Chapter Eight
New York City
Mr. James Carroll Beckwith, venerated artist and established fixture of New York high society, gives me a pointed look.
Seated on the sofa opposite me, he has a full mustache and unsmiling lips, but his eyes can’t hide his interest. I let out a slight exhale when his eyes glide downward and he resumes his silent examination of my files, riffling through the images that we’ve placed before him.
On the other side of Mr. Beckwith’s broad bay windows, I hear the midday bustle of the city, the horse and foot traffic filling Sixth Avenue.
Here, inside this large sitting room of rich wood paneling and finely upholstered furniture, a charged silence hangs in the air.
It’s critical that this interview with Mr. Beckwith goes well, that this introduction leads to some offer of employment, for Mamma and I are nearly out of funds in our merciless new hometown, and he’s our best chance at keeping a roof over our heads.
Mr. Beckwith pauses to study one sheet, concentration pulling his features.
It’s a charcoal study of my head, my hair falling loose over one bare shoulder.
Mr. Beckwith’s eyes flicker from the page to me, then back down to the page.
“Extraordinary,” he mutters, in a way that makes me suspect the word was not meant to be heard—but I’ve heard it.
And I hear what he says next, too: “A nymph, in the flesh.”
I fidget in my seat but say nothing, not looking to Mamma at my side, both of us allowing the artist to resume his inspection in unbothered silence.
But I feel embers of hope as I nurture the possibility that I might in fact receive an offer to work with Mr. Beckwith, right here in his elegant studio in Midtown Manhattan, where he’s created everything from rich oil landscapes to portraits of famed millionaires.
It would be such a relief. Mamma and I have used nearly every cent we have to set up Kit in his school outside Philadelphia and pay for our trip north.
What little we had left over we’ve put into this month’s rent on our small room in a boardinghouse on Twenty-second Street.
It’s nothing fancy, a back room atop a narrow flight of stairs with just one window that shows the brick exterior of the adjacent building.
But it was all we could afford—and barely, at that.
“Just until we get our feet under us,” I said as we unpacked our garment bags and I tried my best to help Titania settle in on our shared single bed.
We have nothing in our cupboard but hard biscuits, and because the water in the building tastes like a foul mix of metal and eggs, we drink only coffee.
That’s just fine, I tell myself. It helps keep us warm in our frigid room.
As it’s autumn and a long cold winter is on the way, we are saving fuel until it’s an absolute necessity.
“Pluck and luck,” I’ve been reminding myself, ignoring Mamma’s plaintive expressions as we look around our dim room that smells faintly of mold.
I recall the stories of Mr. Alger, the heartening lessons that Daddy and I relished together.
I know I can do this—I can secure work, and with the payment from a good job, we will turn things around.
So here we sit, with Leah’s letter of introduction in hand, while Mr. Beckwith studies my portfolio of sketches, advertisements, and articles from Philadelphia.
Thank you, Leah. I feel a pang of longing for her, for the safety and predictability of our routine together in a smaller city.
The familiar tang of turpentine hangs in the air here at Mr. Beckwith’s, but otherwise, it feels as though we are a world away from the sunny studio on Arch Street.
Was it a mistake to leave Philadelphia for these unfriendly waters?
No, I tell myself—this is good. I was ready for a new challenge. And here in New York, the coming of a new century means that anything is possible. I’m ready to work and make a name for myself in an even bigger world.
Eventually, after an endless wait, Mr. Beckwith looks up from the papers, fixing me with another pointed expression.
I suspect he might be wondering what to do with the fact that I am not eighteen, and we all know it.
He looks to be middle-aged, with dark hair laced by errant strands of silver, his well-groomed hands folded in his lap.
He studies me for a long, silent moment, taking in the sweep of my white shirtwaist, my dark skirt, my chestnut hair pulled back in a loose chignon.
I sit still; I can tell that he’s almost won over.
And then, something about his scrutinous gaze softens, and when he speaks, his tone is gentle.
“Tell me about your work for Mr. Tiffany.”
I resist the urge to fidget beneath his penetrating stare. “I was his angel,” I say, flashing a winsome smile while trying not to sound boastful. Tipping my head to the side, I add: “For stained-glass windows.”
“Yes, I see this praise from Violet Oakley…. It’s telling. Violet is not easily impressed. Leah Dawson…”
Just hearing their names aloud, I feel another hitch of homesickness.
A yearning for the warmth and familiarity of Leah’s studio.
The surety of their work and our brief period of financial stability as a family of three.
Here in New York no one cares about me. No one cares whether I work or see my brother again—or eat.
As is made plain by the hunger I feel in my stomach as I sit here in this fine room.
I force another smile, looking toward my lap, adopting what I hope is a posture of unaffected and peaceful ease.
Mr. Beckwith is surveying the images again, pausing on a watercolor of me dressed up as a shepherdess. He doesn’t look up as he continues on. “I’m not familiar with Leah Dawson’s work, but I see here you’ve amassed quite an impressive portfolio in your…eighteen years.”
I bite my lower lip as Mamma proffers a nod. “That’s right,” she hastens to respond. “Evelyn’s was the most popular face in Philadelphia, as you’ll see written in the newspapers. That there was an advertisement for cheese.”
“Quite a range, Miss Talbot, everything from churches to cheese.” Mr. Beckwith clears his throat and looks up, meeting Mamma’s gaze. “Has she had any formal study?”
“She went to school,” Mamma says.
“As an artists’ model, I mean.”
“She’s a natural talent,” Mamma says, speaking about me as though I’m not in the room.
My cheeks grow warm as Mr. Beckwith turns his attentive eyes back to me and asks, “Miss Talbot, what cosmetics are you wearing at the present moment?”
I sit up a bit straighter, meeting his gaze. “Right now?”
He nods.
I throw a look at Mamma, then look back toward the artist. “Why, nothing, sir.” I never wear makeup—Mamma doesn’t allow it, and Leah never wanted it.
Occasionally, when Mamma’s not at home, I’ll slash some pink or red across my lips and study myself in the mirror, but I always wipe it off before Mamma notices.
She only has a few tubes remaining from her time at Wanamaker’s, and she doesn’t like me to waste them. We certainly can’t afford to buy more.
“Nothing?” Mr. Beckwith arcs an eyebrow. “But what about around your eyes?”
“I have nothing on my eyes, sir.”
“No kohl on your eyelids?” His voice sounds dubious. “No rouge on your cheeks?”
I shake my head.
“No tint on your lips?”
“No,” I say, then add in a quick “sir.”
Mr. Beckwith leans forward. “You mean to tell me, Miss Talbot, that if I were to ask you to step into the washroom just down that corridor and take a damp cloth to your face, nothing would come off?”
“Sir, I have nothing on my face,” I tell him again, my voice thin but insistent against his clear suspicion.
Mr. Beckwith slumps against his sofa, exhaling as his back hits the silk cushion behind him.
“High color. Extraordinary,” he says, his voice faint as a whisper.
Then, sliding his gaze toward Mamma, he says, “Mrs. Talbot, I would like to arrange a standing appointment with your daughter, twice weekly.”
It feels as though my heart might dance out of my rib cage. But before I can react, he turns to me and declares: “I have been looking for an Aphrodite. You are familiar with the stories of the goddess?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, as a fresh wave of giddy excitement ripples through me.
But Mr. Beckwith is all matter-of-fact as he goes on: “I’ll pay you five dollars a week to start. We will explore a variety of mediums—sketch, watercolor—but I’d really like to paint you in oil. Does that sound agreeable?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Beckwith”—my voice comes out sounding breathy—“yes, it does.”
Mamma places her gloved hand on mine, bridling my obvious glee. Surely she must be feeling the same, knowing that this will mean steady income. But her voice is bland, even a touch cool, as she interjects: “When would you like to begin?”
“As soon as you can arrange to be here.” Mr. Beckwith eyes us each in turn. “How might this Tuesday work?”
“I must check our diary,” Mamma answers, her gaze holding the artist’s. Of course we have no plans—we know no one in this city.
“And I shall plan for Tuesday,” Mr. Beckwith says, offering a courteous nod to Mamma, and then to me.
I lean forward to collect my papers, stuffing them back into our portfolio, and Mr. Beckwith rises, summoning a butler to see us out.
As Mamma and I walk toward the doorway of the grand room, Mr. Beckwith’s voice catches us at the threshold.
“Oh, Miss Talbot, a word of advice, if I may?”
I pause, turn, and face the artist.
Mr. Beckwith’s eyes are fixed on me, but it appears as though his words are meant for my mother, as well. When he speaks, his tone is not stern, but a hint of steel girds his words: “Do not go knocking on studio doors looking for work.”
I frown, confused; isn’t that what we’ve just done here today? Hasn’t that led to my first commission of work, with the preferred painter of the Roosevelts? But our host continues: “Have you heard of the fad called French postcards?”
Mamma grabs my hand in hers, her body going rigid at my side. Before she can answer, Mr. Beckwith sighs. “I regret to say it, but there’s quite a market these days for renderings of young girls dressed up, or often…dressed in too little….”
My mouth falls open as Mamma gasps. Only Mr. Beckwith’s face remains entirely composed, his voice steady as he adds: “You have gold here, Mrs. Talbot. And where gold is found, a rush often follows. Please don’t allow yourselves to get taken away in it.”