She lowered the paper. Stuff! What cheek.
Christophine tried to frown, but both women’s shoulders quivered. “Miss Lila love that.”
Lila Cartwell, Julia’s London dressmaker, would indeed delight to have her work mistaken for French couture, even though it was Christophine’s alterations that had captured the writer’s eye. For years she’d doodled, as she called it, with their old clothes, experimenting with overlays and cutaways, appliqué, ornament, and whatever else suited her fancy. Her skills with hats were even more astonishing. She was wildly original—sometimes making dreadful hashes but more often creating arresting new looks. Christophine was an artist, an inventive modiste, though until last night, she refused to let any of her “mending” leave the house. With luck, Julia hoped, this success would loosen her restrictions.
“To Mademoiselle Fee!” Julia raised a phantom glass. “In New York less than a month and already turning heads!”
Fee scoffed happily and knuckled the page for Julia to read on.
She did. “‘Never flagging in his enthusiasm for Negroes, Mr. Duveen treated his guests to a show of colored talent. Mr. Jerome Crockett recited his poem “While We Slept,” recently published to acclaim in Chicago. Mr. Paul Robeson was persuaded to sing again the selection of Negro spirituals which so delighted guests at the apartment a week ago. The sultry tones of Miss Evangeline Pruitt, noted performer at Harlem cabaret Carlotta’s, followed with a moving rendition of “Slave to Love,” her signature tune.’”
Julia dropped the paper. “What rot to miss the entertainment.”
Christophine pulled her chair closer and peeled an orange. She ate a section and handed another to Julia. It was another childhood routine: as Julia read, Christophine supplied their snacks. She had always slipped fruit to her this way, neatly peeled, sliced, seeded, or cored. Julia could do these things for herself, but with sticky and mangled results. Long ago she’d been barred from the household produce and from the kitchen generally. Though the childishness of the arrangement embarrassed her, she acquiesced as usual. The orange was juicy and sweet.
“‘The dramatic high point of the evening,’” Julia resumed, “‘concerned Miss Pruitt. Mr. Duveen announced that the publishing firm of Arthur Goldsmith has secured the rights to publish Miss Pruitt’s debut novel. Friends tell us the novel will be eagerly awaited for its vivid scenes drawn from Miss Pruitt’s stage career.’
“I met her,” Julia said. “She’s lovely. I liked her, very much.” She stretched her arms over her head. “My first mixed party, Fee. It was smashing good fun.”
To Julia’s surprise, Christophine wrinkled her nose as if the milk had turned and declared herself glad to be nowhere near such an awkward assembly. What Julia had found exhilarating, she regarded with suspicion. But when Julia asked why, Christophine only shrugged and gave her usual end-of-discussion answer: “Just is.”
Puzzled, Julia refolded the paper. Her eyes fell on Eva Pruitt’s name, and her first impressions, so strong and so appealing, grew elusive. Was the woman a writer or a singer? Was she white or colored? The idea of a life so slippery—its edges shifting, like tide lines on a shore—fascinated Julia. She too longed to live facing forward, each moment erasing the previous. She itched to meet again the mysterious writer with the hidden manuscript. Tonight, she hoped, at Horace Liveright’s party.
She was struck again by the idea of debuting her Capriole Press in America with work by the rising new novelist. Julia would watch for the right moment to ask if Eva had a short story or set of poems she might showcase in a fine edition. No need for the explosive stuff Logan Lanier had hinted at—although a bright flash was always better than a pensive flicker. In fact, a nice modern pop might be just the thing.
Yes, indeed. A shot across the Grolier Club’s bow!
CHAPTER 4
Something red splatted against the doorframe as Julia entered the crowded reception room that evening. A wave of laughter followed the juicy missile, and she balked on the threshold. Austen Hurd stepped in front of her. “Hey, cut it out!”
They seemed to have interrupted a game that involved partiers tossing what looked to be strawberries at each other. Two shrieking women rushed past. From the commotion, Julia gathered the aim was to tuck the berries into women’s bodices and down men’s trousers. So this was the famous publishing house of Boni & Liveright, from which were launched eminent works of philosophy, literature, science, and history. And strawberries.
Another couple arrived, pushing them forward into the melee. Austen juked to dodge a woman’s attempt to squeeze a berry under his collar, while Julia swatted another’s stained fingers from her dress. What a ridiculous business! Before Austen could apologize or explain, someone seized her from behind. Two long arms in a gray pin-striped suit gripped her for several airless moments. “Pardon the hooligans, my dear,” rumbled a well-liquored voice into her ear.
The man retreated half an arm’s length and spun her to face him. Although clearly drunk, he had a patrician air about him, with fair hair sleeked back from his forehead and a lean, noble nose. No one had dared to so much as smudge his person with wayward fruit. He rolled Julia’s fingers between bony palms. “Horace Liveright, darling. Have we met?”
The great publisher himself. Austen scrambled to introduce Julia, but before he could, his boss nodded to someone across the room and relinquished Julia’s hand. Excusing himself with a lush compliment, Liveright departed as abruptly as he had appeared, plumping Julia’s derriere as he passed.
Impertinent sod. Welcome to America.
Austen made a wide-eyed mug of contrition. “Sorry for the rummy reception. Actually, the old goat can be a lot worse than that. You got the duchess treatment.” He spoke over his shoulder as he led the way through the crowd toward the bar. Most of the strawberry hurlers seemed to be shifting out onto a terrace, where their cries disappeared into the din of snarled traffic on West
