Chapter Twenty-Nine
I see Art every day. True to his word, he finds ways to fill these idle country hours with entertaining outings—and nonstop laughter.
Each morning when my new friend comes calling, winding his way up the dirt lane to my mountain hideaway, the sound of his aunt’s coach crunching the gravel brings the most welcome break to the otherwise endless quiet.
I force myself to stand still and composed behind the doorway as Art halts the horses and hops down, even though my entire body hums with the thrill of anticipation, giddy at having a friend and eager to hear what new amusement he will propose for the day.
It feels like an eternity to wait, but when the footman finally announces, “Mr. Arthur Darrow here to see Miss Talbot,” and I see the first glimpse of his fresh morning smile, his body so lean and energetic in his crisp pale suit, his boater hat coming off to reveal his thick mane of golden hair, I think: How happy I am that Mrs. Hollis has a nephew in the neighborhood!
Suddenly I am entirely grateful for my new summer wardrobe, and my morning toilette no longer feels like a pointless exercise as I sit before the mirror and comb my hair or pick a flattering new day dress.
On the first day that week, Art brings me into the nearby village, and we visit a local artist’s studio, admiring the small but lovely exhibit of watercolors.
We stroll slowly past the canvases featuring plein air scenes of the beautiful landscape all around us.
“It really is such a picturesque setting,” I say. “It can’t help but inspire.”
“It’s true,” Art says, walking a few paces behind me. “I remember drawing my first sketches out here as a young lad on my summer visits with Aunt Alice. It was she who always set me up with paper and pencil beside the river.”
“Have you come here your whole life?” I ask, studying this man as he studies the art before him.
“Mm-hmm, yes,” he answers, leaning close to examine the technique of the brushstrokes. But I’m still staring at him; there’s a question on my mind, and it might be terribly rude to pose it, but it’s been niggling at me since we met at the luncheon. “Art, how old are you?”
He looks up at me now, a smile brightening his light eyes. “I’m twenty-two,” he answers, his expression unguarded. “And you?”
“I’m eighteen,” I answer quickly. I want the truth out before I can lose my nerve.
That question that I’ve been asked more times than I can count, that question I’ve been drilled and trained on for years, always ready and willing to lie.
Something in this moment, in this place, with Art beside me, fills me with a longing to be honest. Perhaps I don’t want Stanley Pierce to be the only man who knows the truth about me.
Or perhaps with Art, I don’t feel as though I have so much to hide.
That realization comes with an undeniable feeling of relief—and even something akin to delight.
The next day we eat lunch in a quaint inn beside the Hudson, chattering about whatever pops to mind—the pleasing weather, his work as a cartoonist, my work on Broadway. Art is eager to hear what my life in Manhattan is like. His curiosity feels genuine and straightforward.
After lunch, we stroll the riverbank with a pair of ice-cream cones Art orders from a vendor near the water. As I’m enjoying my scoop of chocolate, Art pauses at my side, throwing me a quizzical stare. “What?” I ask. “Why do you look at me like that?”
“Evelyn, you are grinning wider than the Cheshire Cat. While I’d like to think it’s the pleasure of my company and my witty conversation prompting such a look, I must ask…why do you smile as though you could break out in laughter?”
“Ah,” I say, licking my lower lip as I glance down at my ice-cream cone. So then he’s noticed. Art seems to do a lot of that—noticing. Especially noticing things about me. I look back up, meet his eyes, and answer, “I was just thinking to myself that…well, I’m eating ice cream and taking a walk.”
Art’s face creases in a thoughtful expression. “Yes,” he says after a moment. “I’d say that’s an accurate description of what we are doing. And that is so highly amusing because…?”
“Because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” I say, no longer about to laugh.
Now my tone is full of feeling. This moment feels so much larger than simply a walk with an ice-cream cone.
And even though the simple pleasure was deferred for years, now that it has arrived, I’m so very glad that I waited, so that the first time could be with this kind young man who treats me like such a dear friend.
—
On the third day of our time together, Art borrows his aunt’s small rowboat and brings me down to a pebbly patch of the river landing.
He helps me into the narrow seat at the bow of the wobbly rowboat, and he pushes us off, guiding us out for a slow cruise up the Hudson.
We come to a break in the rocky riverbank where a small sandy beach offers us a soft landing.
The day is a warm one, and a thin sheen of perspiration slicks Art’s suntanned brow from the exertion of his rowing.
He asks me if I’d like to alight from the boat or carry on.
Though I’m enjoying myself immensely, I feel as though he could use a reprieve.
“Let’s take a break,” I answer, and without warning, I bend over and kick off my boots and roll down my silk stockings. Grabbing my pale blue skirt in my fists, I hop into the shallow water and relish the cold as it wraps around my ankles and bare feet.
“It feels so nice!” I call to Art, who remains seated, bobbing in the rowboat.
His expression is a bit stunned, and I suspect it’s not due to the bright sunshine but rather my abrupt disembarkation from the boat, and even more so my sudden decision to show the flesh of my ankles.
I suppose he temporarily forgot that I’m a showgirl—I show much more than my ankles on a daily basis.
But his chivalrous innocence strikes me as adorable.
“Won’t you join me?” I try to coax him into the water with a small splash in his direction.
“Oh? Oh, all right,” he says, his usually relaxed demeanor noticeably ruffled as he lowers the oars into the boat and kicks off his own shoes.
After removing his socks, he hops into the water with one agile leap and drags the boat safely ashore.
“Chilly, but refreshing,” he says, smiling in my direction.
I’m twirling in the water, the bottom of my skirt getting soaked, but I don’t mind.
Art stands in silence, watching me. After a minute, with my breathing a bit heavier, I pause, staring at him. Taking a step closer, I say: “Art the Artist.”
“Yes?” His cheeks are flushed, ruddy from his rowing and the heat, and perhaps something else.
I cock my head to the side. “I find it unfair that you’ve seen me at work, but I’ve yet to see you do yours.”
He lifts a hand to his brow, as though seeking a break from the bright sunshine. “What do you mean?”
Still twirling my skirt in my hands, swaying like the waves of the river, I say: “Only, I’d like to see some of your sketches.”
Art considers this for a moment. “I could draw a sketch just for you.”
“Even better,” I answer, my head tilting sideways. “And what would your subject be?”
He doesn’t miss a beat before he answers, “You.”
“Me?”
He nods.
“You can turn me into a cartoon?”
“I’m not certain there’s any turning that face into a cartoon, but I can try.”
—
The next day we set up at a small park just a short walk from Aunt Alice’s home, where there’s a charming little gazebo and a flat meadow of thick summer grass stippled with wildflowers.
Art spreads a white sheet for me to sit on, and I settle in, fanning out the skirt of my cream-colored day dress.
I feel uncharacteristically nervous, though I’ve posed more times than I can count.
But now, trying to quell my jumpy nerves, I pull in a slow breath and hope that I’ve chosen an outfit that suits Art for his drawing.
I’m not the only one who appears anxious. “I’m trying not to think about Mr. Gibson. Or Mr. Beckwith,” Art admits, flashing a lopsided grin as he sharpens a thin pencil. “A fair bit of pressure.”
This puts me at ease, to hear that he’s also feeling shy about this collaboration. “And here I thought I was supposed to be off duty for the summer,” I say.
“Consider me your charity case, then. A young new artist in need of practice.”
“Charity indeed; I doubt you could afford me.” I regret the words as soon as they’ve slipped out. Thoughtless words—I meant them as a joke, but I see the way Art’s smile drops.
Quietly, he says, “I certainly could not, Miss Talbot.”
“No, no,” I hasten to add. “I’m only joking. Please, I remember all too well that it was I who asked you to show me your sketching. I’ve never been done in cartoon before, Art. This is a special treat.”
He nods, and I see—I very much hope—that all is right between us once more.
Picking up a blank sheet, Art sets it in place on his small wooden easel, and his expression shifts to a mien of purposeful attention.
He’s looking at me with a studying, observant gaze.
So this is Art the Artist, at work. I like seeing this side of him.
We sit in quiet for a while as Art’s hand moves in quick strokes behind the easel.
My body settles into position, and so, too, does his.
I see, gratefully, that he appears to have recovered his equilibrium, even his happy and congenial manner, when he jokes that my hair alone would require him to take a master class. “Especially with this breeze.”
I feel the breeze; I notice how it flutters my hair, my skirts, but after a while my muscle memory kicks in, and I slip into the peaceful trancelike state that has always carried me through my hours of motionless posing.
Cartoon in pencil is done much more quickly than oils or watercolors, and when Art asks me if I’d like to take a peek, I hop up happily, thinking how pleasant a sitting it was.
And then Art shows me the paper.
A gasp slips out of me as I see his work.
I feel my lips curl into a surprised smile, and it takes me a few moments to find words.
“Why, Art.” I look to him, his gaze eager and expectant, then I turn back to his drawing, which is unlike any rendering I’ve ever seen—though I’ve been captured in countless poses, costumes, and scenarios. “You’ve painted me with wings.”
“I did,” he answers.
“And why is that?” I ask.
“I thought you could be a bird. Or…an angel.” Don’t say fairy. Please don’t say fairy. He doesn’t. He goes on: “Because I wanted to give you the gift of flight.”
I swallow, then I ask, “So that I might fly to…where?”
“Anywhere,” he answers, his voice soft. “Freedom.”
I tip my head to the side, looking out over the river just as a bird flaps its own wings over the smooth surface of the water. I watch it rise until it eventually disappears across the distant bank. But I’m not yet ready to meet Art’s gaze, though I know he’s still holding me in his.
Stanny told me on so many occasions that he thought I might have wings, that I was a fairy.
A fairy he conjured. That I’d fallen into his world as though through a rip in heaven’s seam, some fateful error that had led me to him, as the embodiment of all his desires.
Art wishes to give me wings so that I can fly to my freedom.
I study the drawing a moment more in silence. I take in the lines and curves of Art’s strokes, the shading of my features, the dynamism and depth of my expression. Finally raising my gaze to lock with his, I say, “You’ve drawn my face to look a bit sad.”
A small nod as he agrees. “Just a bit.”
“Do you think I’m a bit sad?”
“Sometimes,” he says. And then, his green eyes crinkling into a playful smile, he tilts toward me and says, “But not when I’m around.”
I laugh at this, then look once more at my drawing.
“Will you sign it for me, please?” And as he does so, I realize that, of the dozens of men who have drawn me and studied me, of the hundreds who have looked on my face and figure in flesh and print, Art Darrow is the first man who has looked with the purpose of truly seeing me.