Chapter Thirty
“You walk first, in front of me,” Art says, gesturing straight ahead up the narrow forest path. “It’s better that way, in case of rattlesnakes.”
“What?” I throw him a horrified look. “I’m not certain I wish to be joined by rattlesnakes.”
“It’s possible. They do nest up here. But that’s why I’m having you walk first.”
I’m confused, and he sees this. “They are sleeping, in the heat of the day. Our walking could wake them, but if you go first, you’ll just get the drowsy warning rattle.
It’s the second fellow who gets the strike.
So you’ll be fine. Just promise me, if I perish, you’ll hold me in your arms? I couldn’t imagine a sweeter ending.”
“Art!” He’s joking, but still, I’m not all that comfortable with that image.
“We’ll be fine. Don’t you trust me, Evelyn?”
I fall silent for a moment as I realize that, yes, I do.
I trust Art. So I resume my walking. He chatters on, entirely unfazed, just one step behind me: “If we move at a brisk pace, we can slip by without tipping off the devils,” he reassures me, and he sounds so unconcerned that I decide to take his word for it.
We carry on up the narrow, wooded path through the forest.
It’s our sixth day together. I’ve been counting all week with a thickening knot of dread, because I cannot help but suspect that he will be leaving soon.
Any day now, I would imagine, given the fact that he told me he had one week left at his aunt’s home.
I haven’t asked for the exact day of his departure, because I don’t wish to think of him leaving.
Especially when I still have a month to go up here in the country. What will I do without his company?
As we walk along together, I have to admit to myself: it’s more than his company that I enjoy, in truth. It’s him. It’s everything about him.
As we come to the end of our path, stepping out onto a hilltop clearing with a sweeping view of what appears to be the entire Hudson Highlands beneath us, I gasp. “Why, Art, it’s stunning!” I look down on the water far below as it curves between the two banks.
“Isn’t it?” I can hear his breath at my side.
I can smell his fresh scent, peppermint and something else, like sun-warmed grass.
My heart is racing from the hike, but also because of his proximity.
We stand together and admire the scene in companionable silence.
I don’t want to spoil the moment by asking the dreaded question: When does he leave?
“The river that flows both ways,” he says eventually.
“Pardon?” I turn toward him.
“It’s what the Lenape call it—Muhheakantuck, the river that flows both ways. Because the Hudson moves with the tides. Most extraordinary.”
Learn to move, to adapt. Like water. In short, learn to swim. And then you’ll survive. Mr. Gibson’s advice from what feels like another lifetime. Have I learned to move like water? I’ve survived, so far.
Looking at Art, I think: With him, I wouldn’t have to simply survive. With him, I could live. A beat later, another thought fills me—no, it’s more than a thought, it’s a longing—I wish for Art to kiss me.
“Most extraordinary, really,” he says, as his eyes meet mine. His voice sounds thick with…something. Is it also longing? The same longing I feel?
But Art turns away, looks back over the view one more time, and begins to walk toward the wooded path. He simply leaves me there, alone on that precipice, ready to leap. But with no one to take the leap along with me.
—
I return to the castle an hour later, having descended from our hike to bid farewell to Art, my legs tired, my mind unsettled.
Art Darrow offered to be my friend, and that seems to be all that we shall be.
For now, I suppose, he will depart his aunt’s home any day.
Not tomorrow? I wonder in a sudden panic.
No, for when he took his leave today, he did not mention a departure.
Surely, he’d tell me. He’d give me a proper farewell.
Perhaps even suggest that we meet up again in the autumn, once we are both back in Manhattan.
Oh, but I don’t wish for him to leave me alone here in the country.
I slip away to my bedroom and flop down in bed, clutching my sketch that Art made for me.
Of all the renderings that any man has done of me, this one is the most treasured.
It occurs to me just then that I’ve never seen the photographs that Stan had Mr. Sidwell shoot.
Stan told me they would be for me, for my portfolio.
He’s kept them for himself. I am sure of it.
I can hear his voice in my head; I know precisely what he would say if I were to press him for the photographs, the images that he told me would be mine and would help me in my career.
Haven’t I gotten you enough work, Kitten?
It’s not like you’re suffering from a shortage of offers.
The thought of Stan makes me seethe. Repulsion, resentment, a noxious brew that boils too uncomfortably close to shame.
No, I don’t want to think of him. Not when I am here with Arthur, who makes me feel entirely the opposite in every way.
I blink, pushing all thoughts of Stanley Pierce aside, and I look once more at my sketch, at my wings, at my face.
Art, who drew me with such attention and care.
Art, who somehow saw beneath so many layers to find the sadness I’ve learned to conceal.
Art, who had observed that I’m sad but then said, “Not when I’m around.
” It’s true. Art, who makes me happy, who makes me laugh.
I wallow through the remainder of the afternoon as though in some sort of agitated fever dream.
I’m still feeling melancholy when I find Mamma in the dimly lit corridor before dinner.
Her pinched features halt my footsteps. I quickly tuck Art’s sketch away, out of sight into my skirt pocket, as she turns to me.
She doesn’t notice or inquire about the paper I was holding, and in fact she’s holding two pieces of paper in her own hands.
One item she does not mention or offer to show to me, but I can guess: it’s a telegram. The second paper, she extends toward me. It’s a clipping from a newspaper. The Herald. There’s no image, but there is text, and I feel my heart squeeze as I quickly scan the headline.
Cartoonist Wooing Miss Talbot!
I glance at Mamma, whose face is hard as stone, and then I read on.
Arthur Darrow, a sketch artist in the employment of Mr. Hearst, is seizing his moment with the Broadway Beauty who has most recently delighted audience members as the lovely Lakshmi.
The young pair were seen strolling outside of Manhattan on a day filled with summer sunshine and even sunnier smiles.
Miss Talbot, a bright light of the Great White Way, has been on hiatus from the stage this month, leaving theatergoers bereft, but she looked to have nary a thought for her legions of disappointed devotees as the handsome Mr. Darrow offered his arm.
Nor did Miss T. seem to be pining for her oft-seen companion, celebrated architect Stanley Pierce, as he travels abroad this month.
Readers may be wondering: While the Cat is away, will this pair of Country Mice play?
I lower the paper with trembling hands, but force myself to look directly into Mamma’s eyes. I see how pale she’s gone. I take in a fortifying breath, and then I say: “Well, someone’s spied on us, it would seem.”
Mamma’s words are toneless as she asks: “But they saw correctly?”
“I’ve been out with Mr. Darrow, yes. You know that, Mamma. We’ve certainly taken a few walks this week, and yes, he has offered his arm at times. But I’m not entirely sure why that would warrant a headline.”
“You know that the papers always want news of you, Florence,” Mamma retorts.
“There must be a shortage of other news,” I say, affecting a look of disinterest and giving a casual shrug as I offer the paper back to her.
“The implication is that the pair of you are…well, that it’s become romantic. Florence, you cannot really think to take up with that pup?”
Mamma’s words are so like something Stanny would say, I can’t help but laugh.
It’s a joyless laugh. And now I know who sent the telegram.
The collusion between them—the secret communications, their efforts to control my every move—it makes me want to anger her, not assuage her.
“Why shouldn’t I take up with him, Mamma? ”
It works—my words hit their mark. I can see the heat rise in my mother.
Rage—or something else. Fear? “Stanley will be back from Europe any day. You know he hears everything. Why, what if…” She shudders, gives a quick shake of her head.
“No, it doesn’t bear thinking. You will not receive that Darrow scoundrel again. ”
“Scoundrel? He’s the scoundrel? Why, if only you knew, Mamma.”
Another defiant toss of her head, as though she won’t even allow my words to take purchase in her mind. “Enough! Leave me. I don’t want to see you. Not until you’ve seen reason.”
“Very well,” I say, wheeling around and charging away from the dining room.
“You will listen to me. I’m your mother!”
I’ll listen to her; she told me to leave. So I slip right out the back door of the castle, and in the pale light of the settling dusk, I walk down the hill.
I don’t stop or even slow my pace as the lane curves away from the castle, past the brook, and down toward the fields that nestle into the bottom of the hillside.
It’s nearly sunset by the time I reach the border of Water’s Edge.
I glance toward the river, its gentle curves awash in the fading light.
It’ll be suppertime for Art and his aunt. I don’t bother to suppress my frown.
I turn and look out over the purpled meadows, and I wonder if Mamma has noticed I’m gone. I very much doubt it. I suspect she railed and told the servants to make her a tray, which she’s taken to her bedroom without an inquiry after me.