CHAPTER ONE
Brownell paused in apprehension. In the afternoon quiet of the Palm Garden of the Belmont Hotel, his spirits were made uneasy by the sight of Mrs. Edith Wharton. As her editor for more than two decades, he had much to say to her, none of it what she wished to hear. Publishing was a genteel endeavor; but even in the sensitive realm of words, the brute reality of numbers could intrude. As it did in the matter of royalty payments, for example, which Mrs. Wharton wished to discuss. Also in deadlines, which he was keen to address. The number of books promised them: four. The years since her last novel: three. The sales for that novel, The Fruit of the Tree … well, being a gentleman, he would set that aside. For now.
Standing by the entrance, concealed by one of the extravagant palms that gave the tearoom its theme, he watched as Mrs. Wharton summoned a waiter to complain about the temperature of the water and the freshness of the linen. But she did so with none of her usual relish, and Brownell worried that she did not look well. She was a woman who collected maladies—asthma, nausea, flu, bronchitis, hay fever—as she collected small dogs. She was now nine-and-forty, and the features that one would have called moderately appealing in her youth were tense and strained. He took in the parched skin and hollowed eyes. The auburn hair, still piled proud and abundant atop her head, showed signs of graying and brittleness. There was nothing wrong with her face, he thought, save that there was too much of it for her small, unremarkable features. The jaw was heavy, the forehead prominent. As a man, she might have managed. He had seen pictures of her as a girl. As a child, she had resembled a pinched, sickly little boy with thin lips and miserable gaze—Oliver Twist. As a young woman, at her best, a handsome, sharp-eyed rogue.
Perhaps that was why she buried herself in clothes, barricading herself in a profusion of lace and furs, pearls roped like armor around her neck and wrists, her hands sunk deep in a muff of dark mink. Even her hats had a touch of the martial to them, giving the impression of a fine, plumed helmet.
In short, a woman you did not engage lightly in battle. One might have expected a woman of wealth to embrace the call of art for art’s sake, eschewing all thought of commerce, certainly any hope of financial remuneration. Mrs. Wharton, however, did not merely hope to be paid. She expected it. She expected other things as well. With her very first book, she had written them, “I daresay I have already gone beyond the limits prescribed to a new author in the expression of opinion; but since you send me the title page, I shall consider myself justified in criticizing it.” Another note read simply: “Gentlemen, am I not to receive any copies of my book?”
Brownell disliked meeting with authors face-to-face, preferring the cool distance of letters, where words could be considered at length. But Scribner’s had been waiting for Mrs. Wharton’s words for too long, and when they heard she was coming to New York in order to sell her house in the city, a meeting was proposed. He and the magazine editor, Burlingame, had tossed a coin as to who might have the pleasure of tea with Mrs. Wharton. Brownell had lost—and so here he was.
The waiter had returned, bearing a silk tasseled pillow of blue and gold. This he set down on the floor, and a Pekingese appeared, padding on tiny unseen feet to the pillow’s edge, where it was lifted, then set down. Settled on its luxurious cushion, it seemed to lie down; at least it quivered and looked lower than before. This was new. Previously, Mrs. Wharton had favored long-haired Chihuahuas. If it were possible for a breed to more closely resemble vermin, Brownell was not aware of it. The Pekingese at least had the advantage of volume, although the bright black button eyes were the only sign that it was a living thing and not a footstool.
Just then, those eyes moved in his direction; the thing seemed to pant. With the exquisite sensitivity of all pampered creatures, it sensed it was being observed. As if on cue, his mistress also looked up. Her expression told him she was aware that he had assessed her—and she was now assessing the assessment.
Bravely, he advanced. “Mrs. Wharton, my deepest apologies for being late. To atone, I bring you a gift.”
Sitting down at the small table, which was laden with china and silver, he slid a red book in front of her. “The first printing of Tales of Men and Ghosts. We do hope you like it.”
Immediately, he worried that he had overstressed the you, alerting Mrs. Wharton that Scribner’s was less than thrilled by a collection of short stories that, in terms of content and style, bore little resemblance to The House of Mirth, her raging success of five years ago. When it was serialized, readers had buzzed for months over the fate of Lily Bart. Would she marry for position, for money, or for love? The public shock when the beautiful Lily destroyed herself had rivaled the clamor over the death of Little Nell.
Now Lily’s creator gazed at the book over her gilt-edged Minton teacup of deep rose. Laying her gloved fingertips on the edge of the book, she opened it to the frontispiece and frowned.
Setting the cup aside, she sat the book upright and raised the cover to peer at the spine. Then she split the volume in two and inspected the typeface.
“Words fail to express how completely I don’t like it. The ellipses alone. You could drive a coach and four between these dots.”
He had expected this and gave her a game smile. “I should have been disappointed if you approved.”
It was meant as an affectionate reference to their earlier quarrels, but the pained twitch of her mouth indicated indifference to her happiness felt all too familiar. He had heard that her marriage was in difficulties. There were rumors of her husband cavorting with young actresses, of missing funds. Even madness. There, he had doubts. Teddy Wharton was the most conventional of men, of an old Boston family, partial to dogs and golf and not much else. “Far too dull to be unstable,” said Burlingame, and he, Brownell, had agreed. True, Mrs. Wharton had written to him that her husband’s health claimed much of her time and energies, leaving her less opportunity to write. But he took that as a delaying tactic, much like her headaches and hay fever.
A rumble beneath the thickly carpeted floor set the silverware tinkling. Taking advantage of the diversion, he joked, “I suppose that is what comes of building a hotel directly above the subway.”
“That is what comes of letting August Belmont build a hotel,” she said, referring indirectly to the fact that Mr. Belmont was also the founder of the Interborough Rapid Transit Company. “As a child, I once saw his mistress in a bright yellow brougham on Fifth Avenue. My mother told me to avert my eyes.” She raised an eyebrow, letting Brownell know that it was up for debate whether the formidable Lucretia Jones had been more appalled by the scandalous lady or the gaudiness of the carriage. Mrs. Jones, née Rhinelander, whose ancestor had gone riding with General Washington, had been deeply concerned by her child’s passion for stories. Mrs. Wharton had told him that when young, she had to beg old brown paper wrappers from the kitchen staff to write on, as it was inconceivable that she should need writing paper beyond the stationery required for invitations and thank-you notes.
Which brought him to his first point. “We are tremendously excited about The Custom of the Country. A beautiful young heiress makes her way in the glittering world of aristocrats and millionaires … a tale only Edith Wharton could tell.”
She made a vaguely pleasant hum and fed the dog a macaron. Brownell waited as she inquired if the macaron was delicious, did the dog enjoy it, would it like some more, yes, yes, she thought it would.
She said, “I trust that means there will be a vigorous advertising campaign.”
Queen threatens pawn, he thought. Pawn moves to protect castle. “Difficult to say until I’ve seen something of the book…”
“But you said you were so excited.”
“Any work by you, Mrs. Wharton, is cause for excitement.”
“Really?” She gazed at him, as if puzzled. “I can’t say I was terribly excited by the promotion for Fruit of the Tree. My friends wrote to me, saying they couldn’t find the book anywhere.”
The Fruit of the Tree. A novel about textile mills. In New England. Heroic middle managers. Spinal injuries. Euthanasia. Response, both in-house and without, had been anemic.
She persisted, saying, “The reviews were excellent. The Times called it ‘a powerful study in modern life.’”
The Times had also said “Central Incident Repels.” Taking up his tea, he said carefully, “I think the exploitation of labor is perhaps not your subject. Your readers adore your ability to reveal the secret lives of the wealthy. You are their guide inside homes they will never enter, clothes they will never wear. They love your wit, your perception, the satirical portrait of the joys and cruelties of New York…”
“And I believe with the right support from Scribner’s, they would love my portrait of joy and cruelty in rural New England just as much. I have another story in mind, the tale of a marriage. A poor farmer whose wife is an invalid…”
Rural? Farmers and invalids? Poor farmers and invalids? It was time, Brownell decided, to take things in hand.
“Mrs. Wharton, I feel strongly that The Custom of the Country should be your next book.”
“How strongly?” She looked directly at him, all pretense with the dog abandoned.
“… How?”
“Five percent more strongly than you have felt about my work in the past?”
Breathing in deeply through the nose, Brownell contemplated the number of women he knew who were familiar with the word negotiation, much less its practice. Then he calculated the number of women he knew who were adept at figures, followed by those who would dare bandy percentages. He came up with a very small number. One, to be precise. Unfortunately for him, that one was seated across from him, in possession of a book he wanted very badly.
Lowering his voice, he said, “A twenty percent royalty is the top market rate.”
She lowered hers to match his. “There are authors who get twenty-five percent.”
He smiled. Broadly and at length until his face hurt. His mind groped for a decorous response but could not overcome the hurdle of outrage that Mrs. Wharton had asked for twenty-five percent. Twenty-five percent! What did one say to that? To a woman, in a public place where expletives were impossible? By letter, he fumed, this would have been far less aggravating.
Later, he would blame that aggravation for the error he was about to make. Had he been less riled by Mrs. Wharton’s regal assumptions as to her worth, he would never have called out to that man. Never invited him to join their table. Indeed, had he not turned in his chair, frantically seeking someone—anyone—on whom to focus other than the percentage- and punctuation-obsessed Mrs. Wharton, he might not have noticed the gentleman at all.
Although it was hard not to notice David Graham Phillips. The writer wore a white suit in the city in late January and sported a large chrysanthemum in his lapel. As he moved through the tearoom, several people turned to look at him and whisper—whether in recognition, admiration, or approbation, it was hard to tell. Everything in his affect proclaimed him a man of higher purpose as he weaved in and around tables, arms swinging, legs leaping one after the other, eyes fixed upon the exit. And yet he pulled up short when Brownell said, “Why, here’s David Graham Phillips, if I am not mistaken!”
CHAPTER TWO
Mrs. Wharton at once perceived that her editor, having no answer to her request for increased royalties, wished to change the subject. She also perceived that the man before her in the blindingly white suit was not to her taste. At all. His upper lip—brutish, clean-shaven—appalled her; the gentleman’s hairless perimeter was positively aggressive. Adorn myself? it seemed to say. Sport plumage? Make an effort at style or elegance? For what? For you?
There was vanity here; that ridiculous suit and the luxuriant sheen of his black hair told her so. His gaze, blue eyes slightly narrowed, invited, nay, insisted on the adjectives piercing or keen. The cleft in the pugnacious chin—obvious. The way he stood, restless, hands tensing to suggest fists, imitative of boxers, whom he no doubt affected to admire. As he gave her the briefest glance, then looked back to Brownell, she sensed his resentment as you would an odor.
She gathered from the male chatter that at one time Mr. Brownell and Mr. Phillips had both worked for the New York World. And that Mr. Brownell admired Mr. Phillips’s articles in The Sun. Even more, he admired Mr. Phillips’s novels, which he called “courageous” and “uniquely American.” Mr. Phillips claimed to regret that Mr. Brownell was no longer with The Nation.
Casting an expansive hand in her direction, Brownell said, “Ah, but at The Nation, I would never have had the chance to work with Mrs. Edith Wharton.”
It was the cue for deference, and she waited. At her ankles, she felt the brush of fur; Choumai in search of food.
Mr. Phillips grunted, “Well, that’s true enough.”
From this, Edith understood the following: Mr. Phillips knew her work and did not admire it. She was a woman, which he also did not admire. Further still, an old woman, whose age demanded he make a show of manners he no doubt found insulting to his authentic being.
Peering at the gentleman’s lapel, she remarked as if she had just noticed, “A chry-san-themum.”
Knowing an opening salvo when he heard it, Brownell said hastily, “Mr. Phillips is considered one of America’s leading novelists.”
“The,” Mr. Phillips corrected him.
Brows raised to her hairline, Edith marveled. The? The leading American writer. Not James, not Dreiser, not Twain—although Twain had just died—certainly not she. And to insist upon it. No, no, not one of, old chap—the.
The! She repeated the word to herself until it rang with absurdity.
Phillips added, “By H. L. Mencken at any rate.”
Sighing, she said, “Well, Mr. Mencken,” and plucked a champagne wafer from Brownell’s plate and dropped it to the dog below.
But she felt Brownell’s anxiety. For whatever reason, the editor wished to further his acquaintance with Mr. Phillips and he wanted her help in doing it.
She gestured to the vacant chair. “Won’t you join us, Mr. Phillips?”
From Brownell, a waft of gratitude; from Mr. Phillips, condescension. Even the way he pulled out his chair was grudging, and she longed to say, Oh, please don’t if it hurts you so.
But decades ago, as a newly made matron, she had applied herself to the art of that particularly bland form of charm known as pleasantness. In parlor after parlor, dinner after dinner, she had murmured agreeably, asking only those questions that would allow the other person to flatter themselves. And while it had been many years, she could still discipline her features and voice in that style—blank yet ardently attentive—and she did so now, asking, “Are you also with Scribner’s?”
“Appleton.”
“An excellent house. And—forgive me, I’ve been abroad—I’m not familiar with your work.”
Brownell said, “Perhaps you recall The Great God Success…?”
Smiling serenely, she shook her head. ...
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