by Kate Hewitt
“Miss?”
She looked up at the waiter once more. “Yes?”
“The gentleman apologizes for unsettling you, and kindly asks if you would accept his card.”
“I don’t...” Ellen bit her lip. Doubt and astonishment gave way to a shy curiosity. Surely there could be no harm in taking the man’s card. “Very well. You may thank him.” She accepted the card and glanced down at it: Henry McAvoy, Board of Governors, Glasgow School of Art.
She felt her stomach drop away as she stared at the card in wordless shock. Glasgow? Art school? Had he recognized her accent, or seen her sketches, or was it simply all the most amazing coincidence, and all he’d seen was a young lady in need of a companion?
Swallowing, Ellen tucked the card in her reticule and turned to the menu once more. No matter who this Henry McAvoy was, she was not about to approach him in the middle of the dining car.
That night she retired to a private sleeping car for ladies, and listened to the matron in bombazine snore as her mind went round and round wondering why Mr. McAvoy had been so bold... and if tomorrow would present an opportunity for her to speak with him.
She did not see him at breakfast, and the train pulled into Chicago’s Union Station soon after. A porter fetched Ellen’s valise, and with a flicker of regret that she had not seen Mr. McAvoy again she exited the train for the busy platform, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the elegant station, never mind the city that lay beyond.
Although she’d arranged by telegram to stay at a boarding house nearby, she realized she had not considered transport to that establishment, or just how big the city of Chicago actually was. It had been no more than a small, black dot on a wide stretch of empty map, yet now it sprang around her, a city fully grown, more of a city than anything she’d seen since that first frightening day in New York.
People bustled by her in a continuous, indifferent stream; a few jostled her shoulder with muttered oaths. She took a step backwards, willing herself away from the noise, the crowd. She hadn’t felt like this since she and Da had stepped off the boat into the seething reaches of Manhattan six years ago, excited, overwhelmed, and a little bit afraid.
A porter carrying two heavy valises jostled her elbow, and someone else pushed by on her other side. Before Ellen could stop herself she found herself falling hard onto her knees, her hands flat out in front of her.
“Oh!” The breath had been knocked from her, and as people continued to stream by with indifferent ease she knelt there, her knees aching, her hands scraped.
“Can I help?” She heard a kind voice, vaguely familiar somehow, at her side, and then someone was helping her from her inelegant position on the pavement. “Are you quite all right?”
Ellen turned and to her astonishment saw Mr. McAvoy from the train. “That was quite a fall. Please, let me take your bag and bring you somewhere more comfortable.”
“I don’t...”
“I know you don’t,” he assured her with a little laugh. “You made that quite clear when you refused my invitation last night.”
Ellen flushed. “It wouldn’t be proper—”
“No, indeed. I should never have put you in such an awkward position, but you quite fascinate me, you see.”
“Fascinate?” she repeated, as if she had never heard the word before. She hadn’t, at least not in relation to herself.
Henry McAvoy smiled with the confident ease of a person born to wealth and privilege. “There is a ladies’ lounge in the main hall. May I escort you there?”
Ellen decided that seemed safe enough, and she was intrigued enough by this sophisticated gentleman and his apparent fascination with a country bumpkin like her. “Very well. Thank you.”
He hoisted her valise along with his own, and soon she was following him through the crowds to a discreet, wood-paneled door on the side of the hall. “You can rest here,” Henry McAvoy said. “Are you waiting for another train?”
“I’m spending the night in the city,” Ellen told him. “Before I leave for Santa Fe tomorrow.”
“Santa Fe! You bear no end of surprises. If you are staying in Chicago, please let me assist you to your lodgings. I am quite familiar with this city, having traveled here several times before.”
“But you’re Scottish,” Ellen observed and he smiled, showing very straight, white teeth.
“You did look at my card, then. Or did you simply hear my burr?”
“You have very little accent,” she replied, “and of course I looked at your card. I had to know what kind of man is so persistent with a lady not of his acquaintance.”
“Now I’ve been put properly in my place!” His dark eyes sparkled, and rather belatedly Ellen realized what a handsome man he was. So unlike Jed or Lucas or any other man she’d known. Henry McAvoy was from another realm entirely. “Please, let me at least help you into a hansom that will take you to your lodgings.”
Ellen hesitated. She knew it wasn’t proper to chat with a strange gentleman in the middle of Union Station, no matter how charming or sophisticated he seemed, but she felt she had little recourse. She was lost, she was overwhelmed, and she didn’t know how to get to her boarding house. And he intrigued her... perhaps as much as she intrigued him.
“Very well, I accept your kind offer. Thank you very much.”
“Splendid.” He held out one hand. “Henry McAvoy, at your service.”
“Ellen Copley.” She told him the name of the hotel where she was staying, and he hoisted her valise once more. “Am I correct, Miss Copley,” he asked as they walked towards the entrance of the station where a dozen hansom cabs waited in a gleaming black line, “in believing I hear a bit of the Scots’ brogue in your voice?”
“Yes, you are. I came from Springburn, originally.” She found she said this proudly.
“And I am, as you must have surmised from my card, a Glasgow man myself.”
“The Glasgow School of Art.”
“Had you heard of it?”
“No, not really.”
“And yet,” Mr. McAvoy said, his gaze turning speculative, “I think you must be something of an artist.”
So he had seen her sketches. Served her right, she supposed, for drawing in such a public place. “Not an artist,” she said quickly. “I just do a bit of drawing.”
“I saw something of your sketches as I walked by you in the parlor car yesterday. They drew me in immediately.”
“They’re nothing much—”
“Do not sell yourself short,” Mr. McAvoy told her. “That is the first thing you will have to learn.”
Ellen did not ask what on earth he meant by such a statement, for they’d reached the queue for the cabs. Buildings at least a dozen stories tall towered over them and she could hear the tooting horns of at least twenty motorcars on Van Buren Street—more automobiles than she’d ever seen before in one place.
“I must look a right greenhorn, gawping at all this,” she said with a little laugh. “I haven’t been in such a big city for a while.”
“I find it charming. You know the address of your hotel?”
“Yes. Thank you for your help. I think I shall be all right now.”
She was at the head of the queue, and the driver of the hansom jumped down to take her valise.
“In that case, Miss Copley, will you have dinner with me tonight? I do not wish to end our association so quickly. Allow me the pleasure of your company, and to hear more of your drawings.”
The invitation was so charming and heartfelt, it tore at Ellen to refuse. She didn’t really want to say no, yet surely she could not dine unescorted and alone with a strange man, in a strange city.
“I fear, Mr. McAvoy,” she said, “that would not be appropriate.”
A faint blush tinted his pale cheeks as he smiled in apology. “Of course, I quite see what you mean. I don’t mean to be forward—perhaps you could see it as a matter of business? As a Governor of the Glasgow School of Art, I take particular interest in your talent.”
“A sign of your own humility, then. I told you not to sell yourself short. I’m staying at the Congress Hotel on Michigan Avenue—they have a pleasant restaurant, plenty of diners to serve as chaperones.” His smile was winsome and just a tiny bit rakish, mockingly so, that Ellen found herself laughing.
She was in a strange city, no one knew her, so she could do as she pleased. She knew she would conduct herself with propriety, and she believed Henry McAvoy would as well. And she didn’t need to play it safe anymore, did she?
“All right, Mr. McAvoy, in light of your fine arguments, I accept.”
“Where to, miss?” The driver asked, and Ellen told him her address. Henry McAvoy spoke briefly to the driver, and then helped Ellen into the hansom. “I’ve arranged for the driver to bring you to the Congress Hotel at seven o’clock, and return you to your hotel at nine. Is that suitable?”
“Perfectly.” Ellen suppressed both a laugh and a thrill of pleasurable anticipation. Henry McAvoy was clearly a man who got things done. And as for the Glasgow School of Art... she could not even begin to think about that.
That evening Ellen entered the foyer of the elegant Congress Hotel with more than a little trepidation. After some consideration, she’d dressed in her rose wool. Although it was too warm for the season, she had nothing else suitable—the store bought dress from Hamish was dirty from the train, and the gown she’d worn to Lucas’ smoker was packed in a trunk back in her bedroom on Jasper Lane. She thought of the ruffled silk with a little longing, and then shrugged. Henry McAvoy was obviously a gentleman of fine tastes and some wealth. Ellen could hardly hope to impress him, no matter what she wore.
Not, she told herself sternly, that she was trying to impress him at all.
The Congress Hotel was an imposing building, boasting, the cabby told her, a thousand guest rooms. It seemed an impossible number to Ellen, and yet the building certainly seemed large enough to hold such a vast amount of people.
The lobby of the hotel was large and luxurious, with sumptuous carpeting and sparkling chandeliers. Ellen saw that there was even a grand piano in one corner. She’d never seen such elegance and she looked around uncertainly for Mr. McAvoy, already feeling out of her depth.
“Miss Copley! I’m so glad you came.” She turned around at the sound of his voice; he stood before her, his dark hair slicked back, dressed in an excellently cut evening suit.
Ellen smiled, pleasure and anticipation unfurling within her. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I wondered,” Henry admitted. “After taking my leave of you, I realized the boldness of my invitation. The last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” Ellen lied, for her sumptuous surroundings, as well as the elegant figure Henry McAvoy cut, were already making her feel a bit gauche and stupid. She smiled again. “This certainly is better than the modest fare offered at my boarding house.”
“The food here is excellent,” Henry confided as, with one hand on her elbow, he led her into the dining room.
After they were seated at a table for two, crisp linen napkins laid on their laps by the white jacketed waiters, Henry turned his dark gaze on Ellen.
“What takes you to Santa Fe, Miss Copley?”
“I’m visiting my father.”
“He lives there?”
“He works on the railway.” As soon as she said it, Ellen realized how poor that sounded to someone as wealthy and well-connected as Henry McAvoy seemed to be. She pursed her lips in a frown. Why was he dining with her this evening? Slumming with a working class girl? Or could he really be interested in her little sketches? It seemed impossible, ridiculous.
“You must be looking forward to seeing him,” Henry said smoothly, ignoring the awkward pause that Ellen’s admission had created. “Has it been some time?”
“Six years. I’ve been living with my aunt and uncle.” Ellen did not want to talk about Amherst Island, or Ruth and Hamish. A lump of homesickness had lodged in her chest like a stone and she was afraid if she started describing the places she’d been, the people she loved, she would shame herself by weeping or worse.
Instead she glanced around the dining room, the light glinting off the crystal chandeliers and wine glasses, and wondered how she would sketch such a scene.
At the table next to them a woman in ivory silk and diamonds looked exquisitely bored. Ellen drew her in her mind in a few quick strokes—the way she propped her chin in her hand and gazed irritably at her surroundings, impressed by nothing.
“You look,” Henry said quietly, “as if you’re memorizing the room.”
Ellen started in surprise. “I am,” she found herself admitting. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Then, impulsively, she found herself admitting, “As soon as I get back to my room, I shall draw it all.”
“Marvelous. What are your favorite subjects to sketch?”
“Anything that takes my fancy,” she told him. “People, animals, an empty room.” She smiled faintly, surprising herself by elaborating. “I like to catch the unexpected moments, the little thing that you wouldn’t think of unless it was right there in front of you, on the page.” Ellen’s cheeks warmed and she balled the napkin in her lap, embarrassed. Why was she talking like this to this man? The only other person she’d shared her art with really was Lucas—and Jed.
Suddenly she felt a wave of longing—for the island, for family, for home—that crashed over her and left her feeling breathless and spinning, wondering why she was sitting in a strange hotel in a strange city, with a strange man.
“That’s all very interesting,” Mr. McAvoy murmured, and Ellen’s gaze slid away from his own speculative one.
They gazed down at the menus, and Ellen read of the unfamiliar dishes with a faint sense of unease. She had no idea what to order, and she’d a feeling her dining partner knew it.
Consommé Olga, paté de foie gras, roast squab... it all sounded elegant rather than appetizing. Ellen swallowed, scanning down the menu with mounting panic. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself, and yet...
Henry McAvoy knew she was out of her depth. She’d just told him her father laid rails! She glanced up and met his bright gaze with a candid smile. “I’ve no idea what any of these things are. Can you order something simple for me?”
Henry, charmed, smiled easily. “Of course.”
It was only after their first course was served—paté for Henry and cream of celery soup for Ellen—that he asked her again about her drawing.
“Have you ever been to art school?”
“No, although it’s been mentioned to me. I’ve just never felt...” She paused, unsure what she wanted to say. “I suppose it’s a bit terrifying, to think of it. Sharing my drawing with the whole world over. It’s always just been something for me.”
“I understand, of course. And yet such gifts should surely be shared.”
“You haven’t seen my sketches, Mr. McAvoy, not really.”
“Would you show them to me?”
She swallowed, her heart beginning to beat rather hard. “I’m not sure.”
“Is it just a hobby to you, then?” he asked. “Something to do as you like, and discard at will?”
“No,” Ellen said slowly. “It’s not like that.” She’d ‘discarded’ her drawing for several months that year, and it had felt like part of her soul had gone missing. It was only once she began again, the images and memories and ideas returning unbidden, that she realized how much she’d missed it. How numb she’d been, almost lifeless, and she knew she didn’t want to experience that again.
“Well?” Smiling, Henry raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“Why do you want to see them?”
“Because, as you know, I’m on the Board of Governors of the Glasgow School of Art, and we are always, Miss Copley, looking for new talent.”
Her mouth dropped open and she hurriedly snapped it shut. “You think I should go to your school
?”
“Possibly. I can hardly make such promises at this juncture. But would you be interested in such a thing, Miss Copley? Because you seem uncertain.”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Drawing—it’s like breathing to me. You don’t go to school to learn how to breathe.”
Mr. McAvoy was silent for a moment. “Indeed not,” he finally said, “yet perhaps you can learn to—breathe—better?” He laid down his own fork, so they were gazing quite openly at one another, Mr. McAvoy in interest and Ellen in amazement. “Let me be frank, Miss Copley. I’m here on business with the Art Institute of Chicago—we are attempting to establish ties with American schools and their emerging artists. Finding a diamond in the rough who sketches scenes of Americana is precisely the kind of thing I'm looking for.”
Ellen gave a little laugh of disbelief. “Do you mean me?”
“As I said before, possibly. Show me your sketches, and we can take it from there.”
“What if they’re terrible?"
He arched an elegant eyebrow. “Is that what makes you so hesitant? My dear Miss Copley, we would not be having this conversation if I had not seen enough to know they are not. However, should your sketches prove to be less than I anticipate, I will send you a cordial letter thanking you for your time and you will not hear from me again.” He smiled. “Simple.”
And potentially devastating. She toyed with her spoon, saying nothing. Mr. McAvoy leaned forward. “Really, Miss Copley,” he said gently, “what do you have to lose?”
NINE
It took two more days for the train from Chicago to reach Santa Fe. Ellen felt as if she’d been traveling forever, and even the elegant charms of the sumptuous Pullman Palace Car had begun to lose their appeal.
By the time the train rolled into the Santa Fe depot, the track had been winding its way through rocky gorges, crossing perilous chasms on narrow iron bridges, with Ellen’s nose fairly pressed to the glass all the while. She’d never seen such sights—an endless blue sky stretching above the canyons and arroyos of a sculpted landscape, frightening in its strange and yet beautiful barrenness.