by Fiona Davis
Also by Fiona Davis
The Dollhouse
The Address
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Copyright © 2018 by Fiona Davis
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Davis, Fiona, 1966– author.
Title: The masterpiece : a novel / Fiona Davis.
Description: First edition. | New York, New York : Dutton, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017060556 (print) | LCCN 2018000513 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524742966 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524742959 (hc)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | FICTION / Literary.
Classification: LCC PS3604.A95695 (ebook) | LCC PS3604.A95695 M38 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017060556
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Tom
CONTENTS
Also by Fiona Davis
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
New York City, April 1928
Clara Darden’s illustration class at the Grand Central School of Art, tucked under the copper eaves of the terminal, was unaffected by the trains that rumbled through ancient layers of Manhattan schist hundreds of feet below. But somehow, a surprise visit from Mr. Lorette, the school’s director, had the disruptive power of a locomotive weighing in at thousands of tons.
Even before Mr. Lorette was a factor, Clara had been anxious about the annual faculty exhibition set to open at six o’clock that evening. Her first show in New York City, and everyone important in the art and editorial worlds would be there. She’d been working on her illustrations for months now, knowing this might be her only chance.
She asked her class to begin work on an alternate cover design for Virginia Woolf’s latest book, and the four ladies dove in eagerly, while Wilbur, the only male and something of a rake to boot, sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. Gertrude, the most studious of the five members, was so offended by Wilbur’s lack of respect that she threatened to toss a jar of turpentine at him. They were still arguing vociferously when Mr. Lorette waltzed in.
Never mind that these were all adults, not children. Whenever Wilbur made a ruckus, it had the unfortunate effect of lowering the entire class’s maturity level by a decade. More often than not, Clara was strong enough to restore order before things went too far. But Mr. Lorette seemed possessed of a miraculous talent for sensing the rare occasions during which Clara lost control of the room, and he could usually be counted upon to choose such times to wander by and assess her skills as an educator.
“Miss Darden, do you need additional supervision again?” Mr. Lorette’s bald pate shone as if it had been buffed by one of the shoeshine boys in the terminal’s main concourse. The corners of his mouth curled down, even when he was pleased, while his eyebrows moved independently of each other, like two furry caterpillars trying to scurry away. Even though he was only in his early thirties, he exuded the snippety nature of a judgmental great-aunt.
He’d been appointed director three years earlier, after one of the school’s illustrious founders, John Singer Sargent, passed away. The school had increased in reputation and enrollment with each new term, and Mr. Lorette had given himself full credit for its smashing success when he’d interviewed Clara. She’d been promoted from student monitor to interim teacher after Mr. Lorette’s chosen instructor dropped out at the last minute, putting her on uneven footing from the beginning. It hadn’t helped that the class had shriveled to five from an initial January enrollment of fifteen. Ten of those early enrollees had walked out on the first day, miffed at having a woman in charge.
Mr. Lorette’s dissatisfaction, and the likelihood that she’d not be asked back next term, mounted each week, which meant tonight’s faculty show would probably be her last opportunity to get her illustrations in front of the city’s top magazine editors.
Since coming to New York the year before, Clara had dutifully dropped off samples of her work at the offices of Vogue and McCall’s every few months, to no avail. The responses ranged from the soul-crushing—“Unoriginal/No”—to the encouraging—“Try again later.” All that would change, tonight. She hoped. By seeing her work in the hallowed setting of the Grand Central Art Galleries, alongside the well-known names of other faculty members, the editors would finally appreciate what she had to offer. Even better, as the only illustrator on the faculty, she was sure to stand out.
Mr. Lorette cleared his throat.
“No, sir. We don’t need any assistance. Thank you for checking in.” She maneuvered around to the front of the table where she’d been working, in an attempt to block his view of her own sketches.
No luck. He circled around and stood behind it, his nose twitching. “What is this?”
“Some figures I was working on, to demonstrate the use of compass points to achieve the correct proportions.”
“I thought you’d covered that already.”
“You can never go back to the basics enough.”
He offered a suspicious nod before winding his way through the tables, his eyes darting from drawing board to drawing board. Her students stood back, hoping for a kind word.
“Why is it each student seems to be drawing something completely different from the others?”
She nodded at the novel she’d left out on the still-life table. “The assignment was to create a cover for a book. I encouraged them to use their imaginations.”
“Their examples of lighthouses and beaches are apropos. Yet you are drawing undergarments?”
Even if he ha
d been a more sympathetic man, there was no way to explain how the hours stretched painfully long with her having so few students. How the skylights diffused the light in a way that made each day, whether sunny or overcast, feel exactly like every other. She routinely made the rounds, suggesting that a drybrush would work best to create texture or offering encouragement when Gertrude became frustrated, but at some point, the students had to be left alone to get to their work. Which was why today she’d pulled a chair up to a drawing table and sketched out the figures for her latest commission from Wanamaker Department Store: three pages of chemises for the summer catalog. The work paid a pittance, but at least it was something.
“This is for tomorrow’s class,” she lied. “As we do not have a live model to work from, I was planning on using a work of my own to guide them.”
As she hoped, the mention of her standing request for a model redirected his attention.
His voice rose in pitch to that of a schoolgirl. “The students are free to take a life class at any time. This is an illustration class, and right now our models are reserved for the fine arts classes. As you said, they can use their imaginations, no?”
“But it is not ideal. If we can have a model to understand the anatomy underneath the fashions, to have the model begin nude and then add layers of clothing, we could build upon what we’ve learned already.”
She never meant to be ornery, but somehow Mr. Lorette brought out a stubbornness in her every time.
“As yours is a class of mixed genders, taught by a woman, having a nude model would be most inappropriate. I’m sorry you find our school so deficient, Miss Darden.” He clucked his tongue, which made her want to reach into his mouth and pull it out. “The other instructors, who have vastly more experience than you do, seem to manage just fine.”
The other instructors—all men—had their every whim met by Mr. Lorette. She’d seen it in action, the director encouraging them to stop by his office for a smoke, the group laughing at some private joke, the director’s feet propped up on his desk in an attempt to convey casual masculinity. Clara didn’t fit the mold, which made her vulnerable.
“I’m sure we can manage, sir.”
He shuffled off, closing the door behind him.
She directed the class to continue. Gertrude’s work had only three rips from her overuse of the razor for corrections, a record low for her.
“Your stormy clouds are exquisite, but where would the lettering of the title and author go?” Clara asked.
Gertrude rubbed her nose with her wrist, leaving a gray streak at the tip. “Right. I got so caught up, I forgot.”
Clara pointed to the top edge. “Try a damp sponge on the wet areas to lift out some color.”
The girl was always eager, even if her strong hand was better suited to clay or oils than to the careful placement of watercolor, where mistakes were difficult to correct. Use too much water, and a brilliant cauliflower pattern would bloom where a smooth line ought to have been. Too dry, and the saturated color would stick to the page, resisting softening. But Clara loved watercolor in spite of, or perhaps because of, its difficult temperament. The way the paper shone after a wash of cool orange to convey a sunset, how the colors blended together in the tray to form new ones that probably didn’t even have a name.
Finally, five o’clock came around. The students stored their artwork in the wooden racks, and once the room was empty, Clara hid her own sketches up on the very top of the storage cabinet, away from Mr. Lorette’s prying eyes.
Starving, she headed downstairs to the main concourse, where cocoa-pink walls trimmed in Botticino marble soared into the air. Electrically lit stars and painted constellations twinkled along the turquoise vaulted ceiling, although the poor artist had inadvertently painted the sky backward, a mistake the art students loved to remark upon.
The first time she’d entered the hallowed space, stepping off the train from Arizona last September, she’d stopped and stared, her mouth open, until a man brushed past her, swearing under his breath at her inertia. The vastness of the main concourse, where sunshine beamed through the giant windows and bronze chandeliers glowed, left her gobsmacked. With its exhilarating mix of light, air, and movement, the terminal was the perfect location for a school of art.
Since then, she’d been sure to glance up quickly before joining in what seemed like an elaborate square dance of men and maids, of red-capped porters and well-dressed society ladies, all gliding by one another at various angles, yet never colliding. She liked best to lean over the banister on the West Balcony and watch the patterns of people flowing around the circular information booth, which sat in the middle of the floor, its four-faced clock tipped with a gleaming gold acorn.
Her stomach growled. She followed a group of smartly dressed men down the ramp to the suburban concourse and into the Grand Central Terminal Restaurant, where she secured a seat at the counter.
“Miss Darden?”
A young woman wearing a black velvet coat trimmed with fur hovered behind Clara, offering an inquisitive smile. “Yes, I thought that might be you. I’m Nadine Stevenson. I take painting classes at the school. You’re having a bite before the show?”
“I am, Miss Stevenson.”
“Oh now, call me Nadine.”
Nadine’s nose was large, her eyes close together and deep-set. Her right eye was slightly larger than the left, and the asymmetry was unsettling but powerful. Clara couldn’t help but imagine how Picasso might approach her, all mismatched cubes and colors. Next to her stood an Adonis of a man whose symmetrical beauty offered a fascinating counterpoint. Shining blue-gray eyes under arched brows, hair the color of wheat.
“And this is Mr. Oliver Smith, a friend and poet.”
Even though Clara had hoped to eat dinner in peace, she didn’t have much of a choice. “Lovely to meet you both; please join me.”
They took the stools next to her as the waiter stopped in front of them, pen in hand. Clara ordered the oyster stew, as did Oliver. Nadine requested peeled Muscat grapes, followed by a lobster cocktail.
Many of the young girls at the Grand Central School of Art had enrolled only so they could list it in their wedding announcements someday—a creative outlet that wouldn’t threaten future in-laws. Nadine seemed to fall into that category, with her airs and pearls.
“Miss Darden is the only lady teacher at the Grand Central School of Art,” said Nadine to Oliver. “She teaches illustration.” She turned to Clara with a bright smile. “Now tell us about what you’ll be showing tonight.”
“Four illustrations that depict four seasons of high fashion.” Clara couldn’t help but elaborate. She’d put so much thought into the drawings. “For example, the one for winter depicts three women draped in fur coats, walking poodles sporting matching pelts.”
“Well, that sounds pleasant.”
Was Nadine making fun of her? Clara couldn’t tell. She’d hardly had time to socialize, other than occasionally trading a few words with some of the other women artists who lived in her Greenwich Village apartment house. She’d been far too busy trying to make a living.
Nadine placed one hand on the counter and leaned in closely. The citrus scent of Emeraude perfume drifted Clara’s way. “Did you know that Georgia O’Keeffe—she does those astonishing flowers—was a commercial artist at first? There’s no need to be ashamed of it, not at all. Illustration is a common stepping-stone into the true arts.”
“I’m not ashamed in the least.” The audacity. Clara didn’t enjoy being talked down to by a student. “I don’t intend to do the ‘true arts,’ Nadine, as you put it. I enjoy illustration; it’s what I do best.”
“Well, I adore my life drawing and painting class. I’m learning so much from my instructor, Mr. Zakarian. He made me class monitor, and he’s magnificent.”
Jealousy pinged. None of Clara’s students would describe her in such superlative te
rms, of that she was quite certain. “Class monitor, that’s quite an honor. Do you plan on becoming an artist, then?”
Nadine gave out a squeak of a laugh. “Oh dear, no. I’m only taking classes for personal enrichment.”
The waiter dropped off their bowls, and for a moment nothing was said. If Clara had been alone, she would have surreptitiously folded a dozen or so oyster crackers into her handkerchief, to have something to snack on before bed.
The poet, who’d been silent the entire time, finally spoke. “My mother was an artist, although my father insisted she give it up after they married. She’s been sick lately, but she very much misses going to museums and exhibits.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” offered Clara. “Nadine mentioned that you’re a poet?”
“Nadine is too kind in her description of me. Struggling poet, you might say. I suppose I take after my mother in that regard, having an innate love of the arts. My father is hoping I’ll give it up eventually and go into banking.”
Nadine placed a protective hand on his arm. “Oliver was accepted to Harvard and refused to go. Can you imagine? Instead, he’s slumming it with us bohemians.”
By all accounts, Nadine was hardly slumming it. But Clara understood firsthand what it was like to disappoint your family. “When I told my father I was moving to New York, he told me to not bother coming back. It’s not an easy decision, but I’m glad I made it.”
Oliver’s blue eyes danced. “So there’s hope for us miscreants?”
“Never.”
They shared a look, a quick, knowing smile, that sent Clara’s pulse racing.
Usually, men didn’t give her a second glance. Her father generously described her as “ethereal” for her blond hair, pale skin, and towering, skinny figure. Her mother said she looked washed-out and encouraged her to wear clothes that added color to her complexion, but Clara preferred blacks and grays. Her ghostly pallor and height had always been sore points, embarrassing, and she preferred to avoid drawing attention to herself.