Death of an American Beauty (Jane Prescott #3) - Mariah Fredericks Page 0,1
one critic put it. She might have been ridiculous except for two assets: a will worthy of Genghis Khan and her husband’s fortune. Stronger women than Louise Tyler had been pulled into Dolly’s orbit. I felt guilty nonetheless.
As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed nine, I hoped Louise would remember what today was before I had to remind her. But she noticed my glance at the clock and said, “Oh, it’s time, isn’t it?” Rising, she held out her hand. “What will I do without you?”
“You can reach me at the refuge anytime.”
“It’s your holiday, Jane—why don’t you go somewhere nice?”
“I want to see my uncle. And I have other plans as well.”
“Oh, and what are these plans?”
“I’m afraid some of them are shocking.”
“Jane!” Smiling, Louise put a hand to her chest. “Well, all right. Go and do your shocking things. But I’ll miss you at French lessons. And rehearsals. If Dolly Rutherford shouts at that poor seamstress from her husband’s store one more time, I’ll have fits. Still, I suppose it’s something to do.”
With a small sigh, she looked around the sitting room as if hoping distraction would present itself. Or her husband: I knew she was missing William. That much could be said for the Rutherford Pageant: it was a diversion.
With as much speed as was polite, I went upstairs to change. When William and Louise had moved to their new home, I had been given a spacious room on the top floor.
Taking off my daily outfit of plain skirt and shirtwaist, I pulled on a high-necked blouse and a dark skirt of jersey wool I’d made myself. Then I added a long navy jacket that had been left behind by Charlotte when she went to Europe. Then I put on my new hat, black felt, turned up at the front with a dark red rose at the side and a handsome velvet band. Finally, I put on my new coat, a present from the Tylers this past Christmas. It was also dark wool, but the cut was exquisite, with a hobble skirt, large baggy pockets, a wraparound bodice that buttoned daringly at the bosom, and a high collar. Looking in the mirror, I decided that while I was not quite Lillian Gish, I needn’t be ashamed to be seen in her company should she turn up at the International Exhibition of Modern Art.
For that’s where I was going, to mark the start of my vacation, the scandalous art exhibit known as the Armory Show. The exhibition of twelve hundred works by three hundred American and European artists had descended on New York in a blaze of sensation. It was the talk of the city, so popular that people went again and again, just to be seen. On one day, you might see Caruso sketching in a corner. On another, former president Roosevelt. Cartoonists depicted landmarks from the Statue of Liberty to the Brooklyn Bridge in the shocking new style dubbed Cubism. The artists had been lampooned as “nuttists,” “dope-ists,” “topsy-turvists,” and “toodle-doodlists.” Even official critics were uncertain as to the Cubists’ merits, asking, “Is their work a conspicuous milestone in the progress of art? Or is it junk?”
I was fairly sure I wouldn’t be able to decide either. But that wasn’t important. All that mattered to me on that cold March day was that the Armory Show was the most fashionable place to be in New York City and that I, Jane Prescott, would be there.
In service to absolutely no one but myself.
* * *
The 69th Regiment Armory was only a few blocks from the Tyler home in the East Twenties. Designed along elegant, modern lines with curved arches and a French mansard roof of limestone, the Armory welcomed visitors with a banner hung above the entrance: INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION OF MODERN ART. Limousines were already lining up outside, creating traffic jams as they disgorged their stylish passengers. As I joined the line to get in, I heard a man ask, “How does a minister’s niece come to be at this tawdry spectacle?”
I turned and saw Michael Behan. I had not seen him for several months, and an art exhibit was not where I expected to find him. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I am paid to be here,” said the reporter. “Which is the only way you’d get me near the place. Are you going in?”
“I am.”
“Well, let the Herald pay your fare. Come on, I’ll give you the guided tour.”