As Goldsmith did now. “You know Morison?”
Austen answered with a rousing account of Morison’s early blessings on Julia’s Capriole Press. “Virginia Woolf with a Gill engraving,” he enthused of Wednesday, Capriole’s (more or less) inaugural title. “Fifty-five copies on Barcham Green, sold out after Morison’s good word.” Julia failed to tamp down her smile.
“Gill can be an acquired taste,” Goldsmith said dryly. Julia nodded, equally circumspect. She admired Eric Gill’s sensuous line drawings and humanistic letterforms, as well as his mystical eroticism—on the page. He’d drawn the image for her Capriole pressmark, a young she-goat (Julia herself) in a glade of book-leaved trees, but afterward she’d needed every agile leap of her namesake kid to escape the lusty fellow. Gill the artist was inspired; Gill the man was merely that, in all the usual carnal senses.
The turnabout in Goldsmith’s regard was comical. A gaze that had been indifferent now burned with interest. While gratifying, Julia suspected this was fueled more by vanity than collegial respect. He was roughly a decade her senior and clearly more accomplished in the field, but even so. If his attention had to be earned, so did hers. She’d achieved her aim: Goldsmith had noticed.
Duveen lurched off toward the bar, and Julia moved to join Eva, whose smile grew wider at Julia’s congratulations. A pale-blue felt cloche nestled over her skull, its brim frosted with silver bugle beads.
She looped her arm through Julia’s. “Stay with me. You’re my good luck charm.” She eyed the hubbub. “Some splash, isn’t it?”
“You look awfully happy.”
“I am.” Eva placed three fingertips on Julia’s forearm. “They’re taking me to dinner at the Plaza tonight. The Plaza, Julia.”
Julia felt an unsettling twinge on hearing Eva pronounce her name. Then she realized what had sounded off key: never before had a colored person addressed her with such familiarity. Even Christophine, who knew her more intimately than anyone alive, would not forgo the Miss from her name. Julia had always thought of the syllable as merely an affectionate contraction: Julia to Miss as Christophine to Fee. How blind to absorb that social deference as naturally as one’s name! Julia’s stomach quivered. Did the title endure because Christophine, however loved, was technically her employee and dark as ditches? Would Julia have expected Eva to address her as Miss Julia? Of course not. The very idea was preposterous. But the moment’s flash of surprise left a disturbing afterimage of doubt on Julia’s mind. Were there more distasteful truths about herself she did not see?
“Since Jerome can’t come, you know,” Eva added.
Julia nodded vaguely, still disconcerted. Did she mean because he was obviously colored and so not allowed, or because of some other trouble? She remembered the couple’s quarrel in Duveen’s back bedroom. Was that the problem?
Eva’s glow dimmed. “He wouldn’t enjoy this anyway. He’s glad for me and all, but he’s sore about the fuss.” As if reciting an assertion she’d heard a hundred times, she added, “He says true writers care only about writing well, not the fiddle-faddle over their books.” She sipped to obscure a new smile. “But I do love this.”
Eva’s enthusiasm restored Julia’s. What good fortune they’d met when they had, each poised on the brink of a new venture. If they joined forces, their aspirations and talents might converge with eye-popping results. She lowered her voice, drawing Eva close, and described her modest but hopeful work as a publisher of handcrafted limited editions. “I’m thinking about my first production,” Julia said, “to debut my Capriole Press in New York. I need something special. I know you’re busy and excited about your novel, but I wonder if you might have some poems or a story you’d let me read and maybe publish.”
When Eva didn’t answer, she added, “I’d do my best to make it beautiful, with an illustration or two and handmade papers and brand-new types. A marbled wrapper, maybe?”
Eva shook her head to show that she didn’t follow any of the design details. “You’d consider publishing something I wrote?”
“I’d be honored,” Julia said. “It would announce us both to the literary world. Look out, Misters Goldsmith and Liveright and Harper and Scribner and all the other misters. Here come Eva Pruitt and Julia Kydd!”
Eva lifted her lovely face. “Eva Pruitt and Julia Kydd,” she repeated with a curious wonder in her voice. “I like that. But I don’t have any stories, only my book for Mr. Goldsmith.”
Not a problem, Julia reassured her. “You could write something new. There’s no rush. The shorter the better, actually, because I set my type by hand and have limited fonts. If we do decide to do this, you could help me plan the design, if you like.”
“I never thought of books as having design,” Eva admitted. “They’re just words.”
Julia explained that design was everything to fine printers, whose books aimed to exalt their texts by rendering them in beautiful physical form. Unlike more affordable and durable editions, whose purpose was to be read, fine editions were meant to be admired. They were like extravagant gowns for special occasions, made solely to dazzle and flatter.
Eva smiled. “Chambray and double seams for rehearsals, acres of chiffon for the show.” She fluttered her skirt of seafoam chiffon with its intricate floral design of sapphire beads.
“Exactly,” Julia said. “Now you understand my work better than I understand yours. I have to admit I’d never heard of New Negro literature before last night. What does—”
She stopped. It was an important question. She prayed her ignorance wouldn’t offend. “I’m sorry, but what does Pablo mean when he says yours is a New Negro book?”
Eva exhaled a bemused snort. “He does carry on about that, doesn’t he? He means it’s good and culluhed. All jookin’ and jelly dippin’.” Her expression sobered. “Mostly he means a book written by a colored person that he thinks is worth reading. He means it includes the rough bits. Pablo thinks white people should know about”—she searched for a word—“the difficulties.
