“What are they going to do?”
“Ah, excellent question. I don’t know exactly but White was claiming something called gentleman’s privilege on her. I assume that is some sort of bizarre male ritual where one man stakes his claim on a woman and warns all others off.”
“That’s a fair estimation, but what you’re missing is that the woman has to be willing.”
“Jim, honey, we’re talking about Stanford White.”
Thinking, he scratched his right cheek. “I see. You’re right.”
“I have a performance tonight and can’t be there. I can only assume you’re going, am I correct?”
“I had planned to.”
“Good, then it’s your job to look out for the welfare of our friend. Make sure no one slips her one of Stanford’s funny drinks.”
“I’m not a guard, Lillian. I can’t guarantee—”
She got close to him and rubbed his cheek. “Yes, I know, dear, but you will do your best. For me?”
He sighed. “I can never refuse you.”
“You’re sweet. Now run along. I have to prepare for tonight’s performance.”
“That’s five hours from now. What are you doing, building the theater?”
“Jim, Jim, Jim, you’ve been my very good friend for how many years and you still don’t understand what I do? An actor’s work is never done.”
“You’re a bit confused, Lillian. That saying refers to a woman’s work.”
“You’re right.”
A bit staggered by her statement, Diamond Jim took a step back, then pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “That’s a first if I heard it correctly. You did say I was right?”
“Of course, dear, though not entirely. You see, I’m also a woman.”
“I knew you didn’t really mean it. It does beg the question though: aren’t men actors and women actresses?”
“Conventional wisdom agrees with you. However, since we both do the same exact work, I personally see no purpose in identifying the gender.”
“I see. Wrong again.”
“Don’t despair. You’ve got a job to do.”
He responded wearily, “Yes, I know.” He started to leave, then said, “Have a wonderful show tonight.”
“Never say that. Don’t you know how superstitious we actors are?”
“How’s this? I hope the curtain falls on your head.”
Russell laughed. “That’s the spirit, Jim!”
“I’m really in a fog as to what that spirit is. I will try though.”
Diamond Jim left, knowing that his new chore would be difficult to accomplish, if not impossible.
24
There was a standing-room-only crowd at the Mink Gallery—not that there was anyone sitting, but finding room enough to stand comfortably was sometimes problematic. The place was filled with a good deal of the Four Hundred, other wealthy friends of Lance Fuller, art critics, even an element whose main reason for attending was to brag to their friends that they had hobnobbed with the Carnegies, the Rockefellers, and others in the Four Hundred. Of course, the free wine and hors d’oeuvres were a definite plus.
Mary caused a stir when she entered. With her beautiful blond hair up in a bun, her sleek red dress, her pearl bracelet, and her beaded necklace, the only word to describe her look was “Wow!” Many of the Four Hundred were temporarily pulled out of their normal self-involved egocentric malaise and took notice. Stanford White made a beeline to greet her, but Fuller beat him there.
“Mary,” he said, “you look divine.”
“You look surprised, Lance. Did you not think it possible?”
“Much to the contrary, I believe you’re capable of doing anything you want.”
“Thank you. That’s sweet.”
“Yes,” said White, who had reached the two of them and patted Fuller on the back. “Our Lance is a sweet one.”
Mary promptly said, “And how would you classify yourself, Mr. White?”
“I’m many things. Sweet isn’t at the top of the list. If necessary, though, for the right person I can be whatever they want.”
“Are you saying you fulfill fantasies?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Yours or the right person’s?”
“Hopefully both.”
“Well, hope does spring eternal.”
“Ah, I see you’re a fan of Alexander Pope.” She’d referred to a line from one of Pope’s poems.
“I often feel we have a great kinship. He was hunchbacked and Catholic, yet he achieved great things. I’m a woman and Catholic, and thus feel I suffer from the same affliction.”
White continued flirting. “Well, I can assure you that physical deformity has completely eluded you.”
“That’s lovely, though I was speaking metaphorically. Maybe one day you’ll understand.” She turned to Fuller. “Lance, I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to wander around and view your work. At first glance, it all looks spectacular.”
“Certainly, Mary. Be my guest—and you are.”
She smiled. “Always so clever.” And she patted him on the cheek. Before she ventured farther into the gallery, Mary glanced over her shoulder at White. “Good seeing you again, Mr. White. Who knows? Maybe that right person is here tonight.” Then she left them.
White followed her with his eyes, admiring her figure from the rear. “She’s too much woman for you, Lance. Don’t fret. I’ll bring her down to size.”
“I’m warning you, Stanford. Leave her alone.”
White scoffed in his face, chuckling to himself as he walked away.
As Mary moved from painting to painting, the kindest description she could summon for Fuller’s work was “amateurish.” She vowed to keep that evaluation safely locked in her mind. Fuller seemed like such a fragile soul and criticism of that nature might devastate him.
As she was browsing, she saw that she was approaching Andrew Carnegie and his wife, Louise. She had had several encounters with Carnegie. Since she wasn’t part of the Four Hundred, or even the four million, the first had been negative, he making no secret of his disapproval. She had won him over when she saved his life, and now he was recommending clients to her, Gilbert being the latest.
As she approached them, they were whispering to each other, hoping no one would hear. “I think we should buy this one,” he said.
“I can’t hang that in our house, Andrew. It’s dreadful.”
“I’m not blind, Louise. We have to purchase something. We’ll store it in the attic, take it out and hang it when the Fullers visit, then return it to the attic when they leave.”
“I suppose so, though that is by far the ugliest peach I have ever seen.”
Mary arrived to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, it’s so nice to see you.”
“Mary,” responded Carnegie warmly, “you look ravishing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What a lovely dress,” commented Louise. “Quite eye-catching.”
“Coming from you, that’s a great compliment. Thank you.”
“I’ve been overwhelmed lately,” said Carnegie. “Please forgive me for not sending you a note. I was truly upset over your husband’s death. How are you doing?”
“It will take time, but I’ll adjust.”
“You’re a strong woman, Mary. If you ever need anything, Louise and I would be happy to help.”
“That’s lovely, but I don’t think—or at least I hope that won’t be necessary.”
Suddenly she heard a familiar voice from behind her. “Hello, Mary.” She turned.
It was George Vanderbilt, with a woman on his arm. She wasn’t especially pretty, but she was slim, somewhat attractive, and had that upper-crust air of entitlement. Having come from poverty, Mary could easily spot
someone with this quality. The nouveau riche would often try to emulate it, though Mary could always see through the fakers. It came from being a member of a family whose financial struggle, if there had ever been one, was at least several generations removed. Whether they had earned it or not, they expected to be treated with a certain respect, almost an awe, and were outraged when they weren’t. Not all members of the upper crust had this attitude. Some had rejected it. George had, and that was part of the reason she had liked him.
He and Mary had been engaged before she had met Harper, and Mary had had to end it because his parents were threatening to cut him off if he insisted on marrying someone beneath his station. She was positive that in time, a man like him, who was used to having piles of money at his fingertips, would regret their marriage. It was a difficult decision at the time but she felt it was the right one and still did. That didn’t lessen the hurt, and her fond feelings for him, even if they no longer could be classified as love, remained.
“Hello, George. You’re looking well.”
“So are you. I’m so sorry about your husband. How are you?”
“Imagine awful and then multiply it, but I’ll get through it. If nothing else, I’m a survivor.”
“I’m sure you will. I can’t imagine you being bowed by anything.” He turned toward the woman on his arm and made a formal introduction. “Mary Handley Lloyd, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Edith Stuyvesant Dresser.”
Mary extended her hand and they shook. “So nice to meet you, Miss Dresser.”
“Likewise I’m sure, Mrs. Lloyd.”
“You have a wonderful man in George.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” She looked at George and smiled. Edith Stuyvesant Dresser was the great-great-granddaughter of Peter Stuyvesant, who had been the last Dutch colonial governor of New York before the British took over. It was the kind of lineage that New York society loved, and especially the Vanderbilt family.
“I wish you both the greatest happiness.” Mary was being genuine. She had gotten over her breakup with George a while back and just viewed him now as a friend, nothing more.
As George and Edith greeted the Carnegies, Mary took that opportunity to slip away and view the rest of the art. She appreciated art, but she was by no means a connoisseur. However, she didn’t have to be a connoisseur to realize Fuller’s paintings weren’t very good. She felt sorry for him. He was counting on a career as a painter, and though artists, like those in any other profession, can improve over the years, it appeared to her that Fuller had a long way to go before he could even start thinking about making a living at it. There are just so many times you can prevail upon your family and friends to buy your paintings. It occurred to her that maybe the reason his family was taking such a hard stance with him was that they had come to the same conclusion about his talent as Mary had. Of course, George Vanderbilt was a reminder that the Four Hundred families didn’t necessarily use logic to make demands on their offspring. Usually, it involved image and status.
She glanced over at Fuller, who was chatting up a host of guests, including Diamond Jim, the Rockefellers, and the Astors. Caroline Astor was in a sense the reason the term the Four Hundred had been born. Ward McAllister had conjured up that specific number because it was approximately the number of people she could fit into her ballroom.
Fuller turned his head for a moment, just long enough to smile and wink at Mary, who returned his smile and waved ever so slightly. A larger wave would have been too noticeable and might very well have summoned much negative criticism in this snobby group.
“You must be Mary Handley,” a slightly raspy male voice stated. Mary turned to see a very distinguished-looking man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair wearing a very expensive tuxedo. She figured it had probably been made in some shop on Savile Row or even in Paris. Next to him was an elegantly dressed woman about the same age as the man who was wearing a tasteful but expensive diamond necklace and matching bracelet.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You obviously know me and yet I—”
“Allow me to introduce us. We’re Phillip and Hermione Fuller, Lance’s parents.”
“Ah, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Fuller.” Mary extended her hand to shake theirs. It was proper etiquette if the man was distinguished and older. Phillip Fuller easily filled both those qualities. They shook with the customary “Pleased to meet you” and as Mary shook Hermione Fuller’s hand, she said, “Mystery solved. Lance must have pointed me out.”
“It wasn’t necessary,” he said.
“It wasn’t?” Mary said, thinking her lack of upper-crust lineage was somehow showing.
“No, my dear,” Hermione responded. “You see, you’re the only one here we don’t know.”
“Oh,” said Mary, strangely relieved that it had nothing to do with the way she’d behaved or was dressed. “I can see where that would simplify the process.”
“Decidedly so,” said Phillip. “Let me get to the point. I understand our Lance is quite smitten with you.”
“I wasn’t aware of that, but it’s lovely to hear. He’s a good man.”
“ ‘Boy’ might be a better description. He’s well past thirty and still floundering. This art fascination is another pipe dream of his.”
“Have there been others?” Mary asked, his statement having begged the question.
“There was writing at one point, becoming a great novelist,” said Hermione.
“That’s a noble profession.”
“Agreed, if you actually produce work that’s worthy. He gave up after two years. I assume he realized he had nothing to say.”
“That seems like an unfair assessment,” said Mary.
“He’s my son. Don’t pretend to know him as well as we do,” Hermione insisted.
“And then there was his acting phase,” Phillip added.
Hermione shuddered. “Heaven forbid. Thank God that was short-lived. Can you imagine?” She shuddered yet again.
“He deliberately chooses anything and everything he can to avoid making an honest living,” said Phillip.
“If money’s involved, he immediately rejects it,” said Hermione, “except of course if it comes from us.”
“It doesn’t seem as if he’s unwilling to work,” Mary replied. “It takes some people longer than others to find that delicate balance between making money and being fulfilled.”
“Look around,” said Phillip, indicating Fuller’s paintings. “Does it appear he has found his delicate balance as you put it?”
Mary already had formed an opinion about Fuller’s talent and decided that praising his work would stretch any little bit of credulity she had with his parents. “I can’t say he has, but I also can’t say he hasn’t. What I can say is that it’s extremely fortunate he has two loving parents who care so much about him.”
Hermione turned to Phillip. “It’s turned from sad to pathetic. Even his ladylove has no faith in him.”
“I didn’t say I had no faith in him. I essentially said I was pleased the two of you did, which was obviously incorrect. And for your information, I’m not his ladylove. We’re merely acquaintances.”
“This is getting worse by the minute,” lamented Hermione. “The boy’s separation from reality is growing wider and wider.”
“Don’t rush to judgment, Hermione. There is a positive we can extract from this.”
“What could that possibly be?”
“Since there’s no real relationship with Miss Handley here, we don’t have to go through the bother of crushing it.”
Hermione nodded her agreement as Mary said, “So I don’t fit your standards?”
“Be realistic, dear,” Hermione replied. “How could you?”
“How absolutely fortunate then, because you don’t fit mine.”
Mary walked awa
y, leaving them both aghast at the insult she had tossed their way. She felt sorry for Fuller, cast adrift in a world where he wanted to make his own mark but was hopelessly dependent on his parents, who constantly dangled a financial sword above his head. That might be why he always chose professions that were considered on the edge of societal norms even though his talent in those areas might never appear. The root of her empathy lay in her experience with her family and a mother who was constantly negative about her ambitions and choices in life. However, that soon dissipated. No matter what Fuller’s problems might have been, he came from a family that was easily in the top 1 percent, possibly higher, of the world when it came to assets and income. There were too many poor people who lived in shanties or on the streets who also had family problems, often a lot worse, and they had to find a way to exist What was the worst that could happen to him? He’d concede to his parents and wind up unhappy but outrageously rich? That trumped miserable and poor any day. Still, Fuller was a charming and lovely man, and she didn’t like seeing him suffer.
Mary was ostensibly viewing the art while she was lost in this thought process. During that time, Diamond Jim took his leave of the group with whom he was chatting and made his way through the crowd.
“My, you look scrumptious, Mary. I could just eat you up.”
“That’s a scary thought. I’ve witnessed your appetite firsthand.”
He emitted a huge belly laugh. “Good one. You’re quite the cutup.”
“What are you doing here, Jim? Somehow I don’t envision you as an art lover.”
“Really? Blast it,” he said jokingly. “And here I have tried so hard to present a cultured, sophisticated image.”
“Well, you can’t be a success at everything.”
“No, I suppose not.” Diamond Jim turned serious and motioned to Mary. “Come here.” They went to a corner of the room that was momentarily empty and he talked in a low voice, at least the lowest a man like Diamond Jim, who was larger than life and naturally boisterous, could muster. “Actually, besides there being clients and potential clients of mine here, I came because of you.”
Near Prospect Park Page 16
