The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (19 page)

“Surely you know my opinion. I haven't read about Glennard in nearly a year and still think of that passage wondering what became of him,” I said. “Please continue his story.”

“Perhaps I shall,” she said, raising her chin. “And what are you working on? Surely something.” I told her about my rejected story, my struggle to begin a new novel, and about John giving
The Web
to Frederick Harvey. I'd barely spoken of it in case doing so would somehow doom it to failure. I hadn't heard anything from him yet and it had been months. “Oh! This is wonderful news!” Edith pressed a hand to her heart. “I'm only jealous that Mr. Harvey is monopolizing it while I so desperately wish to read it.”

“I wish I could share it with you,” I replied. “I've made a few copies, though I'm afraid I didn't bring them with me tonight. Are you sure that you can't convince your husband to return to the city?”

“Perhaps someday. Teddy is so very fond of Newport. However, I'm planning to return early next year for an extended holiday while Teddy goes on a hunt. Perhaps we could plan to exchange our work then?”

“That's a marvelous idea.” A year seemed like forever. “It will give me ample time to write something new.” Edith bounced up and down on the toes of her embroidered silk heels.

“I'm so very excited. I'm isolated in Newport and—”

“Darling, are you ready?” A man with slicked hair and a straight mustache appeared at Edith's arm. She startled.

“Of course not. I'd live the whole of my life at this Fifth Avenue artists society if I could. But, if you're asking if I'll go home with you, I suppose I'll agree.” Edith extended her hand to him without
a glance his way, and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Until next year, my dear.”

“It was lovely to see you again,” I said. She tipped her head at me and turned, arm in arm with her husband as they wove around a swarm of guests in the middle of the room acting out a play. I turned my attention back to my notebook determined to choose an idea and begin plotting the story, emboldened by the thought that I'd found a female writing companion.

“It's all so sad, isn't it?” Alevia whispered. She appeared from nowhere and I stared at her as she turned from me to survey the room. I was surprised to see her. I had no idea she was coming tonight. Ever since we lost Father, Alevia had been traumatized by the thought of death and tended to avoid the reality of it at all cost. Her fingers curled around her black horsehair mourning bracelet.

“When did you get here?” I asked. Alevia sat down on the same ottoman Lydia had occupied earlier.

“Perhaps thirty minutes ago. Mae sent me down with the Trents' coach to retrieve you and Frank whenever you were ready to go. I only had to play for a few hours at the Vanderbilts'. I didn't realize it was just a dinner. I went over to Mae and Henry's after and then here.” Mae and Henry's residence—the Trents' guest home along the East River—was quaint and warm. I loved visiting them and was glad we were staying with them tonight rather than traveling all the way home.

“How are the Vanderbilts?” I asked. Alevia grimaced as someone began to play the piano, tripping over the notes so that making out the tune was impossible. A man with a loud bass voice started to introduce a story behind us.

“They were kind, as always,” she said, turning back to me. She laughed softly, tucking a stray black strand behind her ear. “Mrs. Vanderbilt kept going on about a tea luncheon she wanted to throw
for a cousin and Mr. Vanderbilt's conversation with Mr. Astor, whatever it was, was putting him to sleep. I tried not to notice because it would make me laugh, but Mr. Astor's eyes kept shutting.”

I caught Tom emerging from the alcove room across to where Alevia and I were sitting. Alevia must have noticed, too, because she smiled.

“He seems all right, thank goodness,” Alevia whispered, as though he could hear us a room away. “Bessie asked me to send her a telegram if we didn't see him tonight. I suppose he's been grieving and she was worried that with the funeral today he'd be inconsolable.” Bessie had remained at the Trents' House in Greenwich following the wedding. She'd been inundated with business as New Yorkers gradually left the city for the summer and thought it would be better to fit and craft the forty or so hats in the country.

“I'm sure she's told you about Tom saying he wanted to marry her at the wedding?” I asked.

“Yes. She's very excited. I told her I was going to attend James Helfenstein's organ recital at Grace Church last Sunday and she asked me to go down to Great-aunt Rose's grave at the VanPelt cemetery in Richmond Town afterward to tell her. I felt a little peculiar going without Bess, but I know that Aunt Rose would be proud. I'm thrilled for them, for her.” She sighed, looking around at the painters and writers and musicians scattered around the room. “I know it's practically blasphemy to say this, but do you ever think that perhaps you don't want to?” Alevia's eyes were cast down at her lap. “Get married, I mean.” I knew it took great courage to admit she felt that way. I'd only dared say it a handful of times myself, though I thought it often.

“After Charlie, all the time. And then when we saw Cherie, I thought that if I had a husband that forbade me to write, I'd die. Now—”

“Why do things have to change?” Alevia blurted, cutting off my confession that I was altogether confused by the prospect of being faced with a proposal. I tried my best to avoid the topic; it was the only way I enjoyed my growing feelings for John—whatever they were. Alevia looked at her hands, at the fingers that had worked tirelessly to make her one of the best pianists I'd ever heard. “I know I've asked the same question before, and I know it's silly, but I miss Mae. And I think that if I had to move away, I'd miss you and Mother and Bessie . . . and the freedom of spending as much time as I wanted with my music.”

“I miss her, too.” Mae had always been my voice of reason when things were overwhelming. Over the past week, I'd headed down the hall to her room twice before realizing she wasn't there.

“Mae has always wanted a family to care for. And she and Henry are both passionate about teaching. Most men still believe that music is a profession that should exclude women. And even if I found one that didn't abide such nonsense, what if I was a better performer than he? What if I was more successful? I'm afraid that sort of reality would mutilate the pride of a man. My dreams could sour a marriage, and I wouldn't forfeit my aspirations to save it.” Alevia took a deep breath. “I suppose I've just been thinking a lot about the Carters and the thought that any day I could drop dead. The thought makes me want to sit down at the piano and never get up.”

“You wouldn't want to spend your final day eating cucumber sandwiches and bragging about your husband?” I laughed, but Cherie's dark and harrowing portrait leapt to mind, a vision of life with the wrong person. I knew there were happy marriages—Mae and Henry's were one of them—but there was a certain type of apprehension that came with marriage when you were a woman and an artist.

“Virginia.” Lost in thought, I looked up to find Tom.

“Hello, Tom,” Alevia said, turning her eyes only briefly from the string quartet tuning next to the piano. Tom grinned at her and then looked back at me. He seemed all right, but I knew he had to be suffering. “I'm glad to see you're holding up. I'm so sorry about Mr. Carter.” I placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“If you must know, I'm fine. Happy even,” he whispered. “Not that I'd tell anyone else because I'd probably go to hell for saying it, but I hated the man. He hurt my sister.” I still didn't know all of the particulars of that relationship and wanted to know for Franklin's sake, for Lydia's.

“Tom, I've been wondering. Whatever happened with—”

“Can you come with me for a moment? I want to show you something.”

“I would be happy to later. Alevia and I are about to listen to the quartet.” I gestured toward Alevia whose brows furrowed as the cellist turned away from the piano, letting the fallboard strike the key bed.

“Actually, it's quite all right if you need to go,” she said. I was surprised at her boldness. She rarely allowed her family to leave her side unless she was playing. “I think I'll speak with that cellist about the care of an instrument as fine as a Weber.” She crossed the room, the ends of the purple ribbon affixed to her black skirt fluttering as she went.

“Good,” Tom said. He walked toward the alcove and I followed, glancing around for Franklin and Lydia. I supposed Frank had taken her someplace to calm down.

A swarm of embellished silk caught my eye, a grouping of ladies gathered around a very handsome dark-haired man who seemed to be enjoying the attention. He was reclining against the fireplace palming one of the carved lions along the legs, smiling as the women laughed at something he was reading.

“Hamilton Revelle.” Tom tipped his head in the direction of my gaze. “Aspiring actor, skillful philanderer.” He coughed. “Ladies always circle around him like ravenous sharks.”

“It seems to me that he wouldn't mind being devoured.”

“That's true.” Tom chuckled, though his merriment seemed strained, almost nervous. “In fact his reputation has been confirmed many times, unlike John's—” He stopped midsentence, cheeks reddening, likely unsure if I'd heard the rumors.

“I've heard. And no, I don't believe it. I know he's a gentleman.” Tom tipped his head and opened the door to the alcove. He collapsed onto the chair, eyes gleaming in the pink and white moonlight raining in from the stained glass.

“What is it, Tom? The suspense is killing me,” I said.

“Well,” he started, sinking back in the chair, “the time has finally come.”

“You're writing to ask Bess to marry you, aren't you?” After all of the chatter I'd had to endure from Bess, I was elated he was going to ask.

“Of course not,” he breathed, nose scrunching as though it were the most asinine question he'd ever heard.

“What do you mean by that?” I snapped. Regardless of our strained relationship, she was my sister. “I asked you a question.” I stepped toward him. “What did you mean by that?” Inches from his face, my hand started to rise at my side, ready to slap him.

“That I'm going to wait until she gets back from the country to ask her?” His eyes went wide and he shrugged as if I'd gone mad.

“Oh.” I backed away.

“I do love her,” he continued, “in case you're wondering, and it won't be long. Heaven knows we won't be able to endure a lengthy engagement either without . . .” Tom bit his lip and looked down. I studied my hands, disgusted by the thought of Tom running his
fingers over Bessie's body. He coughed. “In any case. My news is of a more professional nature.” He turned to the desk, rifled through some papers and withdrew a magazine. He held it out to me—the new edition of
The Century
magazine
.
I stared at the drawing of a colonial streetscape of New York on the front, steeling myself to see his name printed on the page instead of my own. “I just received it in the post today. I thought you should be the first to see it.” I forced a smile at him.

“Thank you for showing me. I'm so very thrilled for you.” I flipped through the magazine, scanning the pages for his name.

“It's on page 158.” He edged to the front of his seat. I found the page and read the title:
The Traitor in All of Us.
There was a small illustration next to it, a woman in a hoop skirt glancing over her shoulder. The drawing was a peculiar accompaniment for the topic he'd chosen. I lifted my eyes from the magazine. Tom's forehead was creased, lips pale. He was nervous for me to read his work, though I couldn't figure why. Mr. Gilder had already sung his praises.

“Did they give you a chance to review the illustrations? It seems strange that they would complement a story about Ben Franklin's wartime spying with a woman dressed in the clothing of my grandmother's time.”

“Oh, no,” Tom said. “I didn't write that story. I mean, I started to, but Ben Franklin's contribution to the post seemed a little dry.” Leaning back in the desk chair, he looked away from me, tapping his fingers on the knobby arm. “Come to think of it, I came up with the idea after one of our conversations. The story is about unity, really, about the humanity of both the Yankees and the Confederates. I used Lincoln and his Confederate relatives to illustrate the point.” I gaped at him, feeling as though the wind had been knocked from my lungs. My eyes fell to the page.

            
Mrs. Emilie Todd Helm was an enemy of our nation. Her soul was for the Southland, stamped with the stars and bars of the Confederacy, and her heart was no different, belonging to a man who died with the blood of Union soldiers on his hands. She was a proud Rebel, unwilling to compromise her loyalty, unwilling to surrender, but in her hour of greatest grief it was President Lincoln's White House, the home of her sister, Mary Todd Lincoln, that offered her sanctuary.

The words were mine. Blood rushed to my head, dizzying my senses. I reached a hand out to steady myself on the wall as the realization dawned on me: Tom hadn't returned my story after he encouraged me to abandon it.

“This is my writing. You stole my work.” My voice was full of rage.

“No, I didn't. I came up with this idea quite on my own.” Ignoring my anger, he swiveled away from me and plucked his pencil from the desktop, twirling it between his fingertips. “Stole your idea,” he scoffed. Before I knew it, I'd launched myself across the room. I snatched his jaw, fingers pinching so hard into his shallow skin I could feel bone.

“Liar,” I snarled. “It is my writing. Every word. You stole it because you knew it was better than yours.” He shook his head to disagree, but didn't try to break free from my grasp. “You'll answer for this. You'll admit it to me and you'll confess to Mr. Gilder.” He still didn't say anything. I tightened my grip on his face.