by Joy Callaway
“Excuse me. Sorry. I’m sorry we’re late.” A tall man with nearly black hair edged past Mae, disrupting my focus on George and Anna, and deposited himself in the empty seat beside me. He was followed by an older gentleman with round glasses and a long beard, and a younger man with golden hair and a straight, confident posture I recognized immediately to be the man I’d seen standing next to the author, John Hopper, at Charlie’s party. Frozen against the hard chair back, I leaned into the shadow of the box above us and shielded my face with my hand, wishing I could melt into the red velour upholstery. I couldn’t let him see me. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d recognize me as the girl who’d stood heartbroken next to Charlie as he proposed to Rachel and I had no idea if he would have enough tact to avoid the topic. Franklin started to get up, but the Symphony launched into the opening notes of Berlioz’s Te Deum, and he was forced to take his seat, thankfully leaving no time for introductions. Leaning over Mae and me, Franklin nodded at the row of men beside me and I turned the other way, staring at the velvet curtains hanging next to our box.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mae whispered. “You’re sitting as though that man next to you has some type of plague.” Her eyes danced in amusement, and I looked down noticing I’d managed to fold myself onto about half of the seat, leaving at least six inches of space between myself and the gentleman beside me.
“Frank’s friend, the one on the end,” I whispered. “He was at Charlie’s and I—”
“You’re being foolish. I doubt anyone besides Alevia even suspected you were upset,” she said. Pursing her lips, she sank back against the chair, fixed her eyes on the orchestra for a moment, and then turned back to me. “And even if he did notice, there’s no way he would’ve known about you and Charlie. He doesn’t even know you.”
As the music continued, I grew bored. I’d heard Te Deum hundreds of times and the rhythmic piano chords that Alevia had played over and over in our home seemed to drone on and on. Though Mae’s words had settled my worry for a moment, from time to time I would feel someone’s attention crawling across my skin, and assumed it was the man I’d seen at Charlie’s. The music reached a crescendo, every instrument in the hall moving to the jabs and swings of Damrosch’s arms, and I felt a gaze again. Rolling my eyes, I turned sharply in his direction, but found the man next to me staring at Mae instead. Startled, he straightened hastily in his seat, and cleared his throat.
“Wasn’t that remarkable?” he asked later, when the music finally stopped for intermission. He smiled in my direction, but his eyes drifted again beyond me to my sister, who had stood up to take a glass of sparkling white wine.
“The music was fine, but if it’s her you’re actually talking about, she is,” I said bluntly, and he laughed.
“She looks familiar. I’m Henry Trent.” As much as he was trying to look at me, he couldn’t. His dark eyes kept darting from me to Mae and back again. “I’m . . . um. I’m a student at Columbia, studying English.” Trying to pretend I didn’t notice him glancing at her, I pinched myself to keep from either smiling like a buffoon or laughing. Mr. Trent blinked a few times as if he was trying to rid himself of whatever spell had overcome him.
“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Trent. That’s probably how you know her . . . Miss Mae Loftin,” I said, tipping my head toward my sister. I caught the eye of the man from the party who was conversing with her and Franklin and jerked back to Mr. Trent. My heart began to race. I didn’t know what I’d say if he mentioned seeing me at Charlie’s. Mr. Trent was staring at me, no doubt wondering why I was gaping dumbly over his shoulder. “You’ve probably seen her at a literary seminar,” I said, forcing myself back to the conversation. “She goes to all of them at Columbia. I’ve been to a few with her if an author I like is speaking. We went to see Ambrose Bierce last month.”
“I was there, too,” he said, fidgeting with the corner of his gray tweed jacket. Finding his distraction suddenly more annoying than endearing, I stood up knowing I’d have to face Frank’s friend at some point, and turned toward Mae.
Standing in the corner of the balcony, Mae shook her head at Franklin who was leaning a little too far over the edge, a second cigar balanced between his teeth. His friend stood beside him, cheeks eclipsing his marked cheekbones as he laughed at something Frank had just said.
“I’m just saying that I’d think twice about siring her child because there’s half a chance it would turn out crazy,” I heard the man say as I walked closer. I was thankful that I’d missed this gem of a conversation. The man chuckled under his breath and Franklin grit his teeth, nose scrunching in disgust. I wondered who they were talking about.
“I wouldn’t touch her with a barge pole, though you didn’t seem so averse last time.” Franklin clapped him on the back, then noticed me standing there and straightened up. “Oh. Mr. John Hopper and Doctor Joseph Hopper, this is my sister, Miss Virginia Loftin.” I blinked, confused, before I realized that Charlie had mistaken my inquiry of the short man for the one before me. I swallowed hard, determined to keep it together. I extended my hand to the older of the two and forced a smile.
“So you’re an entrepreneur, Doctor Hopper?” I asked, automatically wishing I’d said something simple and polite instead of coming right out and asking about his profession. The older man smiled graciously, the same exact grin I’d just seen on his son beside him.
“Your brother is kind. I’m simply a doctor who prefers innovation to stagnancy.” He removed his eyeglasses to clean them on the edge of his jacket and I looked around for Mae, finding her sitting behind me talking to Mr. Trent.
“I’m a writer,” Mr. Hopper volunteered before I could ask, and I turned back to face him. Grinning goofily, he cleared his throat. “Which means I bathe in money, employ many servants, and live in a tidy little mansion on Fifth Avenue.” Mr. Hopper raised his eyebrows at me and Franklin choked on his cigar.
“Right. You know, I think we’re neighbors,” I said, straight-faced. Mr. Hopper started to say something, but Franklin stopped him.
“Ginny’s a writer, too. She just finished her first novel,” he said. I nodded, relieved that Mr. Hopper hadn’t mentioned recognizing me—so far.
“You should join our little group then,” Mr. Hopper said. His brown eyes were kind. “It’s just a gathering of amateur artists, really. Well, artists, musicians, writers, and the like.” He adjusted the sprig of Lilly of the Valley tucked into his buttonhole. “I was quite taken with the idea of creating a salon in New York after having the pleasure of speaking with Mathilde Bonaparte in Paris a few years ago. She hosted one of the most popular salons until her exile to Belgium.” He laughed. “Not to say that mine is anywhere near as grand as hers was. In any case, it would be a pleasure to have you attend.” I’d read something about Parisian salons recently, a brief citation in an article about Proust, mentioning that men and women were encouraged to mingle and collaborate. In a sense, in my own life, the fact that my brother and Charlie read my work was revolutionary and rare.
“Oh, you should.” Franklin nodded at me. “Gin, it’s wonderful. I’ve only been the one time, but I meant to tell you of it right after, to invite you with me the next time. I suppose I’ve been traveling so much that exhaustion has wiped my mind clean of functional thought. Forgive me.” I smiled at Frank.
“I’ll have to try it,” I said, though in truth I thought it sounded like hell. Even though I’d dreamed of publication privately, the thought of sharing my writing—my deepest disappointments and joys—with strangers filled me with horror. My manuscript wasn’t ready, and neither was I. In part because the last artists gathering I’d attempted in June—an all-male meeting of Charlie’s early childhood friends from his old neighborhood in Brooklyn—had ended badly. Charlie had said that a female presence might not be the best idea, but I’d insisted on attending anyway. I’d been desperate for the camaraderie of other serious writers. When we arrived, the host, a pock-faced man named Wayland, had immediately asked me to
leave, stating that a woman’s attendance was improper. Charlie had defended me, prompting a heated exchange that ended abruptly when Charlie said that Wayland was too simpleminded to appreciate the complexity of my prose. Charlie had held my hand the whole train ride home. That was one of the occasions that made me realize I’d always loved Charlie, that he was my match.
The strings began to sing behind me, disturbing the memory. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hopper.”
“Likewise, Miss Loftin. I’ll see you and Franklin next Friday,” he said. “And if you don’t show, I’ll come fetch you. I know where you live.” He winked at me and I stared at him, wondering how in the world he knew. He held my gaze, and I looked away, before realizing he was referring to our earlier exchange. I sat down and leaned over Mr. Trent and Doctor Hopper.
“As you should, judging by the number of times your carriage has visited my lawn. I’ve noticed several tire depressions in the grass. If you wouldn’t mind telling your footman to keep to the drive, that’d be magnificent.”
“Oh, the atrocity,” he whispered. Dramatically placing a hand on his heart, he winked at me again and turned his attention to the players.
Chapter Six
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
You don’t remember where it is?”
Franklin and I were walking down yet another unfamiliar cobblestone street in Manhattan. Passing mansion after mansion, the flicker of gas lamps flung shadows of elaborate gables and openmouthed gargoyles onto the street. I knew we were somewhere near Fifth Avenue. Nowhere else—possibly in the world—was there such an abundance of wealth encapsulated in such a small area. Franklin’s black evening jacket disappeared, then reappeared, in front of me as he stepped back into the light. He stopped for a moment, neck craning toward the door of a brick home that looked minuscule in comparison to the castle-like monstrosity beside it. Taking a few steps toward the door, he squinted at the number, shook his head, and kept walking.
“No. I do. It’s just that I’ve always taken the New York and Harlem to Eighty-Sixth Street. I’ve never taken the elevated line in. We’re farther south, so . . .” Franklin shrugged and stopped to wait for me to catch up. I walked faster. The black lace lining the white taffeta dress I’d borrowed from Bess was too long, catching on the edges of the cobblestones with each step. Bess didn’t know I’d borrowed it. She’d been in the city all day, selecting materials at O’Neill’s for a hat Alva Vanderbilt had asked her to redo for her fourteen-year-old daughter, Consuelo. She’d be livid when she realized I’d worn the dress, but Mother had insisted I look presentable, and I’d barely noticed which dress she was helping me into. Instead, I’d been lost in thought. I hadn’t seen Charlie in two weeks—not even so much as a glimpse from my window—and though I knew my heart couldn’t bear his presence, it ached in his absence. Every morning, I woke wondering if he’d come for me, if today was the day he’d come to tell me that he’d called off his engagement to marry me instead. But with each passing week my hope was fading. Even if he loved me, he didn’t love me enough.
“I recognize that one,” Frank said, gesturing toward an Italian Renaissance–style mansion with scrolled ornamentation edging the rectangular frame. I wondered how Doctor Hopper had the means to settle among the Fricks and Vanderbilts.
“I thought Hopper was a doctor,” I said, breathlessly, finally catching Franklin.
“He is. This way.” We turned down a narrow alley, past a wrought-iron fence protecting someone’s garden. The light scent of English boxwoods drifted over the pungent wood smoke billowing from surrounding chimneys and I inhaled the November air, huddling into my grandmother’s mink coat—a pelisse that Grandfather had given her on their wedding day.
“Not to discount physicians, but unless he’s invented some new contraption, I don’t understand how he lives here,” I said as I tried to keep up. Franklin strained to see the numbers on another brick house.
“They’re related to the Carnegies somehow,” he said. Stunned at the comment, I watched as Franklin reached into his pocket, flipped his watch open, and glared at the time. “But I don’t know the particulars.” I thought of Mr. Hopper’s comment at the Symphony, his joking—or so I’d believed—about living on Fifth Avenue, and smiled, finding my first impression, and the irony of the whole thing, hilarious.
“Frank, maybe we should knock and ask someone. Surely one of the housekeepers would know where they live.” Franklin’s nose wrinkled.
“It’s nearly eight at night, Gin. I’m not going to go traipsing up to some stranger’s door.” He exhaled in frustration and the cloud of his breath drifted past me, disappearing into the night. I thought of Mother, who was likely already tucked in bed reading the new Ladies’ Home Journal, and knew he was right. “Oh. There it is. Right there.” Franklin tipped his head forward, toward a stream of light coming from a house at the end of the block. My fingers curled around the hard edges of the leather notebook in my pocket. I hadn’t asked Franklin much about this gathering, mostly because I was afraid that if I heard the answer I wouldn’t go. At once, the editorial rejections my writing had accumulated in the past crept to the forefront of my mind—these characters are one-dimensional, the pace of this story is too tedious, the subject is dull. I didn’t want to stand in the middle of a circle reading a manuscript that I knew was far from perfect, reciting words that conjured Charlie. I also knew I wouldn’t be able to hold my tongue if a man like Wayland questioned my being there or insulted my work, as most male artists were wont to do—a diplomatic way of reminding me that I should be at home needlepointing or cooking. Even so, I knew what I wanted and that was to shape this manuscript into something worth reading. To that end, I would need to embrace critique and seek opinions—honest ones.
Franklin was nearly to the door by the time I realized I was still in the road staring at the towering brick chimneys and limestone-edged turrets. He turned around when he didn’t find me beside him and started back down the stairs.
“Come on, Gin,” he said. His cheeks were pink and the front of his hair stood on end. I reached up and smoothed it back down in an attempt to forget the sudden flash of Mother’s face in my mind, her smile when she’d seen me in Bess’s dress. I’d been so occupied with wondering about Charlie’s absence and how my writing would be received at the Society that I hadn’t given her satisfaction much thought. But now, standing outside of the Hopper mansion, the realization dawned on me: Frank’s friends, other men, wouldn’t only be appraising my writing. They’d be considering my appearance, my wit, my suitability as well.
“I’m nervous,” I said. He threw his arm across my shoulders.
“For god’s sake, why?”
“I’ve had plenty of things published for the Review, but I’ve never read anything meaningful out loud . . . especially to strangers or to men . . . well, other than to you or Charlie,” I lied. I’d never considered how other men perceived me, if they found me attractive or interesting. I’d never had to; Charlie’s friendship, his love, had always convinced me that I was both of those things. But now, suddenly without him, I was unsure. I held on to the freezing metal railing and started up the scrolled concrete steps, hearing the muted sounds of laughter and voices behind the glass doors set in gilded wrought-iron frames.
“You’ll never be forced to read anything aloud, though I’ve heard it can prove to be helpful,” Franklin said, opening the door and pulling me inside before I could reply.
We started down a dark hallway and then turned into a drawing room. At first glance, it looked just like Charlie’s friend Wayland’s gathering—smoke so thick we could have been floating down a southern river with Mark Twain’s Huck and Jim, everyone clutching a pencil or paintbrush—but the setting was different. The sweeping gold curtains, the fresco of flying cherubim along the ceiling, and the shiny Weber grand piano in the front corner of the room all pointed to the splendor reserved for the mansions industrialists built—a stark contrast to Wayland’s plain home.
“Come on. Le
t’s find Lydia,” Franklin said beside me. Having no idea who he was talking about, I squinted into the smoke and dim, and his cold hand found mine. The room was packed. We passed by a few painters working on projects next to easels displaying finished pieces. I watched as groups of people shifted from one painting to the next, gesturing to their peers beside them, leaning into each work as if they were scrutinizing it. We skirted around the fireplace and nearly ran into an assembly of men and women laughing and talking in the middle of the room, as if this sort of intellectual mingling between sexes were common.
“That line about love was magnificent,” I heard one of the women say to a bulky man sitting on a stool, “but the ending could’ve been written by a child.” I waited for the man to respond with a retort about her juvenile scrawling, but only heard a deep chuckle. I dug my fingers into the swathe of black taffeta along my arm and pinched, stunned to find I wasn’t dreaming. Somehow, it seemed John Hopper had located dozens of men who considered women’s artistic endeavors profound. As if my thought conjured him, there he was, reclining in a corner a few feet from the fire in a yellow upholstered armchair, surrounded by a group of at least ten women. Mr. Hopper’s notebook was open on his lap, and as he dipped his head to continue reading, a lady standing beside his chair casually brushed her hand across his shoulder. The gesture was innocent enough, but at once, I recalled Charlie’s comment about Mr. Hopper’s reputation. I recalled the ease of our conversation at the Symphony, the way his focus had given me the impression that he was fully interested in every word I said. Was that how he drew women in?