The Fifth Avenue Artists Society (9 page)

“Glennard dropped the
Spectator
and sat looking into the fire.” The reading began. I was thankful for the interruption. “The club was filling up, but he still had to himself the small inner room, with its darkening outlook down the rain-streaked prospect of Fifth Avenue.” She read with feeling. The scene reflected not only in her words but also in her face. “It was all dull and dismal enough, yet a moment earlier his boredom had been perversely tinged by a sense of resentment at the thought that, as things were going, he might in time have to surrender even the despised privilege of boring himself within those particular four walls.” She looked across all of us, and then her lips turned up. “And that is all I have, I'm afraid.” Everyone remained silent for a
moment longer before the first bold soul offered an opinion. Soon the rest of her audience surged forward, and the sound of comments and praise were lost to the hum of the room. I remained standing where I was, reveling in the scene she'd created, wishing she'd written more. Her prose was so lovely and immersive, I'd felt as though I'd been in the room with Glennard.

After her audience had gone on to the next reading or painting, I made my way toward her. I tried to think of something critical to say, but was unable come up with anything. I wasn't going to be at all helpful in my critique. At first listen, it was perfect. I thought of my muddled manuscript in Mr. Hopper's drawer and cringed at the dissonance between the seamless brilliance of what she'd just read and my words.

“It's an exquisite start,” I said loudly, my voice projecting over the small orchestra that had once again started playing. I felt like a fraud. What did I know of novel writing? I'd only just written one terrible draft myself. Bent over her friend Mr. Daniels's shoulder, squinting at his notepad, she jolted up, and plastered a hand to her heart.

“Good Lord, you startled me.” She laughed and turned back to Mr. Daniels. “I like it. I really do,” I heard her say to him, “but I can already tell where it's going. Sophie is going to choose Joseph over Harold, am I right?” He nodded and frowned at the page. “My advice? Even them out a little. Don't make Joseph such a catch and Harold such a dolt and it'll be wonderful,” she continued. “Now if you'll excuse me.” Turning, she grinned at me and nodded to a space near the doorway.

“Thank you for your sincerity, Mrs. Wharton,” Mr. Daniels called out behind us and she nodded at him as we walked away. Edith, I remembered suddenly. That was her name.

“All right. Be honest,” she said when we stopped. “I'm eager to hear the opinion of another female writer. The general consensus
seemed to be that it was satisfactory, but I'm not so sure. Is it compelling enough?”

“I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help,” I started. “I don't have much to say other than I wanted to read more. I was there. I was in that room with Glennard.”

“Oh wonderful! That's exactly what I was after. Thank you.” Mrs. Wharton clapped her hands. She bundled her stack of papers under her arm and began to walk toward the door, but I stopped her.

“Are you sure you don't live in town?” I asked stupidly. She cocked her head at me, no doubt wondering what I was after by asking. “It's just . . . I wish you did. I'd love to read more of your story and hear your thoughts on mine. There aren't many of us and it was so nice to run into you.” I was babbling, but meant what I said. It had been evident by the crowd gathered around her and in the words of the young girl I'd stood beside that her poetry had already made its mark. I'd never been in the company of such a promising female writer, and found myself inspired. I knew the world would someday know her name. When it did, I wanted to be there alongside.

“Oh.” She laughed under her breath. “Believe me, I wish I did, too. I lived here before I got married and used to treasure these meetings. Being around this many artists is good for the soul.” Gripping my hand, she smiled and let go, walking into the foyer. “It was lovely to meet you. Thank you again, Miss Loftin.”

I turned and shuffled back into the drawing room yawning. Squinting, I spotted Mr. Hopper leaning against one of the bookshelves, book between his fingers. He caught sight of me and beckoned me over.

“Do they ever get tired and go home?” I asked loudly, attempting to speak over the instrumentalists now playing what sounded like Bach.

“Eventually,” Mr. Hopper said, grinning into the room.

“I just met the most talented writer, Mrs. Edith Wharton,” I said. “Do you know her?”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Hopper said, shrugging. “I don't recognize the name, but might know her face. Did you have an enjoyable talk with Tom?” I didn't say anything, so Mr. Hopper turned to look at me, grimacing at my pursed lips and tapered eyes. “Sorry.” Chuckling under his breath, he shrugged.

“That's all right. I'm just being dramatic. It wasn't bad, really,” I said, shaking my head. “We're going to exchange work and it was nice to talk about publication. I could do without the boasting, though.”

“Perhaps you should work on your own bravado,” Mr. Hopper nudged me. “It's quite irritating, I'll admit, though I'm glad talking with him was helpful. Come, let's find Frank. It's late and he's probably been looking for you.” The thought of the hour made me fretful. Mother had always been clear that we weren't to ever be out past eleven, and that was only permitted if we were attending a performance. As glad as she'd been for me to attend the Society with Frank, I doubted she'd dismiss my absence in the wee hours of the morning if she woke to find our beds empty.

We walked past two people gathered under the chandelier. I looked over the shoulder of the taller man to find he'd almost completed a painting of the room. The heavy cloud of smoke had been left out of his depiction and the details of the room—the flames licking the etched fireplaces, the flying angels along the ceiling—were accurate and vivid behind the immaculately garbed crowd and the obvious focus on a lovely brunette woman tucked against the wall across from us. Mr. Hopper leaned into me as we walked past. “He might as well take advantage of the view while he can,” he whispered, nodding toward the woman who was sitting alone, legs pressed against the wall as though she'd like to dissolve into it.

“Who is that?” I asked. She looked familiar, naturally flushed cheeks atop pouty lips. I looked away when she noticed me staring.

“Maude Adams. I'm shocked she's here.”

“The actress?” I asked, recognizing her easily upon second glance. Her face was often plastered on the front page of the papers. She'd been on the stage since a child, most recently playing Dora Prescott in
Men and Women
.

“Yes. I haven't seen her off the stage in some time—I don't think anyone has.” Mr. Hopper lifted his hand to wave at her, but she blushed and turned to face the wall.

“Really? Why?” The hum of the cello beneath the high staccato notes of the violin grew louder as we neared and Franklin materialized beside me.

“Where've you been? I've circled the room at least five times looking for you.” Frank grinned at Mr. Hopper and I yawned.

“Talking to Mr. Hopper in the study and then Mr. Blaine and another author for a bit,” I said, when my jaw finally settled back into place. Franklin's nose scrunched.

“I'd avoid going in there if I were you. Someone passed on in that room a few months back,” he whispered to me, eyeing Mr. Hopper out of the corner of his eye.

“I'm well aware. It was a dear friend of Mr. Hopper's and Lydia's,” I said.

Mr. Hopper crossed the room, toward Maude Adams, leaving Franklin and me to watch Lydia as she played. Her eyes were closed, brows lifting and dipping with the inflection of the notes, fingers flying along the fingerboard.

“Why didn't you tell me about her?” I kept my focus on Lydia, but felt Franklin's eyes on my face. I glanced at him, realizing he was actually looking over my head at Mr. Hopper as he attempted to talk to Miss Adams.

“It wasn't that I didn't want to,” he said. “But she's . . . unlike any woman I've ever met. She is eccentric and fierce, unguarded. I didn't know quite what our relationship would become.” He looked at me. “You are so devoted to me, to my happiness. I couldn't introduce the possibility without knowing for sure.”

“Are you in love?”

“Yes,” he said simply, and turned his eyes back to Lydia, smiling as he watched her play. “Like you are in love with—” He stopped midsentence and looked at me. “I didn't think, Gin. I'm sorry,” he said quickly. I reached to squeeze his hand, realizing that this time my heart hadn't plunged to my stomach.

“It's all right,” I said, but he shook his head, draped his arm across my shoulders and took my other hand. He clutched my fingers hard and stared at me.

“You'll not lose the next one,” he said evenly. “I can't imagine if I lost . . . it's only been a short time.”

“I'm all right, Frank,” I protested, attempting to turn away, but his arm constricted around me.

“You're not, but you will be and you'll love again.” He cleared his throat and his eyes narrowed, boring into mine. His jaw locked, lips pressed together in determination. “But I swear it, Gin, you'll not lose another on account of money. I will not let that happen.”

T
he sun shone on the coral wallpaper. I lifted my cup to my lips and swallowed, gritting my teeth at the bitter tea that had grown cold over the past hour. I was beginning to think coming to visit our former neighbor, Cherie Smith, had been a mistake. To start, it had taken several hours for all of us to get here—a lengthy carriage ride, passage on a ferry to Rye Beach, followed by another carriage ride—and we had yet to see anyone beyond the maid.

“I can't believe she dragged us up here. I'd like to see her, truly, but so far this is a waste of a day,” Bessie whispered from across the room. She fiddled with the peacock feather on her hat, smoothing the golden strands along the edges. “I could've been working on my third attempt at Consuelo Vanderbilt's toque.” Bessie's eyes rolled. “I certainly hope Alva's conjecture was right—that the other families will envy Consuelo's hat and will begin ordering pieces for their children, or all of this work is in vain.” She withdrew four scarlet ibis feathers from her bag and began to slowly bend one into
the form of a Christmas rose. I'd watched her attempt to create several unsuccessfully. Scarlet ibis spines were much too rigid to make the task an easy one. Mae snorted beside me.

“I was looking forward to seeing Cherie, too, but as I'm missing Mr. Trent's first grammar lecture at the orphanage—a lecture Mrs. Greenwood is also attending—to be here, I'd be much obliged if she'd grace us with her presence.” I was happy for Mae. I recalled the way she and Mr. Trent had instantly been drawn to each other at the Symphony, and how seriously they both seemed to take their studies and students. I was glad she'd found such a perfect match, but the mention of her relationship stung. I'd glimpsed Charlie this morning, only for a moment as he'd walked out on his front stoop to retrieve the paper. He'd looked handsome in a gray tweed morning suit, pencil tucked behind his ear. He no longer consumed my every waking thought. I had the Society to thank for that. I'd never been so inspired, so determined to succeed. The influence of serious artists had the power to turn my soul to the page for weeks at a time. Even so, my feelings for Charlie were always present. I'd longed to run down the stairs and catch him, to ask him what he was working on, to follow him into the library and proclaim his illustrations genius, like he used to do for my pages. Instead, I remained where I was, blindly buttoning my dress, feeling my heart plummet into my stomach.

I yawned and resumed my slow inspection of the enormous room into which we had been ushered in an attempt to erase Charlie from my mind. At one point the decor had been quite lovely, but it was obvious that the doors hadn't been opened for months, maybe years. Dust dulled the gold-leaf crown molding along the ceiling and was stacked at least an inch thick around the frame holding a portrait of Cherie's mother and in the basin of an ornate pewter vase on the tea table beside me. The room would be a per
fect metaphor for love lost—beauty built with painstaking care only to be abandoned. I had no idea why the maid had brought us in here instead of the drawing room, which I'd noticed was in much better condition.

Alevia rubbed her eyes, stood, and walked around Mae and me to the piano behind us. I heard the fall screech open, followed by what I assumed were the wildly out of tune opening measures of one of Mozart's concertos. It sounded horrendous, even to my relatively untrained ears, and Alevia stopped suddenly, likely unable to bear the grating disparity between the notes in her head and the awful noise coming from the piano.

“The notes are at least a half step sharp,” Alevia whispered. “Grotrian-Steinweg is a fine make, however, and with a bit of tuning it would be lovely,” she amended quickly, before any of us could deem her earlier comment snide.

“I certainly hope they don't entertain in here,” Bess said, fiddling with the blue cut-glass stones circling her lace and ribbon–lined wrist. A tendril of auburn escaped the low braided coiffure at her nape and she hastily pinned it back.

“You'd assume, but then again, here we are,” I said. “Perhaps the filthiness of the room is a new-fashioned manner of hospitality. It
does
bring out the gold and maroon in my new dress.” I laughed, situating the mixed wool and silk skirt across my legs. In a rare gesture of selflessness, Bess had offered to lend me the money to order fabric for a new dress after noticing the threadbare sleeves on my other visiting costumes.

“I don't fully understand why in the world she'd ask Ginny to paint her,” Bess said, propping both elbows on the table next to her. “I'm sure there are at least a few portrait artists around here, and she knows as well as we all do that Virginia's attempts end up looking like caricatures. Sorry.” I shrugged.

“It's the truth, after all. I'm sure she only wanted company. We're her oldest friends.” I inhaled the musty scent of moth-eaten upholstery, and sneezed. Mother had been adamant that we make the trip to see Cherie, though none of us had argued against it in the first place. She was good friends with Cherie's mother, Mrs. Norton, and thought the Nortons to be a fine family. Both Mother and Mrs. Norton had mentioned visiting Cherie with us before they realized that the annual Mott Haven Ladies' Christmas Tea had been planned for the same day.

“I can't imagine why she wouldn't ask Franklin to do the portrait,” Mae said. “Maybe she was mistaken and wrote the wrong name in the letter.” Cherie had lived across the street from us growing up, and though she was older than Franklin, they'd developed a friendly rivalry of sorts. They were both accomplished painters and had enjoyed jeering and bragging to each other about who they were painting. In actuality, it wasn't really a competition. Their styles were so different they couldn't be compared. Patrons hired Franklin for his honesty, his knack for capturing the very realistic feel of a person in dark and jewel-toned oil paints, while they sought Cherie for her optimistic tendency to portray not who the subject was at present, but who she thought they could be, using light pastels.

“That's what I thought at first,” I said, sneezing again. “But in the letter she mentioned all of us by name, including Frank, and asked that I do it.” I glanced down at the small trunk of paints I'd lugged from the Bronx and laughed, thinking of the lopsided mouth and uneven, melting eyes that usually characterized my attempts at painting people.

“I wonder if Cherie is accepting many commissions here,” Alevia commented. “It seems such a shame that she had to move away from her friends and her patrons, her mother, all the people
that love her . . . except for Mr. Smith, of course.” Alevia had always been sentimental. If it was up to her, time would stop and our lives would remain as they were—save our artistic careers advancing. “It really is too bad that Frank is in New Jersey this week. Remember the contests they used to create? Both painting the same subject to see whose style the person preferred.” She looked at us, then diverted her gaze back to the piano, staring at it as though she felt sorry for it.

“It's probably best Franklin didn't come,” Bessie said. She swiped a finger across the table in front of her, leaving a clean line across the dusty wood. “You know there was always speculation that Cherie was sweet on him, and whether Frank knew it or not, I know Mr. Smith wasn't keen on the attention Cherie gave him during our last visit.” Mae laughed beside me and shook her head. Cherie's husband, Mr. William Smith, a boring but wealthy financier, rarely attempted to disguise his feelings.

“I doubt that's it. He was probably just cross because Franklin swept him under the rug at cards,” she said. I kept my mouth shut. Franklin had told me that Cherie had tried to kiss him the night before her wedding and that he'd refused. To Franklin, Cherie was like an older sister, and I knew he'd be relieved to hear that we'd gone to visit without him.

Cherie's letter had arrived last week, begging us to come see her as soon as possible. She mentioned that she was expecting a child and hadn't had friends from home visit since we'd been up to see her the last time—which had been nearly two years ago when we'd come up for a military ball. Although she was Bessie's age, she'd always gotten along with all of us. We'd been excited to visit again—that is, until now. Mae slumped down on the couch beside me, disturbing a bit of dust that settled on her white shirtwaist. She sneezed, too, tilted her head back, and shut her eyes. “I stayed
up all night knitting a blanket for a little girl at the orphanage,” she mumbled. “Wake me when she gets here.” In a matter of seconds, Mae's body went slack. Three years ago, one of Mae's most promising students at the orphanage—the first she'd taught to read—had fallen ill and died of scarlet fever. Mae had thought of the girl as a daughter, a child she'd always longed for. Since then, every moment away from school had been occupied by the girls, as though if she visited and taught often enough she could spare the rest a similar fate.

Everyone fell silent. As I listened to the rhythmic ticking of an old grandfather clock behind me, my eyelids started to droop—until someone snored loudly and I shot up from my slouched position.

“Good lord, that's embarrassing,” Bessie said. I glanced at Mae's open mouth. “It wasn't her.” Bessie tipped her head at Alevia whose chin hung limply against her chest, one dark curl fluttering against her mouth as she breathed. “I wouldn't be caught dead sleeping.” I lifted an eyebrow at Bessie.

“Really? Don't tell me you've forgotten about the opera last year.” Bessie had fallen asleep in the middle of
Carmen
and woken at intermission with a drool stain on her chest. I laughed, remembering it.

“That was an accident,” she said. She tried to glare at me, but couldn't keep it up and laughed under her breath instead. “Though I imagine I looked ridiculous regardless. I'd been up all night the night before working on Adelaide Frick's hat.”

“A proper lady never allows the demands of the body to compromise her conduct.” I quoted our great-aunt Rose, Bess's heroine—a woman who'd married rich and profited greatly, until both of her sons squandered her wealth after her husband's death—and smiled thinly, wagging a finger at Bess. “But truly,
Bess, perhaps you should allow yourself a break now and again.” She looked up from the end of the feather that she'd begun to curl between her fingertips. “You've been working until nearly dawn every day for weeks on that toque, on the hat for Katherine Delafield, and on our dresses.”

“I know.” She stared down at the feather. “I know I need to, but I cannot. If I fail, if my income falters . . . I can't bear the thought of us wearing rags. We were bred for more, Virginia. Until art or marriage affords us luxury, I will not rest.” Standing up, I walked over to her and clutched her shoulder.

“You have to stop worrying about the rest of us. We're all capable of making our own way.” Bess nodded, but I knew she hadn't really heard me. I crossed to the window, unable to sit any longer without falling asleep. Cobwebs occupied the corners, stray strands fluttering in the frigid draft. The grass outside was winter brown and the bare trees rocked back and forth in the wind.

The door creaked open behind me, startling my view of the lawn, and I spun around in time to see Mr. Smith wheel Cherie into the room. Mae and Alevia's heads jerked up at once. Alevia yawned, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. Cherie was hugely pregnant. Her normally prominent cheekbones had been eclipsed by swelling, but she smiled at us and rolled her eyes at her husband. Apparently the wheelchair hadn't been her idea.

“I apologize. I've kept you all waiting so long. William refused to wake me from my nap even though I asked that he do so.” Her lips pursed, brown eyes squinting in annoyance.

“You need all the rest you can get,” he said softly. Mr. Smith smiled apologetically at us, but his blue eyes were cold. “Miss Virginia, do you have everything you need to paint my lovely wife?” I nodded, and Cherie ducked her head away from her husband to grin slyly at me. Perhaps she didn't want me to paint her after all.

“I'm honestly shocked that you didn't paint yourself, Cherie. You're so talented,” I said, and she looked at me sharply. Mr. Smith laughed and shook his head.

“She did make quite an impression with that little hobby of hers once upon a time, didn't she?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alevia's mouth drop open and then close just as quickly. “I can't remember the last time she's had time to paint with the baby coming and all of the entertaining.” He shrugged and Cherie's face paled as she turned her eyes away, refusing to look at us and our wide stares. The fact that such an amazing gift had been shut away stunned us all. He'd undoubtedly discouraged her work. She loved it too much to discard it voluntarily. No one said anything, so Mr. Smith clapped his hands together and started toward the door. “I'll let you get to it.” He turned at the doorframe. “And Miss Virginia, please watch Cherie's proximity to the fumes. I'll not have our son exposed to toxins.” I forced a smile and nodded. He shut the door and Cherie exhaled loudly as though her stays had just been loosened.

“I'm sorry,” she said. She shut her eyes for a moment before bracing herself on the handles of the chair and standing up, hands clasped to her back for support.

“You haven't been painting at . . . at all?” Alevia glanced at the piano and then down at the wide panels of pearls and gold spangles along her skirt. I knew what she was thinking, that marriage was a sure way to lose the ability to do what you loved. Perhaps she was right. I'd never thought of the implications when I'd considered marrying Charlie. Primarily because I knew he'd never ask me to forfeit my writing, and secondarily because a profession wasn't an option for a marriage between two struggling artists, it was a necessity.