The Wharton Plot, page 22
“A vampire,” she said to surprise him. “No, I found an unhappy young man with a gun. An unexceptional thing in this part of the world.”
“Was he what you thought?” he asked. He turned his attention back to her hand, his finger making its way along the ball of her thumb.
“I don’t know what I thought he would be. So I can’t answer that.”
He waited for her to explain. When she didn’t, he knew he had been denied something. Setting her hand down, he drew himself up by crossing one leg over the other.
“My letters,” she reminded him.
“As I’ve said, they’re in Paris. Quite safe, I assure you.”
His reference to their safety was meant to remind her how dangerous they were. But she found his possession of her words and feelings no longer terrified her. If he made their existence known, he would be shunned by every person he valued, barred from every house he hoped to enter, because in doing so, he would reveal what he really was. She thought of the books she had encouraged him to write. The time she had arranged for him to meet Mr. Roosevelt—and he refused to come. Changes in his career he should have made. Every time, he avoided, evaded. Why should he make the effort?
He had not come when she needed him. And not for the first time. He was not really a man who did things, she realized. And you will continue to do nothing, she thought looking at the man known as the Beautiful Fullerton. Create nothing. In years to come, you will be known for the people you seduced—and abandoned. The promises you made, never intending to keep them. You will be known for what you did not do.
At long last, detachment came, like rain in a dry acrid summer. One cavorted in relief, aware that yes, some things like shoes might be ruined, but they were well sacrificed for an end to the brain-destroying heat.
Of course he wanted to keep her letters. They were, after all, the work of Edith Wharton.
On the third day, she grew tired of being fussed over and decided to be well. She took Choumai for a walk, allowing him to relieve himself directly below the Depew Place sign. Then she returned him to White and went to Appleton. It was only right to finish Susan Lenox. If she was going to speak for it, she didn’t want any nasty surprises in the final chapters. And she supposed she did want to see how it turned out.
There was a new young man at the front desk, efficiently sliding paper into envelopes. Rejection slips, she imagined. So many of them. He asked if she wanted to see Mr. Jewett; he had said he wished to be notified if she came in.
She said, “Not yet.”
Going to the spare room, she took up where she had left off: Susan’s first encounter with playwright Robert Brent, a lion of a man with exhausting integrity who made all other men seem lesser, including Susan’s current paramour. Ah, thought Edith, at last we see the author in the story. And, she assumed, Susan’s happy ending.
But in the final chapter, Robert Brent was murdered by Susan’s lover in a fit of jealousy. Disquieted, Edith read the lover’s defense of himself.
“I did it,” continued he, “because I had the right. He invited it. He knew me—knew what to expect. I suppose he decided that you were worth taking the risk. It’s strange what fools men—all men—we men—are about women.… Yes, he knew it. He didn’t blame me.”
For a long moment, she sat, trying to set the timing straight in her mind. Susan Lenox had been finished well before Phillips’s death. He had worked on it for a decade. And yet he had ended it with an uncanny prediction of his own murder. Susan’s happy ending was not marriage but liberty and financial security—gained when the murdered Robert Brent left her his fortune.
There was a knock on the door. Mr. Jewett’s pleasant face appeared. “Mrs. Wharton!”
She smiled. “I thought I would slip in and slip out. I didn’t wish to disturb you. But I did want to finish.”
He looked at the pages on her lap. “And?”
“And … I think it now makes sense to me.”
He offered her tea in his office and she accepted. As he poured, he said, “I am very glad you came today.” He gazed at his door, presumably thinking of the young man who had sat outside just a few days ago. “I remember my boast that we do not publish murderers. It seems, however, we did hire one.”
“When did he come to work here, Mr. Jewett?”
“About a year ago. Shortly after Adventures of Joshua Craig was published.”
“And you turned down his book,” she said gently.
“I did. It was tremendously old-fashioned stuff. Fine stalwart men rescuing helpless maidens of good virtue. Of course now I wish we had published it. Maybe if we had…”
“You mustn’t feel guilty, Mr. Jewett. How could you have known?”
“I had no idea he was stalking Graham, even taking rooms across the street from him. Graham never said a word.”
“I suppose it was not in his nature to show fear.” She paused, then said, “I hope it’s not terribly burdensome, working out the legalities of his estate. All his royalties…”
“Oh, no, quite simple. He left everything to his sister.”
As Henry Frevert had predicted he would.
She said, “If Susan Lenox is the … sensation you expect, she will do quite well.”
“Let us hope. I also hope you will join me in defending it from Comstock and his ilk.”
She nodded: Of course. Then said, “I am curious about one thing: When did Mr. Phillips change the ending? I’m right, aren’t I? That he rewrote it?”
Surprised, Jewett said, “Yes. About three months ago.”
Thinking back to Mr. Goldsborough’s insane diaries, she wondered how many notes David Graham Phillips had received by that point. Enough, clearly, to take them seriously.
“Mrs. Wharton?”
Shaking herself free of her thoughts, she said, “What a tragedy this has been.”
As Mr. Jewett walked her to the door, she smiled a goodbye to the new youth, who seemed preoccupied by finding a particular key on the typewriter. On impulse, she asked, “What is your name?”
He looked surprised. “Halliwell, ma’am. Gerald Halliwell.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Halliwell.”
At the elevator, Rutger Jewett opened his mouth, prepared to say something charming. Then closed it on a smile.
“No last words?” she asked.
“Only that … I hope they’re not.”
She smiled approvingly. “À bientôt, Mr. Jewett.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Edith had instructed the police not to tell Carolyn Frevert that she had witnessed Fitzhugh Goldsborough’s suicide. It was a story she wished to tell very few people, and after today, she wouldn’t tell it ever again. All Mrs. Frevert knew was that an old woman had been near the park when it happened and fainted shortly afterwards.
Admitted to the apartment at the National Arts building, she explained to Carolyn Frevert that she had been the “old woman” who had seen the suicide and that she had done a good deal more than witness the event. The two ladies were seated opposite each other over a frustratingly low, small table; one had to hunch in order to get at the tea and a vague muffinish item on offer. The tea was overbrewed, making milk a necessity. But there was little space in which to maneuver, and Edith worried about tipping the tray over onto the worn rug below.
“I spoke with him, Mrs. Frevert. Do you wish to know what he said?”
Mrs. Frevert’s hand went to her throat. “… I don’t know. Do I? I suppose I should hear it.”
Edith began with the story that had been given to the newspapers. That Fitzhugh Coyle Goldsborough had shot David Graham Phillips because he was under the delusion that he and his family, in particular his sister, had been maligned in The Fashionable Adventures of Joshua Craig.
“That’s false,” Mrs. Frevert interrupted. “We never knew the family. I’ve never even heard of them.”
Edith said yes, she was certain of that. If she might continue?
In short, Mr. Goldsborough was mad. It was just a tragedy that in his final collapse, he had become obsessed with her brother and taken his life.
“He took rooms across the street at the Rand School,” said Edith. “A young couple said he often came to look out their window, which faces your building. They thought he enjoyed the view. But in reality he was watching this apartment. Your brother, coming and going.”
She waited to see if Mrs. Frevert understood that she too had been seen. If so, she gave no sign of it, saying only, “How horrible.”
“You had no idea he was watching the house?” asked Edith.
“None whatsoever.” Carolyn Frevert shook her head. “All this time, I’ve been so sure that Graham was killed because of his work, but I never imagined it would be Adventures of Joshua Craig. If it were Susan Lenox or Treason of the Senate, it would be more logical to me. I suppose I was wrong to look for reason in an act of murder.” A small apologetic smile. “I do want to thank you for everything you have done on my brother’s behalf.”
Edith said it was her privilege.
Mrs. Frevert sipped her tea. “May I now ask what you think of Susan Lenox?”
“I think it overlong. I think it moralizes.” She paused. “But I think it is one of the most remarkable novels I have read in many years.”
Pleased, Mrs. Frevert nodded.
“I am curious about Susan Lenox herself. A passionate, loving woman who must ensure her financial security by giving herself to men who are unworthy of her. The character was so real to your brother, I thought she must have been based on someone he knew. But who, I wondered, could have inspired this mythical, perfectly imperfect woman? Fallen yet saintly. Pragmatic yet selfless. Adored by men, used by men, yet somehow always alone.”
Carolyn Frevert nodded to indicate that Edith had her attention.
“You are Susan Lenox, aren’t you, Mrs. Frevert?”
Carolyn Frevert leaned down to set her cup on the tray, but she could find no space and was obliged to hold on to it. The saucer rattled ever so slightly.
“My life has not been as … adventurous as Susan’s,” she said. “But yes, Graham always said he wrote the book for me.”
Edith nodded. “In the book, Susan is married off to a man she doesn’t love because she has disgraced herself with a young man who let her down.”
“When we are young, we are imperfect judges of a man’s integrity.”
“Even when we are not young, Mrs. Frevert. And your brother, I take it he was his own inspiration for Robert Brent, the blunt playwright of unimpeachable integrity?”
“Yes, the man Susan marries.”
“Oh, but she doesn’t. Perhaps that was the original ending. But your brother changed it. At the end of the book, Robert Brent is murdered.”
Mrs. Frevert lifted the cup to her lips, then set it back in its place.
“Extraordinary, isn’t it, that your brother’s last work predicted his own death?”
“Graham had received threats throughout his career. The possibility of a violent death was something he lived with and accepted.”
Invited, even, if David Graham Phillips was to be believed. It was still incomprehensible to her. Why would a man so obnoxiously pleased with himself court death?
As if guessing her thoughts, Carolyn Frevert said, “I believe my brother took a certain pride in being menaced. If no one threatened him, then he was a threat to no one. That would have been intolerable.”
Gathering herself, Edith said, “The second great surprise of the novel is that Robert Brent leaves Susan his fortune. With that money, she finally obtains her liberty.”
She paused. “Mr. Jewett informs me that Mr. Phillips left everything to you. All the rights to his work, all his royalties.”
“Because Graham knew I would protect his legacy with everything in me. The preservation of his work will be my mission in life.”
“What of your husband?”
“What of him?”
“You will not be reconciling?”
“No,” said Mrs. Frevert with a smile. “I will not.”
It was an interesting word, reconcile. It could mean a restoration of harmonious relations. Or dull acceptance of what cannot be changed. Mrs. Frevert intended to do neither, apparently.
“Will you mind it, living alone?”
Carolyn Frevert looked around the empty apartment that was now hers, her expression by turns solemn, affectionate, and, Edith thought, haunted. But then her brow cleared and she said, “I shall be curious to see whether I do or no. In any event, I shall do what I wish to.”
Just about what you wish to, in fact, thought Edith, recalling the note she had received.
Mrs. Frevert said, “I am curious as to why you ask me that question, Mrs. Wharton.”
Edith met the other woman’s gaze and thought how simple it would be to confess nothing. There were any number of pleasantries she could offer: Idle curiosity! One’s life is so busy, one yearns for occasional solitude. But she hadn’t come for pleasantries.
She said, “I have a dear friend who finds herself yearning for separation. She has been married for many years. Perhaps neither of them are ideal people. But they were always poorly suited, and lately, she finds the mismatch has become intolerable. He is terrified she will leave him. She is terrified she never will.”
“Does she have means?” asked Mrs. Frevert.
“Sufficient. I should add that the husband is unwell.”
“And he requires her care?”
“He thinks that he does. She thinks she only makes it worse.”
“Him worse or herself?”
“… Both?” said Edith. “But then she feels a break is too cruel. He is not a brute. And she is not brave; she fears being cast out, the shame of divorce. So she thinks perhaps she can manage after all. At such times she thinks her complaints small. Petty.”
But looking back, it had been a small, petty thing that ended the marriage. Not the women, not the theft of her money, not even the fits of madness. It had been an offhand question. Now she recalled the precise moment she had, in her heart, broken with Teddy. She had arrived in America, having spent the crossing reading Heredity and Variation. She had brimmed with excitement, eager to discuss what she had learned. But when she began, Teddy cut her off, asking, “Does that sort of thing really amuse you?” The question, his use of the word amuse, took the breath from her. And she had thought, I cannot bear it any longer.
She said, “His father took his own life, you see. She worries if she leaves, it may drive him to despair.”
“But what will she be driven to if she stays?” asked Carolyn Frevert softly. “One can care for someone—yet still wish to be free of them.”
The women’s eyes met. Questions came, essential and unspeakable. Edith recalled her words to Henry Frevert about the dead man. He seemed a domineering personality.
And Goldsborough’s accusation. He took his sister and made her a thing of his own imagination when she is so much more. In the moment, she had assumed the murderer’s use of his instead of my was another sign of his madness.
“May I, as a writer, ask you a question that was recently posed to me, Mrs. Frevert?” The other woman nodded. “We often assume people like to be captured in our books. Or, truthfully, we don’t care if they do or no. This person felt it was very wrong to use people in this way. As the inspiration for Susan Lenox, what do you think?”
“I can only say that for me, it is a very great honor.”
“Truly? You don’t think it exhausting to live as someone’s creation? Endlessly twisted to suit their needs?”
The smile stayed in place. “In fairness, I think we all do it.”
Three questions lingered. Those notes you burned, Mrs. Frevert. Were all of them sent to your brother?
Not a single note to you, the woman at the window?
And if there were such a note, did you ever answer?
Then she thought, No. The time for questions and answers was done. Rising, she said, “I hope I haven’t presumed too much on your family’s devotion to the truth. But I thought you would wish to know something of the man who took your brother from you. I shall miss Mr. Phillips. I would have wished him a longer life. I will do what I can for Susan Lenox. It is a … deeper work than I once thought it. I anticipate it will have great success.”
They pressed hands. As she turned to the door, Edith noticed a vase of greenery between the two windows of the sitting room. The dark leaves were a long oval, with a sharp point. The sight of them brought a memory, although at first, she could not place it.
Then she said, “Bay laurel.”
Carolyn Frevert turned to look. “Yes. In the spring, it has a lovely yellow flower. But I like the scent, so I have it year round.”
“‘I change but with death,’” Edith quoted. Mrs. Frevert looked questioning. “Bay laurel’s symbolism. In other words, victory achieved at great cost.”
Mrs. Frevert laughed. “I just thought it was pretty.”
Edith came out onto the street to find the sun had emerged; it was a bright, cold February day. From somewhere, she heard children shouting as they played one of those games where glee and cruelty are blended—tag or blindman’s bluff. One must be eliminated so that the other might win. The swift, the clever, the strong separating themselves from the weak, hesitant, and no-good-at-games. Edith had always thought herself the latter. But now she recalled running in Maine. She and Walter had been hiding from their aged hostess and raced from the house. She had been faster than he, stronger, and ran ahead.
Looking up, she saw Carolyn Frevert at the window. For a long moment, Mrs. Frevert stood gazing at the broad blue sky above her. Then she looked at the Rand School across the street and drew the curtains.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At last, the doctor came. Gentle, kind Dr. Kinnicutt appeared at the Belmont as if they had summoned him only that morning. He and Teddy had known each other for many years. The start of the examination, held in Teddy’s room, seemed more like two old friends catching up than a medical consultation. Then Dr. Kinnicutt asked Edith if she would leave so they might talk in private. He would come to her when they were done.
