The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (11 page)

“I know how it feels,” I said, remembering the light-headed feeling that always came when Charlie was close. The hair along my arms rose remembering the first time he'd held me. It had been at a ball celebrating Cherie's engagement about four years back. I'd been occupied most of the night by Cherie's much older, though handsome, cousin, Andrew Emerson, and had been quite taken with him—until Charlie, at the conclusion of our sixth dance, came behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me away. To this day, I'm unsure if Charlie was jealous of him or just tired of making small talk with well-meaning women, but I could still smell the wood smoke in his hair, the musky scent of exertion on his skin, and knew I hadn't taken a breath while we'd danced.

“Mr. Blaine must've asked Mrs. Astor where I lived, because I received a letter the following day asking if I'd meet him to walk along the High Bridge.” Bessie smiled, ignoring me.

“And you went? You didn't tell any of us. You didn't even know him.” My forehead scrunched, wondering how in the world she'd talked herself into meeting a stranger alone.

“He's a Blaine,” she said. “I knew he'd do me no harm.” I forced my lips into a grin to keep from groaning, knowing if William Hughes down the street had asked the same, she'd find it insulting.

“He's already done you harm,” I said evenly. “You've compromised yourself and your reputation by . . . well . . . doing whatever you were doing when Lydia caught you.” My face was hot and Bess laughed.

“That's ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “We were only kissing.” Bessie looked down and I knew then that she'd done much more than that. “Surely nothing you haven't already done with Charlie.”

“He's never kissed me,” I said softly. He'd never tried. Regardless of his supposed love for me, I'd been easy to resist. “And he's certainly never seen me undressed.” I said it slyly to see if she'd take the bait and she did, hands bunching nervously in her blue skirt.

“He . . . he only lifted my skirt to my knees. I stopped him after that even though I wanted him to . . . I didn't want to stop him,” Bessie stuttered. I gaped at her as she swallowed hard, composing herself. “To be honest, I would've married him then and there and still would. He's impossible to refuse. I'm not sure I'll be able to the next time.” I didn't understand how she'd fallen prey to him. His egoism was hardly charming.

“If that's the case, then stop putting yourself in those kinds of positions,” I said.

“I want him, Gin, and I'll have him. I'll marry him,” she said fiercely, jolting forward in the chair as if someone had pushed her. “This is my chance, don't you see? My opportunity to be happy, to stop working so hard. Please don't take him from me.” I looked at her as if she'd just sprouted antlers, wondering what in the world she was talking about.

“Why would I?” I grimaced and shook my head. “I don't find him the least bit appealing.” Bessie's blue eyes widened at my words.

“Really? He mentioned that Lydia had introduced the two of you at one of Mr. Hopper's little get-togethers a few months back—something neither you nor Franklin had the decency to invite me to—because Lydia thought you'd be a good match for him.”

I shrugged.

“That's Lydia's opinion.” I couldn't imagine having to listen adoringly to Mr. Blaine's narcissistic stories for the rest of my life.

“Maybe you're telling the truth, but I think that Charlie's broken your heart so badly you'll try anything to get over him.” I bristled. She knew nothing of how I felt. She hadn't bothered
to ask. “I've got to get down to O'Neill's to pay for the order that Mrs. Goelet just canceled.” Bessie stood up so quickly that the chair tipped backward, then dropped into place with a clatter. I knew she was hurt and didn't mean it, but her words stung. Her affection had been disregarded once before by George Vanderbilt, a man she had no business loving in the first place. Mistaking his kindness at parties for interest, she'd convinced herself that he loved her despite the disparity between our status and theirs—until it was announced that he'd proposed to Edith Dresser, a wealthy distant cousin of Charlie's. Bess was just afraid of being overlooked again.

I looked down at my scrawl in the notebook in front of me and thanked God for my passion for something other than the futile pursuit of men. I hadn't even chased after Charlie. Love was something I couldn't control, but I
could
control my words, and I planned to make something of them.

Hours later I was in the same place, reading over the same sentence, thinking about how I'd react if Charlie came back to me years later. I couldn't just throw this revision together hoping it would be better than the first. I needed to know it would be. I couldn't bear another brutal critique from Mr. Hopper.

“Ginny? Are you all right?” I turned toward the door to find Alevia looking at me, head tilted to the side at my unblinking stare out of the windows in front of me.

“Of course. I was just thinking,” I said. Alevia leaned forward, craning her neck over my shoulder to glance at my notebook.

“Writer's block.” She shook her head, fiddled with the single drop pearl on her necklace.

“Not quite. I'm trying to figure out where I want it to go next,” I said.

“Oh, I see. The same thing happens to me when the music doesn't flow. I can't play.” I smiled at her, doubting this happened
very often, if at all. You could set about any piece in front of her and she'd play it flawlessly the first time. “Sometimes I play best when I'm in the warehouse at Estey. No one can hear me over the noise of the machines, so I just play through the wrong notes and bad tuning. That's where I figure it out. Maybe you need a change of scenery.” I knew she was right. I'd confined my work to my bedroom for far too long. “It'll come to you.” Alevia patted my back. For years she'd traveled down the block to the Estey Piano Factory once a week to test their pianos. I knew she'd started doing it as a favor for Mother and Father's friend John Simpson, who'd needed someone at the beginning of his and Jacob Estey's venture in the Bronx. After they were on their feet, Alevia had continued going for the money—or so I'd thought. I'd had no idea that she actually enjoyed it. “And if that doesn't work, try writing something else. Give yourself a break and then come back to it.”

“Maybe I'll try,” I said, and she smiled, brown eyes warming. “When's your next audition with the Symphony?”

“I'm not sure,” she said softly. “Lydia said that she hasn't had an opportunity to speak with Damrosch about it yet. It'll be a wonderful opportunity whenever it happens.”

“It's going to happen.”

“I hope so, Gin. I really do.”

After another hour of staring at the wall, I started down the stairs thinking I'd take Alevia's advice after all. I could hear her playing in the drawing room, the quick notes of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 15 flying through the air.

I pulled my grandmother's old mink coat over my shoulders and walked two miles to the library in the blistering cold. I tipped my head at the librarian, Miss Gills, and made my way to the new Brittanica encyclopedias. If I couldn't think through my novel, I could at least attempt to find a topic for the story I'd submit to
The
Century.
The Century
was known for its emphasis on history, especially little-known stories painting a romantic picture of American life. When dusk came, I left the library with a page of ideas from the historic importance of Anne Bradstreet's poetry to the story of Mary Musgrove. I had no idea which subject to choose, but at least I had a start.

I was exhausted when I reached home, but I made my way down the hall toward the parlor, thinking that I'd sit in Father's rickety old chair in hopes of conjuring his storytelling prowess. Passing the kitchen, I laughed at Mother covered in flour, mixing dough in a copper bowl. She glanced up, wiped the flour from her eyelashes, and pointed to a loaf pan in the open oak cupboard. The glass flour canister had tumbled over on the top shelf and white dust sprinkled down the ledges, pooling on the floor. I started to wipe the shelves, but Mother grunted and gestured to the loaf pan again.

“Have you lost your voice, or are you thinking of going into miming?”

She smiled and swabbed the flour from her face, taking the pan from my hand.

“Lord knows I can't stand to keep silent, but perhaps I should give it a try.” She laughed. “It would make good sense for me to do something in the arts. My children are so very talented, but everyone knows your gifts come from your father, while your determination comes from me.” She winked. From time to time she'd tell us of her childhood attempts at drawing and poetry and music. The stories were always amusing. Her parents had hired the best tutors, sure that their daughter had some sort of artistic talent that would woo a society man to her side, but Mother had always purposely failed, choosing instead to occupy her time teaching her dolls to read or write.

Mother spooned the sourdough batter into the pan and reached out to clutch my wrist. She glanced at the notebook in my hand and then looked up at me. “I know that your father understood your writing in a way I never will. Your soul is identical to his, just as Mae's is to mine, but I want you to know that I'm just as proud of you as he was, Virginia.” Her eyes glistened and she released me.

“Thank you, Mother.” I rested a hand on her back, on the worn checkered fabric, and headed for the parlor. Passing the dining room, I caught the small gold frame on the buffet as I went by. It held the only photo I'd ever seen of my parents together, standing side by side against the front door. They'd both always heralded their instantaneous love, saying that fate placed them beside each other on the ferry to Randall's Island that day. Father was going to meet his friends to fish and Mother was late for a family picnic. Neither of them made it to their obligations, choosing instead to ride back and forth from Manhattan to Randall's Island until the ferry stopped running. It had nearly killed my mother when he died. I wondered if love like that could occur even after two people broke each other's hearts. I wanted to think it couldn't, but I knew deep down that even though the tainted shadow of betrayal would never fully disappear, I would consider it if Charlie came back to me. The thought made me angry, more at myself than at him, but it was honest and I'd have to be honest if I was going to write about us.

I reached to push the door to the parlor open, but froze at the sound of Mr. Trent's voice. He finished his sentence and I heard my sister respond, her high pitch an indistinguishable blur to my ears.

“I know, my dear,” he continued, “but I have to tell you so that you know, even if you insist the past doesn't matter.” I could see them through the crack in the door. Mr. Trent's lanky frame was bent toward Mae across from him, dark heads nearly touching across the coffee table. I knew I should walk away but my feet
refused to move. If he was about to tell her something awful, I'd need to know so that I could comfort her. Mae sighed and reached to hold his hand. I knew that she wasn't being dishonest; she really didn't care about his past. She'd always been that way, loving people for who they were at the moment. Mae whispered something to him. He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek and then bent forward to kiss her forehead. Leaning away from her, he kept hold of her hand and looked at her seriously.

“I've been married before.” He said it so quickly that it took me a moment to process the sentence. His face was ashen and Mae withdrew her hand to stand up and cross to the window. She turned to face Mr. Trent when she reached the windowsill, the afternoon light catching her brown hair. Her forehead was creased in thought, but she smiled at him. He made a coughing noise as if he were choking.

“I was young.” His voice was wracked with a tension that wavered with forced steadiness. “So was she. It was w-when Father and I were living in Vermont, when I was helping with his doctoring.” He ran a hand through his hair, then dipped his head, holding his face in his hands. “Miss Loftin . . . Mae, I love you,” he said abruptly and she nodded, still smiling, though I thought I saw tears in her eyes. “Her name was Emily. Father treated her mother for an infected wound and I helped. They . . . Father and her mother, I mean, thought we'd be a good match. I found her enjoyable and pretty, so I married her.” Mae's face drained at the last bit and she began to fidget, lifting her wrist to stare at the brass button on the cuff of her hunter green sleeve.

“What happened?” Mae whispered, unable to look up from her hands.

“She's . . .” Mr. Trent cleared his throat loudly and coughed. “She's dead, Mae. So is our daughter. They died in childbirth.” Mae
looked at him, eyes wide in horror. I clapped my hand over my mouth. Mae moved from the window, crouched down next to him, and clutched both of his hands.

“I'm sorry. So, so sorry,” she whispered. “Your poor wife and child.” The hair along my arms stood on end. It wasn't that I hadn't heard of women dying in childbirth, it was fairly commonplace—but it had never happened to anyone close to me, and the thought of it swept over me like a frigid wind.

“Thank you,” Mr. Trent said softly. “It was a few years ago.” He was crying now and Mae lifted her hand to wipe his cheeks, letting the tears she'd been holding back escape her own lids. He sniffed and pulled her up from the floor, gathering her to him. “Mae, she's not my wife anymore,” he said, smoothing a stray tendril back from her face. “And I loved her like a husband should, but I love you so differently, so completely.” My heart warmed. Ashamed to be eavesdropping on a conversation so tender, I walked toward my father's study, thinking that if Mr. Trent didn't ask her to marry him right then, it wouldn't be long.