Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
I perk up at this—at last, perhaps some lively company.
“Oh, and here they come now,” our hostess says.
She and I both turn and see the first horse-drawn carriage rolling in, and after that, a steady procession of carriages drops off pairs and individuals in the forecourt as Mamma and I sit nearby on the lawn, sipping lemonade.
I watch the arrivals and see, with a sinking feeling, that all the people descending from these coaches are much older than I am, even older than Mamma.
Our hostess pilots each one of her guests in turn as I’m introduced to a stream of inquisitive smiles.
I meet the Fish family, the Benjamin family, the Gordons, the Sloanes.
And then, just as I’m about to give up all hope for some lively companionship, at last, someone my age appears—not from an arriving carriage but rather from the home, a young gentleman, and I find myself sitting up straighter in my chair.
He walks out into the bright sunshine and crosses the lawn toward us, his slender body swathed in a suit of pale linen, a straw hat hiding his face in shadow.
Mrs. Hollis raises her arms toward the young man. “Ah, here he is at last. Mrs. Talbot, Miss Talbot, please meet my nephew, Mr. Arthur Darrow.”
The young man pauses before us, and I look into a pair of green eyes draped in the shadow of his straw boater.
But even through shadow, it’s easy to see that it’s a fine-looking face.
Perhaps he’s a few years older than me. “Miss Talbot, so lovely to meet you,” he says, extending a hand in greeting along with an easy, open smile.
“And you, Mr. Darrow,” I say, accepting his handshake. I feel a fluttering in my stomach as his gentle grip closes around mine, even though I have gloves on.
“Now that my dear Art has joined us, our party is complete.” Mrs. Hollis gestures toward a nearby stand of gracious oaks, which throw out a pleasing canopy of shade under which a wicker table is set for the midday meal. “Shall we dine?”
We follow our hostess to the table, and Mr. Darrow helps me into a wicker chair. To my delight, he takes the seat at my side. I keep my gaze straight ahead and unfold the linen napkin across my lap as a team of attendants appears around us, bearing a procession of delicious-looking platters.
Mamma, on my other side, nods appreciatively as the attendants serve us a feast of summertime delights: a salad of diced eggs and dill tuna, sliced peaches with cream, oysters on ice, cheeses, caviar. I accept a serving of everything, including a glass of chilled champagne.
Mamma is immediately pulled into conversation with Mrs. Fish on her right, who keeps a summer estate just up the lane and has many questions for Mamma about our accommodations at the castle.
As I’m taking a sip of champagne, Mr. Darrow leans closer to me and, with a hint of sheepishness, whispers: “I beg pardon if this is terribly rude of me to ask, but you see, my aunt told me nothing of what today was to be. I’ve been visiting friends up in Rhinebeck, and I only just arrived back here by train this morning to find my aunt all aflutter about a party.
All I was told was a ‘luncheon with some friends and a few special out-of-town visitors.’ I presume you are the latter, since we have never met? ”
I smile, lowering my flute of champagne. “You are correct. I’m up from Manhattan. Visiting with my mother for the summer. And no need to apologize—I was similarly ill prepared as to the specifics of this gathering.”
“Then I’m not alone,” he says with a playful sigh, and I allow myself to meet his gaze.
He’s removed his boater hat to reveal a head of honey-colored hair, tidily combed back off his handsome, suntanned face.
But he’s looking at me with a quizzical expression, and I resist the urge to fidget in my seat.
Then he says, “This might sound like a most preposterous question, but when my Aunt Alice said your name just now…I can’t help but wonder: Are you Lakshmi? ”
I tip back in my chair, unable to suppress my grin. These days, for me, it’s so rare to meet someone like this, with no prior associations or assumptions on their part. “So you’ve seen Wildflowers?” I ask.
Mr. Darrow’s eyebrows shoot up, perhaps because I have not denied what he presumed would be a preposterous question. “Yes, I’ve seen it,” he answers, his voice breathy. “But you’re not…Are you really…?”
I give a small nod, biting down on my lower lip.
“You’re the Evelyn Talbot?”
“Last I checked, Mr. Darrow.” I am trying not to giggle at how wide his green eyes have gone.
“But she might have given me some warning,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Why, you’re really Evelyn Talbot? Miss Talbot, you’re nothing short of a sensation.”
“That’s kind of you.”
His tone is still slightly incredulous as he says, “Of course I’ve seen you in Wildflowers.
And everywhere else, it seems. The papers, the advertisements, Mr. Gibson’s sketches.
I follow a lesser-known artist based out of Philadelphia, a woman, in fact.
Violet Oakley? She’s also worked with you as a model, I believe? ”
“Yes.” I feel my cheeks flush with warmth, and I’m sure it has little to do with the midday sunshine. Summoning a demeanor of unruffled interest in the lunch spread, I scoop myself a spoonful of the peaches and ask, “Do you enjoy much theater, Mr. Darrow?”
“A fair amount, yes. Especially the shows featuring Miss Talbot.”
I dab my lips with my napkin, concealing the grin that pulls on them. “You are generous to say so, Mr. Darrow.”
“Please, would you call me Arthur? Or Art?”
I throw him a sidelong glance, and he tips his head toward mine, speaking in a hushed voice as he flashes me a lopsided smile.
“Come now, considering we are the only two at this table, quite possibly in this town, who are eating this meal with all our teeth still intact, we might as well become friends.”
Now I laugh, taken with his unexpected irreverence. My voice is quiet, but my tone is wry as I lean toward him and say, “I believe my mother’s teeth are all intact.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” he answers with an exaggerated sigh.
“But I do hear your point,” I add. “I was despairing of seeing anyone even close to my age all summer, before you arrived.” I’m surprised at my own candor, at my casual chatter with this young man whom I’ve only just met.
But something about his affable and guileless demeanor has put me quickly at ease.
“I’m on a mission of mercy, you see,” Art says, taking a bite of his salad.
I look to him with a questioning glance, and he goes on.
“Aunt Alice is the dearest of souls. And it’s her cousin who lives up at Stonetop, and with them gone for the entire summer, she’s quite alone here.
She refuses to travel with them. Her one child, my cousin, is something of a musical genius, but he lives in Berlin.
She wouldn’t dream of sailing to see him.
Won’t even go see her friends in Newport.
She’s a fixture of this neighborhood. ‘The next time you’ll see me leaving this place will be when I’m carried out in a wooden box, and you better get me a nice one. ’ ”
I can’t help but laugh at his good-natured impersonation of his aunt, at how spot-on the fidgety mannerisms are.
Art goes on, “But I feel guilty, you know? With my uncle and cousin gone, she’s a widow without much company.
She gets lonely. She never complains, but I know she must feel it.
Both my parents have passed, so she’s the only family I’ve got, and she’s always been good to me.
So I make these visits up whenever I can.
It’s not a bad spot to spend a few weeks in the summer. ”
“Indeed, it’s gorgeous,” I reply, looking around, my eyes resting for a moment on the languid sway of the broad Hudson below where we sit.
“And a few weeks sounds like just the ticket. I only wonder at how I’ll make it two months.
” The words are out before I realize I’ve spoken them aloud, and then, fearing that I have insulted this place that clearly means a lot to him, I pivot: “And what do you do when you’re not bringing cheer to a solitary aunt out in the country? ”
“I’m a cartoonist,” Art answers, his tone brightening. “I live in Manhattan. I draw for the Journal, Mr. Hearst’s publication.”
“Oh?” This I had not expected. I’d expected the well-heeled nephew of Mrs. Hollis to say that he was studying the law or perhaps dabbling as a financier on Wall Street.
But a cartoonist for Mr. Hearst? No wonder he is so familiar with my modeling work.
I tilt back in my seat, staring at him appraisingly: “Art the Artist.”
“Has a nice ring to it when you put it that way.”
We share a smile before I remember myself, and pull my gaze away from his pleasing face. As I spear myself a sliver of chilled cucumber, he asks, “And how about you, Miss Talbot?”
I’m not sure precisely what he’s asking, considering he’s just let me know that he’s well versed in my career. He goes on, “Did you always envision for yourself a life on Broadway?”
“I didn’t, actually,” I answer. “In fact, for the longest time, I thought I’d attend university.” I swallow, then add: “I still hope to attend university.”
“Well, then,” Art says, raising his flute of champagne and tipping it in my direction, “I have no doubt you shall make it happen, Miss Talbot.”
“You may call me Evelyn.”
His eyes go wide. “Are you quite certain?”
I reach for my own glass and take a sip.
His questions about the stage have stirred up thoughts of Stanny, and I don’t like the feeling.
Nor do I like thinking of Daddy and his dreams for my schooling.
So I push all that aside, and I turn back to Art, allowing myself to stare into the cool, kind green of his eyes for perhaps a moment longer than is entirely appropriate.
Enjoying the appreciative way he’s staring back at me, enjoying the champagne and the lovely view, the grass-sweetened summer air, and my relief at having finally found someone close to my own age—a handsome gentleman, at that, and one who clearly finds me pretty—I lean just an inch closer to him and say, “It’s as you said…
. We are quite outnumbered here. Might as well be friends, right? ”
His eyes hold mine, direct and earnest. “I’ll be your friend, Evelyn.” And then he looks away, down at his plate, and takes another bite. I do the same, but I can feel how my heartbeat has sped up. I’m flirting, I realize. With a man other than Stanny. And what’s more, I’m enjoying it.
After a moment, Art breaks through my giddy thoughts: “So how about you, then? What did you do to get exiled to the country for the summer?”
I swallow my bite of food, take a quick sip of water as I try to arrange my thoughts into some suitable answer. “My mamma and my…er, friend…thought I needed a break. Felt the Broadway lifestyle was getting too grueling, that I should take a few months away from the stage. To revive my spirits.”
Art is staring at me intently as he asks, “Is it working?”
I shrug. “I’m well rested, if that’s anything. Then again, I don’t have much else to do but sleep.”
Art nods. Then he asks, “Are you bored?”
“Terribly,” I admit. Because the truth is, up here, where the Broadway showtimes mean nothing and the hours stretch long and empty, I’m just an eighteen-year-old girl, restless and lonely.
“I can fix that,” Art says, offering me a playful wink. I feel something hitch in my belly.
“I have one week remaining in my stay at my aunt’s,” he explains. “I shall make it my personal duty to show you a good time. And—how did you put it?—revive your spirits.”