by Joy Callaway
“Never thank me again, Virginia,” he said sternly, though his lips were turned up in a grin. I stared at him for a moment before remembering my last words. “An editor would have been impressed without me.” He lifted the back of my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “If anyone should be doing any thanking it should be me. You forga—”
“I know I did,” I said, interrupting him. “And it’s forgotten. I’m going to say the same. Never thank me again.”
“Thank you.” He winked and stood to greet Alevia.
Chapter Twelve
JUNE 1892
The Loftin House
BRONX, NEW YORK
A breeze from the open windows stirred the edges of the white damask tablecloth beside me. The sweet scent of gardenias wafted through my nostrils from the enormous bouquet between the windows, a gift to Mae and Henry from Mr. Blaine.
“Do you suppose they’ve all gone?” I asked, watching our last guest, ninety-year-old Mrs. Murphy toddle down the sidewalk. The parlor was silent for the first time since ten this morning when it seemed that every woman Mae had ever laid eyes on had embarked on our house for tea and to appraise the array of wedding gifts arranged on tables around the room. The grandfather clock in the drawing room chimed three. Her reception was a bit earlier than was customary—a week before the wedding rather than a few days—but as she and Henry had chosen to marry at his parents’ country church in Rye, a tea closer to the ceremony was impossible.
“It’s hard to tell, really,” Lydia said. “At some of the receptions I’ve attended in the city, women breeze in and out until well into the evening.” She was perched on the edge of the couch next to me, fanning herself and pinching layers of floral-printed silk from her legs. Her face was flushed and sweat beaded on her chest.
I watched the postman making his way down the street and shut my eyes. With all of the day’s festivities, I’d hardly thought of the scathing rejection I’d received from The Century only yesterday. Mr. Gilder had found my writing disjointed and my illustration of the women unfeeling. Stupidly, I’d opened the letter at dinner, expecting elation. I’d barely heard my family’s sympathies. Instead, I’d retreated to my room to tear the letter up and to question my pursuit of writing altogether. I thought my craft had greatly improved in the almost year since I’d begun attending the Society, as did John and Mr. Blaine. But perhaps they hadn’t been entirely honest with me; perhaps they’d sugarcoated the truth in an effort to salvage our friendship.
“I’m grateful for everything, really I am,” Mae said, interrupting my thoughts. She swept her hand at the tabletops brimming with Belleek fine china, silver teapots, gilded vases, a gold-plated toothpick holder, hand-painted candy dishes, and embroidered linen napkins from the girls at the orphanage. Few of the gifts were functional. Most were an extravagance, but that was the way of our time—at least that’s what Mother always said. Weddings were cause for celebration, for lavishness. Even so, a year ago we would’ve never dreamed of such opulence, though I suppose Mae would’ve been showered with fine things regardless of our situation.
“But I don’t believe I’ll be able to smile again for some time. My cheeks are sore.” Mae remained slumped against the blue tufted settee Franklin had dragged in from the sitting room. Even in her exhaustion, Mae looked beautiful. Her pale pink and white dress drew up in layers at the front, sweeping into a high French bustle at the back. Bessie had embroidered pink English rose vines on the hem of each tier, a wedding gift that had taken nearly two months.
“I’d smile for weeks if it would award me silver this fine.” Bess leaned across Mae to pluck an oyster fork from the display of Tiffany silverware spread atop the Louis Vuitton trunk John had gifted her. “It’s even inscribed with your new initials.”
“Do you suppose she’s in love with my brother or only interested in the finery?” Lydia whispered beside me.
“Both.” I grinned.
“Don’t get too attached, Bess. I’m returning that fork to whence it came.” Mae yawned and retrieved the silver from Bess’s hand.
“Why ever would you do such a thing?” Mother asked, coming in from the kitchen. She set a plate of leftover blueberry scones on an empty bit of tabletop beside Alevia, and brushed a few crumbs from her navy-and-white-striped bodice. Mae’s eyes met mine.
“The set is from Mrs. Greenwood, as you know, but that fork is from Mrs. Aldridge,” she said slowly, as though the reminder of Charlie still had the power to maim me. I’d grown quite used to his absence, though I couldn’t pretend that his memory had fully escaped me today. I’d always thought I’d be the first to marry, only because I thought Charlie and me such a sure match. “She left the gift on the doorstep yesterday. As she wasn’t invited to the tea, I don’t feel I should accept it.”
Mother pursed her lips and ran her hand over the top of Bessie’s brimless straw hat ornamented with orange silk flowers. Mother hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Aldridge since Charlie’s proposal—just as she’d sworn that night—and as far as I knew, Mrs. Aldridge hadn’t attempted to mend things either. The loss of an intimate friend didn’t seem to bother Mother. She’d simply poured the extra time into us and into other women at church and in the neighborhood. Even so, I’d often thought to tell Mother to forfeit her anger toward Mrs. Aldridge, because despite breaking my heart, Charlie hadn’t ruined my life. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. Once Mother set her mind to something, nothing could undo it.
“She wouldn’t have given it to you if she didn’t want you to have it,” I said. “Regardless of our current relationship, you were a part of her family for years.”
“Things change so swiftly.” Alevia’s voice came in a whisper. She swept her mother of pearl and feather fan in front of her face, but not before I noticed that her eyes were shining. Surely she wasn’t upset about the Aldridges. “At one moment, a family is intact, and the next, a person is stolen away. It will never be the same.” She hastily left the room, her yellow silk train overlaid with tulle and lace shuffling behind her. Mother turned to follow, but I heard the drawing room door click shut.
“I don’t suppose that was about the loss of your neighbor’s friendship?” Lydia’s eyebrows rose. The melancholy notes of “The Last Rose of Summer” drifted in from the hallway. The song had originated as a poem by the Irishman Thomas Moore. It was a favorite of Father’s. He’d always sung it while Alevia played. I could hear his voice now if I concentrated, his rough baritone floating through the house.
“No,” Mae and I said in tandem. “Alevia’s trying her best to conceal it for my sake, but she’s upset about my moving away, even though I am only going to the city,” Mae said. Mae and Henry planned to take up residence in the Trents’ guest cottage in Manhattan until they found teaching posts.
“We’ve always had each other to lean on,” I said. “She worries that our relationship with Mae will fade when she’s gone and that we’ll never see her.” Bessie snorted.
“You say it as though we stay up every night gossiping and braiding each other’s hair.” She laughed. “Miss Blaine, we rarely see one another as it is, save at mealtimes when Mother insists that we’re all present. Our interests consume the majority of our time. Mae, you would be an utter dolt to refuse Henry to retain our company. He is a man of worth and you love each other. Your life will be grand.”
Lydia nudged me, doubtless questioning Bess’s intentions yet again. Alevia had stopped playing, and I could hear Mother trying to console her. Bessie was right to a degree—some days we were so busy that we barely spoke to each other—but I knew it was the thought that Mae would no longer be available on any night that she needed her was what bothered Alevia most. The thought of Mae’s absence made me dreadfully sad as well.
“Even so, I shall hate to leave this house,” Mae said. She looked down at her hands. “I love you all so very much. But, I love Henry, too.”
“Dear, don’t worry so,” Lydia said. “Life changes, most certainly, but you’ll never lose the love of your family.” Lydia clut
ched my hand and squeezed. “And as you said, you’ll only be in Manhattan.”
Lydia and I had discussed a similar subject at a production of Maid Marian the week before. She’d asked if I thought Franklin would ever propose and if I would be terribly upset at her for taking him away if he did. I’d told her that of course I wouldn’t. A part of me was lying. I’d miss him supremely, and though I was fond of Lydia, I worried that she’d eventually grow weary of being a salesman’s wife. Frank was faring well, but his income would never afford Fifth Avenue.
A chugging noise cut through the momentary silence. I glanced out the window to find John and Mr. Blaine frowning down at the gilded dash of John’s Peugeot buggy, while Franklin reclined in the back, an amused look on his face. Mr. Blaine and Franklin had gone out sailing during our tea, and the exposure to sun and salt air was apparent. Frank’s face was golden-brown beneath his straw boater, while Mr. Blaine’s cheeks were burned deep red, his hair lightened blond white. John’s forehead creased under his white felt hat as he tried to shut the automobile off. I hadn’t expected to see him. He’d been so busy as of late. Today alone he’d had a reception for designer Gaston Worth, in from Paris, followed by a luncheon with a physician friend of his father’s. I thought he’d likely stay at home and write after the luncheon—something he hadn’t done for weeks—instead of making the trek to Mott Haven.
Lydia and Bess lifted from their seats in tandem and went to greet the men. I began to rise as well, but Mae caught my arm. She waited until they’d left the room then pulled me down to her, her blue eyes dancing.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you for weeks, but haven’t had a chance to speak to you alone,” she whispered. “I want all of you—Bess, you, and Alevia—beside me at the ceremony, but I’d like you to be next to me, my maid of honor . . . if you’ll agree.”
“It would be my honor,” I said. As if there was any question of my consent. A loud crash startled me, and I turned to the windows in time to see John smack the dash. I laughed watching him regard it for a moment longer before shrugging and stepping down from the driver’s seat.
“Goodness! Has someone been hit in the street?” Mother careened in from the hallway, a hand on her heart.
“No. It is only John’s buggy,” I said. Alevia smiled behind her, apparently revived from her melancholy.
“Oh, how delightful that he’s come,” Mother said. She squinted out of the window. “And Franklin and Mr. Blaine have returned as well.” She clapped her hands together. “If only Henry were here.” Mother gripped Mae’s shoulder. Henry had already departed for the country to fish and sail with his older brother, Andrew, before the wedding. “What a lovely group,” Mother said, watching the five of them making their way toward the house.
It was fortunate that Mother approved of all of our beaus. At first I’d wondered how she’d react to all of us courting members of the same elite group she’d chosen to abandon by marrying my father. It wasn’t that she’d ever discouraged our interaction with the upper class—on the contrary, she’d only been complimentary of the families she’d grown up with—but she hadn’t been close with anyone from that circle since her marriage. If she felt trepidation about being thrust back into her old world, she hadn’t shown it. In fact, she seemed thrilled at the prospect of all of our matches.
“Have the last of the hens departed?” Franklin’s voice bellowed through the house. He removed his hat, exposing tousled locks. Lydia swept a hand across the side of his head, a gesture that didn’t do anything to tame his windblown hair.
“I certainly hope so.” Alevia sighed.
“I doubt it. I’ve heard guests are in and out all day at these sorts of things,” John said, echoing Lydia’s earlier words. He stepped around Franklin and Lydia, lips lifting when his eyes found mine. He looked handsome in a beige-and-brown-checked jacket.
“In our case, I’m glad to say that all of our guests have taken their leave,” Mother said. “Unless I was incorrect in my counting.” John leaned down to glance at Mae’s silverware, though he kept his hands behind his back, concealing something.
“Looks as though it’s all there,” he said. “Forks, spoons, knives. They look sturdy enough, silver.” He righted. “Are those the types of comments you receive?”
“Of course not. It’s a Tiffany set, John.” Franklin laughed.
“They usually don’t comment at all,” Mae said. “The response has mostly been in squeals and claps.”
“You’d think no one had ever seen china before,” Bess said. “Mrs. Bouchard and her daughter lingered so long in front of the Belleek display that the rest of the guests decided to join in. They spent at least an hour appraising the design.” It was an impressive set—all white with a raised floral pattern along the edges. Though Mrs. Trent hadn’t been able to attend, she’d had fifteen place settings delivered. The rest of the items—the platters, the gravy boat, the dessert trays—had been given by Henry’s grandmother.
“I suppose some china deserves the appraisal,” Mr. Blaine said in an attempt to dismantle Bess’s foray into negativity. “Certainly the level of detail can be quite artistic.” Mr. Blaine patted Bessie’s hand looped through his arm. I wondered if he’d received word from The Century.
“I have something for you, Miss Mae,” John said abruptly. Mae sat up from her chair back.
“But you’ve already given me the lovely trunk, Mr. Hopper.”
“Please call me John, all of you,” he said. “And, I know.” John flipped his hand at the trunk. “The trunk is a practical gift, but I wanted to give you something of meaning. You are so very dear to my Ginny.” My Ginny. The sentiment struck my heart.
John pulled a briefcase from behind his back. It was old, but very fine, made of alligator skin with a curved walrus tusk handle. He knelt down in front of her, setting the bag on her lap. “It was my grandmother’s,” he said. “She was a teacher up until the end of the war. I thought you should have it. Perhaps you could make use of it.” Mae ran her hands over the briefcase, unhinging the bronze clasp at the top. “My mother kept it in her room, to remind her of my grandmother, but since Mother’s death, it hasn’t been appreciated. I hope you like it.” I knew how much it meant for John to part with something of his mother’s. He’d told me not long ago that she’d died of consumption when he was ten, despite the desperate efforts of his father.
“It’s lovely,” Mae whispered. “I’ll cherish it.” She clutched the bag to her chest.
“I’m glad to hear it.” John laid a hand on top of Mae’s, then crossed to me and sat down. I reached for him and his fingers laced through mine. He knew how much Mae meant to me. All of the lovely sentiments in the world could not equal the depth of feeling for me that his gift had shown. As touched as I was, my stomach tumbled with nerves. We’d only been courting for five months. Surely he hadn’t thought of marriage. But the possibility wasn’t entirely unlikely. It wasn’t uncommon for couples to become engaged quickly.
“That was kind of you,” I said softly, forcing the thought of our future from my mind. I was likely overthinking things. John squeezed my hand.
“It was nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing at all. The friendship your family has given me, the lo—”
“We’ve run out of ice, and I know the weather’s blistering, but would anyone care for tea? The kettle’s still warm,” Mother interrupted.
“I’d love a cup,” Frank said. He’d folded himself on the Donegal Irish rug beside Lydia. Mother started to turn in to the hall, but I stopped her.
“I’ll fetch it,” I said. She’d been catering to our guests all day.
“Miss Virginia, would you mind waiting a moment? I’d like to share some good fortune with the room,” Mr. Blaine said. I stopped in my tracks. Surely Bessie hadn’t become engaged without mentioning it. She would’ve been too excited to keep it secret. Mr. Blaine cleared his throat. “My story has been selected for The Century.” My heart sank to my stomach. I knew the feeling was unfair, but I couldn�
��t help it in the wake of my rejection. Lydia clapped excitedly, while Alevia began a string of congratulations. Mr. Blaine reached into his pocket, withdrawing a letter and a small brown bottle. Surely he hadn’t been drinking in the middle of the day. He shoved the bottle back into his linen jacket and extracted the letter from the envelope. “Mr. Gilder says here that the prose is smart and that the story is an important tale of Americana . . . of course I already knew those things, but it was nice to hear them anyway.” I felt my face pale and immediately forced a smile in hopes that my family and John wouldn’t notice. Mr. Blaine turned to me. As jovial as his expression was, his eyes seemed weary.
“I’m thrilled for you, Mr. Blaine,” I said. “Absolutely delighted.” In truth, I was. He wasn’t my rival or my competitor. It was only disappointment that clouded my elation.
“Tom, please,” he said. “And it’s all because of you, Miss Virginia. Had you not challenged me to submit a story, this opportunity wouldn’t have come.”
“I’m so glad for it.” I started to retreat into the hallway.
“You’ll surely receive word of your own acceptance in a day or two,” he called after me. “The post is faster in the city.” I nodded and turned into the kitchen. I braced myself on the cool cast-iron rim of the stove and breathed, forcing myself calm. Had Mr. Gilder rejected my work because I was a woman? Many women had been turned away on account of their gender, but I’d thought a publication such as The Century was progressive enough to appraise my work honestly. I shook my head. That wasn’t the reason. Mr. Gilder published female writers. Just this month, stories by Virginia Frazer Boyle, Sophie Bledsoe Herrick, Dorothy Prescott, and Amelia Gere Mason had been included. I had to remember that this story wasn’t my only chance. There would be other opportunities. I thought of the possible novel premises listed in my notebook. None of them inspired me yet, but at some point something would. I was sure of it. Not to mention that Mr. Harvey was going to read The Web. I wouldn’t let the sting of failure stifle my voice. I was stronger than that. Perhaps Tom’s work had simply been better than mine. I reached up to open the wooden cabinets, withdrawing Mother’s Foley tea service.