Avenue Artists Society

by Joy Callaway

  “Is Lydia all right?” I whispered to Mr. Blaine.

  “Yes. She finds that run challenging. It’s a gift, you know, to master a craft so easily that you don’t often have to rehearse it.” He cleared his throat. “I attempt to steer away from conversation about my writing with Lydia. My first drafts are typically quite close to perfect, and she has to work so hard at her music. I feel bad for her.” I grimaced at his pompousness, and looked around for Mr. Hopper, but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he’d decided to entertain that woman elsewhere. “I have told her often that my secret is to outline first, to know where your mind should be so that—”

  “Let’s exchange stories now,” I said, before he could enlighten me further. “Do you want to or not?” I asked. His face paled and he rocked into me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t feel well.” He swallowed and straightened his posture, the color returning to his cheeks.

  “Perhaps you should consult with Doctor Hopper,” I snapped. His affliction was clearly self-imposed.

  “No need. I was just a bit dizzy.” He grinned. “I have been quite busy with a new novel idea and haven’t written my story yet, but I would be happy to read yours. I decided on the Ben Franklin piece, in case you were interested. I’ll bring it next time.” Slightly irritated that he hadn’t upheld his end of the bargain, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my story anyway. I knew it was good; I felt pride whenever I thought of it and couldn’t wait to see Mr. Blaine’s reaction.

  He sunk onto a tufted ottoman and began to read. I forced my eyes to the front of the room instead of trying to decipher his facial expressions, knowing that if he so much as furrowed his eyebrows I would worry.

  Alevia was still playing, though the other musicians seemed to have taken a break. A cluster of men and women were gathered around the piano watching her, until she transitioned into the flowing introduction to Charles Everest’s “Beautiful Moon.” Alevia wasn’t overly fond of contemporary pieces, generally preferring the classical greats, but I knew that she enjoyed this song. A powerful alto voice suddenly soared from the crowd around Alevia, “Beautiful moon, thou queen of night, beaming with thy placid light.” My sister grinned as a short, plump woman stepped out of the group to stand beside her, her voice so hypnotizing that the room seemed to silence.

  “Miss Loftin.” Mr. Blaine pulled on the sleeve of my dress. I ignored him, mesmerized by the woman and Alevia. “Miss Loftin,” he said again, this time yanking my chiffon sleeve so hard I fell onto the ottoman and half on his lap. Scooting away, I pulled my eyes from the piano.

  “What is it?” I asked, wishing he’d waited for the song to end.

  “I’ve finished reading.” He shrugged and tossed a bit of hair out of his face.

  “Oh. Good,” I said, wondering if I would gain any insight at all from a man who’d consumed much more alcohol than he could handle. “Go on.”

  “You write spectacularly,” he started. “Your words are vivid; your sentences are beautiful.” He paused and pressed his lips together, drawing them into his mouth and then out again. “However, I’m concerned about the subject matter. Honestly, I find it a bit shallow.” He laughed under his breath. I felt my forehead scrunch, but forced my expression blank. I’d asked for his opinion. I couldn’t show him that he’d already offended me. Great writing required honest criticism and I needed to embrace it. My acceptance of Mr. Hopper’s comments had already made my manuscript stronger. “Emilie Todd Helm, Miss Loftin? She’s barely a blip in history. It’s not as if she fought in the war herself, so her story really had no impact on the American public, beyond making our kind angry. I’d advise against your reading this story here. It’s—”

  “Our kind? What does that mean?” The questions came out too quickly, too defensively, and Mr. Blaine’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, our kind. The Yankees. The victors.” Alevia’s hands lifted from the keys and Mr. Blaine’s last word rang over the quiet that had befallen the room. “Listen, Miss Loftin, I’m not telling you that your writing is bad. It’s truly lovely and you can submit what you want.” He sighed and shook his head. “All I’m saying is that I don’t think a story about an unimportant traitor will be seen in a very sympathetic light by a New York that still very much remembers the war. Hell, The Century’s editor, Richard Gilder, fought the blasted Confederates.” I took a deep breath and let the tension drop from my shoulders. He wasn’t being unnecessarily brutal or trying to offend me by disliking my idea. I’d overlooked the editorial prejudices of the magazine. That was my fault.

  “I suppose you have a point,” I muttered. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said softly, patting my hand. “But I didn’t want you to get turned down on account of the subject matter. It’s already difficult for women to break through, and you’re much too talented. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “Too many. I had a page of them, and then I thought of the story on Emilie. Most of the other topics were also historic women—Anne Bradstreet, Mary Musgrove, Sacagawea, Alexandrine Tinné, Isabella Bird. I suppose I could write about famous women explorers and their lack of recognition in history. Ouch!” Someone slammed into my leg as they shoved through the hordes of people gathered around us. I looked up in time to see the glint of narrowed green eyes beneath cropped curls. Charlie? I blinked a few times, certain I was seeing things. Craning my neck over a group of violinists behind me, I could barely see the man anymore, but watched the motion of his shoulders, familiar and broad, as he pushed through the crowd. “Mr. Blaine, excuse me. I’ll be back.” On my feet in an instant, I went after him. I knew that I shouldn’t. I’d never pursued him before, purposefully leaving our fate in his hands, but he was here.

  “Charlie!” He was only a few feet in front of me. Lunging toward him, I snatched his wrist, half praying I had it wrong, half praying it was him. “Charlie!” He stopped under the arched doorway leading into the drawing room. Fingers drawn into fists, he didn’t try to sling my hand away, but paused for a moment, then turned to face me.

  “There you are, Gin.” His voice was low and breathy. He looked almost as miserable as when we’d stood in Mother’s room—eyes watery with emotion and fatigue, bags hanging loose and dark at the base of them. I wouldn’t feel sorry for him.

  “What are you doing here?” I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his hands on my back as he’d held me, hearing the desperation in his voice when he’d told me he loved me. He gently pulled his wrist from my grip and stared over my head at the chandelier.

  “I’m . . . I’m having trouble. The Times wants my drawings and Valentine and Sons has asked me to try my hand at etching for their penny cards—”

  “What could possibly be the trouble with that? Charlie, that’s wonderful!” Illustrating the news and creating card company prints wasn’t the same as collaborating with a writer as he’d always dreamed, but it was a step toward it.

  “I can’t. I can’t concentrate . . .” he stuttered. His jaw clenched and he took a ragged breath. “I went by your house. Your mother said I would find you here.” After everything, I was surprised Mother had told him where I was. No one save Franklin had mentioned Charlie or Mrs. Aldridge since his engagement unless I’d brought one of them up. It was as if the moment he’d broken my heart, the Aldridges ceased to exist to my family. “I must go. I’ll miss my train.” He’d been on his way out—in a hurry—when I’d caught up to him. He’d come looking for me, but changed his mind.

  Charlie stared down at me. His mouth opened as if he was about to say something else, but didn’t. Instead he twisted the wedding band on his left hand and closed his eyes, likely trying to contain emotion he didn’t want to show. Before I could stop myself, my hand lifted to his cheek, palm flat against the spiky stubble. Instantly angry with myself, I pulled my hand away, forcing my arms to my sides.

  “Charlie, I’m—”

  “I-I can’t,” he whispered to himself. Charlie’s eyes flashed wi
th something I couldn’t place and he stepped away from me. Turning to walk into the elaborate foyer adorned with a cornice of spiral rose vines and a twin chandelier dripping with crystals, he strode toward the door without a glance back.

  “Wait!” I ran onto the porch, following him, but he was already halfway down the block. Pitching my satin skirt to my ankles, I flew into the darkness of the vacant street, hearing the heavy glass door click into the gilded iron frame behind me. “Charlie!” He kept walking without looking back, a figure vanishing then reappearing in the flickering glow of the Fifth Avenue streetlamps. “Charlie, stop!” My voice echoed against the brick and limestone. Finally stopping, he turned around, but didn’t look at me, staring down at the toe of his Balmoral boots instead. I wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d come back to me—I’d learned that lesson last time—but I deserved to know why he’d sought me out, why he’d come all the way in from the country to find me.

  “Where are you going?” I said when I reached him. I forced a smile to break the tension, but he didn’t return it.

  “I can’t . . . shouldn’t be here, Gin.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Surely you haven’t been exiled from Manhattan.” I laughed.

  “Nothing. Nothing makes sense anymore,” he said softly, ignoring my teasing. Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets, scuffing his boots along the road. I sobered.

  “Look at me.” He complied, eyes still watery with whatever had driven him to find me in the first place. “Has something happened?”

  “No!” he barked. I flinched at his tone, and stepped away from him, but he grabbed my hand.

  “If nothing’s happened, then why were you looking for me? Why did you come here?” I yanked my hand from his grasp and his eyes tapered.

  “I don’t know!” he yelled. Charlie drew a deep breath. “I won’t argue with you, Gin. Not tonight.” He stared up at the cloud-streaked moon and then back down at me. The streetlamps’ flame cast shadows on his face. “Nothing at all has happened, but I just thought if I could see you, Ginny, if I could talk to you, I could find clarity, everything would be all right.” He leaned into me, eyes holding mine as if he were about to tell me he couldn’t live another day without me, but I knew better. I’d been here before. I didn’t owe him anything, and yet, it was as if I had no other option. His thumb drifted across the back of my hand and my fury crumbled.

  “I’m here.” My free hand found his jacket and his palm closed over it. Shutting his eyes, he wrapped his arms around me. I could feel his breath against my ear, and let my head drop to his chest. He sighed and pulled away from me, but just barely.

  “I know I’m not making any sense, but nothing about my life makes sense anymore. I can’t draw. She consumes me. She’s stolen every thought, every moment.” My fingers went slack in his clutch, the elation of seeing him quickly deadening. His grip tightened around my hand. “Ginny, I’m worthless . . . so worthless. I . . . I miss you.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. He had just told me that he loved someone else. He couldn’t possibly miss me. “You’re worth at least three thousand.” Charlie’s eyes widened and he dropped my hand. “Surely you’re happy. Surely the money made up for your loving me.” He grit his teeth and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black wool overcoat.

  “It’s getting late. I need to go. My wife will be worried.” His voice was emotionless and dry and he started to walk away. “I never should have come. This was a mistake.” I opened my mouth to say something sharp, but nothing came, so I stood in the shadow of a turret, watching him go until he finally disappeared into the night.

  Back inside, I began to wander aimlessly through the room, past clusters of guests laughing and appraising art, while the writers next to them kept their heads down scribbling and solitary artists mixed paints or brushed careful strokes on their canvases.

  “Miss Loftin. You’ll do.” Recognizing the thin man with the curling mustache as Mrs. Wharton’s friend Mr. Daniels, he motioned for me to follow him toward a group of people clearly in the middle of a heated discussion. “Oscar is trying his hand at writing a play and there’s some conflict about the main character. His reading spurred quite a disagreement. We need one more person’s opinion to break the tie on the matter,” he explained as we neared. Having no idea who Oscar was, but figuring I’d met him at some point in Lydia’s series of hurried introductions the first time, I nodded.

  “All right. Should I know anything about the play before—”

  “Thank you for so kindly settling this dispute. I’m Oscar Wilde, and you are?” A man with a long face tipped his head at me and I stared, stunned that I was standing before the famed Oscar Wilde. His lips turned up and he straightened under a peculiar red velvet cape tied around his neck with a silk ivory bow.

  “Mr. Wilde,” I said when I found my voice, “I’ve just read The Picture of Dorian Gray and—”

  “Ask her,” Mr. Daniels said, nudging Mr. Wilde and interrupting me. I hadn’t even introduced myself. The two women beside him, clearly sisters judging by their identical swarms of black hair and cat-like eyes, looked angry—arms crossed, mouths pressed into twin scowls. Mr. Wilde cleared his throat and pushed a lock of wavy shoulder-length hair behind his ear.

  “My main character conceals an indiscretion from his wife, a business dealing made when he was young. It happened many years prior to their marriage and he is ashamed of it, but his fortune was made as a result,” he said, his Irish lilt rising and falling with the words. He flipped his wrist. “As with most dishonorable transactions, it surfaces years later and he’s forced to tell his wife. She’s angry. Should she forgive him?” His eyebrows rose with his question and the women stared at me, waiting for my reaction. Stunned that Oscar Wilde was asking my opinion, still reeling from seeing Charlie, I shook my head.

  “I don’t know. You’re correct that he’s at fault,” I said. The women started to nod, thinking they’d won, but I wasn’t finished. “But I think it would depend on her love for him and if her love could triumph her anger.”

  “Hear, hear!” Mr. Daniels shouted.

  “Thank you for convincing me that I’m not crazy after all,” Mr. Wilde said. He took my hand, turned it over, pushed Mother’s gold linked bracelet to the top of my wrist, and kissed my palm. It was a strange gesture, but he was famously unconventional. “That is exactly what she does eventually. She forgives him.”

  “I’m glad for it,” I said, avoiding the glare of the others. “It was lovely to meet you. If you’ll excuse me.” I circled toward the windows, toward Franklin and the musicians who’d begun to play again, this time Vivaldi’s Winter. I looked back once, astonished that I’d just met Oscar Wilde. Thinking on his question made me wonder about Rachel, how she would react if she knew of Charlie’s motivation for marrying her. I forced the thought from my mind, craning my neck over the crowd in the hopes of spotting Alevia and Franklin.

  A glass pressed to the back of my hand. I inhaled the exotic scent of cloves and gardenia in Mr. Hopper’s cologne and surveyed the amber contents in the crystal tumbler.

  “I couldn’t. Not in front of all of these people,” I said, gesturing around me. “But thank you. They’ve put on quite a performance tonight.” I wanted to ask where he’d been and if he’d had an enjoyable time entertaining that woman, but I nodded toward the musicians instead.

  “Please come with me right now.” I stared at Mr. Hopper, half-expecting him to burst into laughter, but he didn’t. His face was stony, square jaw tipped away from me as though he couldn’t bear to look into my face.

  “Why?” I whispered, but he’d already started to walk away. I trailed him from the drawing room down the hallway, mousseline de soie along the hem of my new dress shuffling along the wood floor. The burning sconces along the wall cast flickering light across his back. In the hours since the opera, something had come undone. His black jacket was rumpled, hugging tensed muscles, and his hair stuck out in the back as though he’d been pu
lling on it. I followed him into the study.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. Mr. Hopper’s lips dropped into a scowl. He leaned across his desk and grabbed my notebook, raising it in front of me. I wasn’t near finished, but had given him a few chapters to see what he thought.

  “This. This is what’s wrong,” he said, slamming the notebook on the table. I rolled my eyes, unsure what I could’ve written that would’ve upset him so much.

  “Why? What’s the trouble?” I sat down in the leather chair, thinking through the early chapters. There was nothing of offense. Unwilling to look at him, I glanced over his head at the absurd portrait of his father. Mr. Hopper didn’t answer, so I sighed, and met his narrowed eyes.

  “He will not get away with this.” He started toward me, thought better of it, and crushed his fist to the desktop. He’d lost his mind. I started to stand.

  “If my characters have upset you, then by all means, don’t read the book,” I said, anger drumming in my chest. He wasn’t making any sense. “It’s a novel, Mr. Hopper. Please don’t allow a fictional character to get you so out of sorts.” He barked out a laugh.

  “Surely you don’t take me for that much of a fool.” Mr. Hopper’s brown eyes, usually so alight with gold, were nearly black. His lips pressed together, gaze steady on mine. “You told me it wasn’t based on your life, but your character, Carlisle, is Charlie Aldridge.” He didn’t stutter or mince words as Charlie had an hour earlier. Mr. Hopper wasn’t asking. He was telling. My breath caught.