The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (6 page)

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 door 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.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said, though the sentiment was insufficient.

“It's all right. He'll always be with us, really.” Mr. Hopper leaned back in his chair. My eyes drifted over his shoulder to a portrait of a gentleman in Union army garb. I laughed.

“What?” He leaned forward.

“No, I apologize. My amusement was misplaced. I was just looking at that portrait there. He's smiling.” John looked over his shoulder. Though it wasn't uncommon to see a slight grin on the closed lips of a few portrait subjects, I had yet to see a portrayal quite like this one. His lips were parted, exposing a row of square teeth.

“Yes. You wouldn't be able to tell it without the beard, but that's my father. His mother asked him to sit for a nice, serious portrait. As you can see, it turned out quite well.” He grinned at me, holding my gaze. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight, Miss Loftin?” He stood and rounded the desk. He was doing it again, the same thing he'd done at the Symphony. I couldn't tell if it was his tone, his proximity, or the use of my name, but in the course of
a few moments, he'd made me feel at ease, as though he knew me and was genuinely interested in my response.

“Very much. Though I have to admit I'm overwhelmed, in a good way. My limited exposure to artist gatherings has consisted of ladies' groups, and—” Mr. Hopper coughed. “I don't mean to discount them,” I said quickly. “It's only that they're not serious about writing. It's a pastime until they procure a proper husband, which isn't a dishonorable goal in the slightest, but . . .” I stopped. I didn't want to appear as though I thought myself superior, or come off as one of those women who looked upon marriage as declared warfare.