This tragedy had alerted Sharon to the dangers of men being attracted to her for her money. She was not so young anymore, but she was reasonably attractive, and there were plenty of men who wanted a wealthy wife, no matter how old she was.
Now as she danced and talked with Ralph Windom, she categorized him in one of her mental boxes, this one labeled “acceptable but a crashing bore.” She found herself amused as Ralph spoke of his one passion—polo. He apparently knew the name of every player and every horse and the breeding of each, and had not a single other thought in his head.
Sharon listened as he babbled on about his most recent match and tried to follow but found his words blending into meaningless gibberish.
She smiled politely until the dance ended, and Ralph took her over to where her parents were standing. Her mother was smiling, and Sharon thought, She thinks Ralph would be a perfect husband for me, but it would drive me insane to have to listen to stories of horses and polo matches for the next forty years.
“Did you enjoy the dance, dear?” Lucille asked.
“It was wonderful. Ralph was telling me the most fascinating story about his last polo match. He simply must tell you about it.”
“Oh yes, I would so love to hear it!”
Sharon excused herself and heard Ralph repeating exactly the same story in exactly the same words as he had told her.
Later on during the evening, her mother confirmed what Sharon was afraid she would think. “Ralph is such a fine man, dear, and he comes from such a good family!”
“Yes, that’s true, I’m sure. But, Mother, he does nothing but play polo.”
“Well, he’s young yet. He hasn’t found a more interesting use of his time.”
“He’s thirty years old, Mother, and he’s done nothing but play polo for twenty-five years, I suppose. He apparently intends to do nothing else for the next fifty. As long as he’s able to climb onto a horse.”
“Come, now. You’re too critical, dear.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Oh, Lucille, Sharon, I’m so glad to see you both.” Mrs. Windom approached them, smiling broadly. “I saw you and Ralph dancing, Sharon. You dance so well together.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Windom.”
Mrs. Windom was every bit as society conscious as Mrs. Astor. As Lucille hurried to catch up with a friend she spotted nearby, Mrs. Windom launched into a monologue about the importance of retaining a good bloodline. Sharon understood that she was being interviewed as a prospect for Ralph’s hand, but she let none of this show in her face.
“ . . . and so you see, dear,” Mrs. Windom rattled on, “we’re determined to keep the family pure. The bloodline is so important.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Sharon said politely. While Ralph was playing with horses for the next half century, Mrs. Windom would spend her life tracing the bloodlines of suitable members of society.
“And what about your family, Sharon? Where did they originate?”
With a perverse grin, Sharon said, “Oh, my great-great—oh, I guess I don’t know how many ‘greats’—grandfather was a poor immigrant. Came over on a boat, you know.”
Mrs. Windom’s face froze. “Oh, indeed—an immigrant, you say!”
“Oh yes. He had nothing at all when he got off the ship.”
Mrs. Windom was clearly already tuning Sharon out. “And what ship was that, my dear?” she said absently, her eyes already searching the room for a more fit candidate for her son.
“The Mayflower.”
Mrs. Windom’s head swiveled. “The Mayflower! Your people were first-comers?”
“Yes. My grandfather was Gilbert Winslow, and his brother, Edward, was the first Governor of Plymouth Plantation. Well, it was so nice talking to you, Mrs. Windom.”
As Sharon nodded politely, Mrs. Windom started to sputter, and Sharon saw that she was back in the running for Ralphie, but she’d had enough talk of horses and bloodlines. “I think I’ll go home early. It was nice talking with you, Mrs. Windom.” As she took her leave, she muttered under her breath, “I hope you find a good brood mare for Ralphie with bloodlines that go all the way back to Methuselah.”
Turning back to her mother, she said, “I’m tired. I think I’ll go home.”
“But Ralph was looking for you.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but he’s impossible.”
“But, dear—”
“I know you want me to marry, but I think it’s unlikely. It’s not that I’m bitter. I’ve gotten over that. But I don’t think that married life is for me. I’ll have to make my own life.”
“But that’s not . . . not natural.”
Sharon squeezed her mother’s arm. “Then I guess you simply have an unnatural daughter. I’ll get Mike to take me home. I’ve had about all of this high-society evening I can stand.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Lord From England
The large art gallery was crowded as people moved around the samples of Sharon’s work. She stood smiling, noticing that her mother was nervously speaking with one of the Astors. She had not planned to ever have a show, but for the past five years she had worked diligently, and her father had insisted she should let the public have a chance to purchase her work. Her father was tremendously proud of the skill she had developed, despite his disappointment that she had not married. As she looked across the room, she saw him talking with a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman, whose picture she knew hung on the wall of his office. Say, that’s Andrew Mellon, she realized, pleased that he would come from Washington, D.C., to visit her show. Her father was very proud of his association with this giant of the financial world. Leland had originally met him through their mutual association in the lumber industry, but Andrew Mellon had gone on to become an internationally renowned industrialist and the president of the Mellon National Bank. Now he was the U.S. Secretary of the Treasury. Sharon also was aware that he was an avid art collector, and she was greatly honored and humbled by his presence here today.
Mellon was not the only famous person present. The gallery was like a Who’s Who of high-society arts patrons, all eager to be the first to purchase an impressive new work by this greatly gifted member of the Winslow family.
Sharon was not particularly interested in the opinions of these high-society members, but she was pleased to see several New York art critics there. She had not yet spoken to any of them; she merely watched as they went thoughtfully from piece to piece.
A slender man with a stoop and a pair of thick glasses approached her. She thought he looked vaguely familiar.
“You do not remember me, do you? I’m Dr. Steiner.”
“Oh, Dr. Steiner, of course! Forgive me. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“You were so kind to write me after your recovery, and I have been keeping up with you secretly.” He swept his hand around the room. “You have done marvelously well. Your pieces are wonderful.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“And you are completely recovered?”
“I have a few scars inside, of course, but Dr. Chardoney was a great help to me.”
“I have recommended him to several others. Do you ever see him?”
“As a matter of fact, I have gone back twice to visit. He’s a wonderful man.”
“My colleagues are still suspicious of his methods, but when they voice their concerns, I simply say, ‘You go talk to Sharon Winslow. There is the proof of Chardoney’s skills.’ Let’s see. It’s been five years, hasn’t it?”
“Just about.”
“I am so glad to see that you are recovered, my dear. I know there’s always a little pain. That scar, perhaps, will always be there.” He hesitated, then said, “You haven’t married. I thought, perhaps, you might.”
“I am no longer a romantic young girl, Doctor. I’m thirty-two now.”
“Why, you don’t look a day over twenty.”
“Now, Dr. Steiner, be careful with that flattery.” Sharon enjoyed the doctor’s kind
words but added, “I have a career, and besides it’s . . . it’s not easy for a woman in my position to marry.”
“I should imagine not.” Steiner grew serious. “It must be very difficult. People who are rich or famous or both never know if people of the opposite sex are attracted to them simply because of what they own or have achieved in life, rather than for who they are.”
Sharon nodded. The doctor had summed up her position exactly. They spoke for a time, and after he left, she noticed a couple standing over to one side, watching her covertly as if afraid to approach. Smiling, she went to them. “It’s so good to see you again.” She had seen Robert’s parents only once since his funeral. At their invitation, she had traveled to Buffalo for a weekend visit. Several years had passed since then and she impulsively hugged them both.
“We don’t want to bother you, my dear,” Mr. Tyson said.
“Bother! How could you bother me? Let me walk around with you.”
“We thought we might buy one of your pieces.”
“Nonsense. You pick out what you like. It’ll be my gift.”
She showed the Tysons around the room, and when they had selected a small bronze bust, she said, “I hope you enjoy it.”
“You know, my dear,” Mrs. Tyson said, “I think of Robert every day.”
Sharon hesitated, then replied in a gentle tone, “So do I. Every single day.”
Clayton had been allowed to come to the show. He was twelve now and tall for his age. Sharon spoiled her little brother dreadfully, as did her parents, and now he claimed her attention. “How much will you get for all these statues, Sharon? I don’t see any prices on them.”
“I don’t know what the total will be, Clayton.”
“I hope you charge a lot for them,” he said.
“My agent over there handles each one on an individual basis,” she said, nodding toward a portly man in his late twenties.
“How much does he get?”
“That’s between him and me, Clayton. Why are you so interested in money?”
“I just want to make sure you’re being careful. You ought to know that some men take advantage of women. When I’m grown up, I’ll handle all your money.”
Sharon laughed. “You’d be capable of it, I’m sure.”
Clayton stayed close by Sharon’s side until Leland approached and informed him that it was time for him to go home. Clayton said loudly enough for several to hear, “Jimmy Adkins asked me when you were going to get married, and I told him I’d ask you.”
“You just tell him I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“You’d better hurry up,” Clayton said seriously. “And you’d better marry the right fellow.”
“If some man proposes to me, I’ll send him to you first. I’m sure you’ll be able to judge if he’s suitable for me.”
Clayton grinned at her. “You bet I will. See you later, Sharon.”
****
By late afternoon the guests had thinned out and Sharon gathered her things to leave. She was about to tell her agent she was going home when Hannah Fulton came flying across the room, crying, “I’m so glad we caught you, Sharon! We thought you might be gone.”
Sharon took Hannah’s kiss, thinking sadly how worn out she appeared. After embracing her, Sharon said, “I was just leaving, but I’m glad I got to see you.”
Turning to the man who had accompanied her, Hannah said, “Colin, I’d like you to meet my very dearest friend, Miss Sharon Winslow. Sharon, this is my friend Sir Colin Hardie.”
“I am very pleased indeed to meet you, Miss Winslow. Hannah has told me so much about you.” The speaker’s erect bearing gave an impression of height, though he was not tall. He had fair hair, very light blue eyes, and patrician features.
“I’m happy to know you, Sir Colin.”
“Oh, please, I don’t think we need to use titles here,” he said with a smile. He had a pleasant voice and an educated English accent, the kind that appealed to Sharon. When she was a child her family had spent two summers in southern England, and she had loved it there.
Hannah said, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Sharon, maybe we can get together later this week.”
“That’ll be fine, Hannah. I’ll look forward to it.” Sharon turned back to her guest and asked, “Did you arrive from England recently?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Sir Colin said. “I have always been fascinated by America and have treasured my visits here.”
“I feel the same way about England. Will you be staying long?”
“For some time, I think. I am an aspiring novelist.” Sir Colin smiled and shook his head with a diffident air. “I suppose you might say I’m a late bloomer. Here I am in my midthirties and haven’t published anything yet. But I wasted most of my life before I decided I wanted to become a writer.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well. What sort of a novel are you working on?”
“This may interest you. The hero of my novel is a sculptor.”
“Really! That is interesting. I came to sculpting rather late in life myself.”
“So Hannah told me.” Sir Colin looked around the room, and his voice was shaded with admiration. “You are a marvelous artist, Miss Winslow. I wish I could—” He broke off and shook his head as if embarrassed.
“You wish you could what, Sir Colin?”
“Please, just Colin, if you will. I was going to say the hardest part of this novel for me is trying to understand the heart of your art. I know several sculptors in Europe and the States, some of them rather famous, but they don’t care to talk about their craft. At least not to an unproved novelist. I was going to ask if, perhaps, if you could spare a little time to tell me how you feel about sculpture.”
Ordinarily Sharon would have refused such an offer, but Sir Colin seemed pleasant enough, and she decided she could spare the time. “I’d be glad to have you come out to my studio, Sir . . . er, Colin. And please call me Sharon.”
“Thank you ever so much, Sharon. I say, that’s ripping!”
“Now that my show is over, I’ll be free anytime after today.”
“Would tomorrow be too soon? I hate to be pushy, but I am anxious to get on with my book.”
“That would be fine. Shall we say one o’clock?”
“I will certainly be there.”
“You say you know of some famous sculptors. May I ask who?”
“Well, Henri Matisse is a good friend of mine. I stay with him quite often at his home on the Mediterranean. I’ve met the American sculptor Paul Manship and the young British sculptor Barbara Hepworth. I can’t quite figure out Miss Hepworth’s work, however. Her sculptures don’t make sense to me.”
Sharon hesitated. She had seen some of Hepworth’s sculptures, and many of them consisted of pieces of wood glued together into rather formal patterns. It was not the sort of work she admired, but Barbara Hepworth was becoming an international name. “I suppose it takes all kinds, and it depends on one’s tastes. I could never sculpt like Miss Hepworth, but I do like and admire Mr. Manship’s work.”
“He’s not the most cordial man in the world. I think he’s so caught up with what he does that he doesn’t really care about anyone around him. Lives in his own world of art, you know?”
“Yes, I understand. I’m a little that way myself, I suppose.”
“Well, Sharon, I am delighted to have met you, but I know you’re tired and need to get home. I’ll take my leave and look forward to our meeting tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll be expecting you.”
****
“Mother, Dad, I’d like for you to meet our guest, Sir Colin Hardie. Sir Colin, I’d like you to meet my parents.”
“So pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow. Your daughter was so kind to invite me. I know she is overwhelmed by those who would take her time. I promise to be brief.”
“Oh no, indeed!” Lucille cried eagerly. “We’ve prepared a small lunch. We’d be most happy for you to join us, Sir Colin.”
“Most kind, but I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”
“How could you be that?” Leland beamed. “Come along and tell us about this book you’re working on.”
During the luncheon Sharon sat back and let her parents carry the conversation. She could tell they were impressed with Sir Colin, especially knowing that he was of royal blood. He was certainly an accomplished man in his own right with excellent manners, yet he displayed none of the snobbishness one might expect of the British aristocracy. He was articulate, a good listener, and fine looking.
“Did you leave your family behind in England, Sir Colin?” Lucille asked.
“My parents? Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”
“I mean your wife.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to say that I lost my wife less than a year ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Lucille expressed.
“It’s been very hard, but I’m trying to go on with my life. Losing a loved one is not unlike losing a leg in an accident. You will always limp, but you learn to survive.”
Sharon exclaimed, “That’s exactly the way I’ve always felt, Colin!”
Sir Colin nodded. “She was a wonderful woman, and I had my best years with her.” He shook his head. “But about this daughter of yours,” he said to her parents, “I don’t want to impose on her, but it’s most helpful to talk to a true artist who is willing to share what it’s like to create such beautiful sculptures.”
After the meal Colin bowed to Lucille, taking her hand and kissing it. “You are very gracious, Mrs. Winslow.” Turning to Leland, he said, “And thank you, sir, for opening up your home.”
“We have Sharon to thank for that. This luncheon was her idea. And, I might add, she rarely invites anyone to her studio.”
“Then I feel honored indeed!”
“Come along, Colin,” Sharon said. “I’ll take you to my studio. I won’t work today, but we can talk.”
She led the way out of the house and through the gardens to the studio, where she showed him all her pieces she had not taken to the gallery, explaining each one in detail. “These are some of my earliest pieces. You can plainly see my awkward first attempts.” Sharon humbly and openly shared with him that she began her work at a special camp for mental health patients.
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