Free The Fifth Avenue Artists Society by Joy Callaway Page A

head and lifted her hand to his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to say hello to John, wouldn’t you?” Before I had a chance to reply that I didn’t care, she had me by the wrist and was dragging me back through the smoky room, away from my brother who simply waved at me.
    Insisting that I meet everyone, Miss Blaine had introduced me to at least fifty people by the time we made it all the way around the room. We listened to romantic poetry, paused to appreciate the matchless styles of several artists who’d drawn or painted everything from hay fields to street dwellers, and finally stopped in front of a cellist playing a piece that wailed with such heartache it brought tears to my eyes.
    I blinked as the cellist lifted his bow from the strings. Lydia began clapping, and paced toward the stocky man whose head was still stooped over his instrument.
    â€œMr. Wrightington. That was divine.” The man’s eyes barely lifted. “The only bit of suggestion I have is that the eighteenth notesat the end could’ve been made a bit more legato.” He finally raised his head and stared at Miss Blaine. His eyes narrowed. My fingers drew into my palm. Each time we’d stopped, Lydia had offered some type of comment to the artist, as had the other guests around us. Most of the time, she was complimentary, but a few times, she’d offered criticism. I’d expected at least one of the artists to lash out, but no one had. I’d mentioned this expectation after the second piece of analysis she’d offered, but she’d simply laughed and said that artists expected reactions at the Society, or at any salon for that matter. “No one forces you to put your art on display,” she’d said, echoing Franklin’s earlier words.
    â€œYou’re right, Miss Blaine.” The cellist’s lips parted in a grin. “I thought the same directly after that measure.” Miss Blaine beckoned me forward. I introduced myself, certain that I’d forget Mr. Wrightington’s name the moment we departed his company. I’d met too many to remember all of them, though I desperately wanted to. Miss Blaine began to turn away and I followed, thinking that perhaps I was so eager to know them because they were such a contradiction to the flighty female artists I was accustomed to back in Mott Haven—the amiable sort that gathered in parlors giving lectures on novels and writing poems, affecting a love for literature until the topic turned to beaus and marriage. The neighborhood women meant well, but the artists here were serious about their art, and welcoming to boot. Each had put their paintings or notebooks aside to smile elatedly at my introduction.
    â€œThere’s one more person I want you to meet and then I’ll take you to John,” Miss Blaine said, squinting through the smoke. I couldn’t figure why she thought me so eager to get to Mr. Hopper, unless she assumed I’d been intoxicated by his mysterious charms like the rest.
    â€œI’m in no hurry, I—” I thought to tell her that my heart had recently been broken and that I hadn’t any interest in Mr. Hopperbeyond a friendly acquaintance, but that would be entirely too forward.
    We were standing in the middle of the room beneath a chandelier dripping with crystals, wedged between a cluster of writers sharing excerpts from their stories and an artist painting a plain-looking woman with an exceptional nose.
    â€œHave you ever seen Franklin’s portraits?” I asked her, watching the artist dunk his brush into the paint.
    â€œOf course. They’re incredible. He painted me at the last meeting. It’s a shame he can’t focus on his art full-time.” She lifted her gloved hand, running her fingers over her blond hair done up in a fanciful fleur-de-lis coiffure. “My only complaint is that he was slightly too true to life. He even added the tiny scar above my