The Last Days of Night(36)

There was to be a party at the Players’ in a week’s time, Paul informed Agnes and Fannie Huntington. Women weren’t allowed to be members of the club, but Agnes’s stature in the theater granted inclusion on its guest list.

“Those parties,” said Fannie politely. “They have a certain reputation.”

“So I’ve read,” said Paul.

“I can’t imagine that my daughter would find herself comfortable in such company.” At her mother’s comment, Agnes looked away.

“I had not planned to attend,” she said demurely.

“Miss Huntington, if you were willing to attend and bring me as your guest, it would be of tremendous help to me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Fannie, preempting any response from her daughter. She crossed her hands in her lap. “How will attending a party at this Players’ Club help you win a victory for Mr. Westinghouse?”

“This particular party,” said Paul, “is to be thrown by Stanford White.”

Fannie blinked. Stanford White was the most famous architect in New York, having designed the Villard houses and Madison Square Garden. His design for the arch that would rest at the top of Washington Square was at that moment under construction. But renowned as he was for his work on the Manhattan skyline, his professional reputation was largely becoming eclipsed by his personal one. A lifelong bachelor, White had long been the subject of rumors about the many young women with whom he spent his time.

The look on Fannie Huntington’s face made plain that she was well aware of this sordidness. And that she did not like one bit the idea of her daughter becoming party to it.

“The thing is,” said Paul, “that Mr. White appears to have made himself a new friend. And next week’s party is to be thrown in this friend’s honor. To introduce the distinguished guest to the most fashionable of Manhattan society.”

Paul leaned forward in his chair. “The guest of honor is a very odd scientist whose name you will likely not recognize. But it’s terribly important that I speak to him.”

—

One week later, on a crisp September evening, Paul collected Agnes from her home at Number 4, to walk her across Gramercy Park to Number 16, where the Players’ was located.

Agnes said almost nothing during her mother’s brief lecture to both of them on the dangers inherent at any party Stanford White was attending. Then, miraculously, Fannie showed them out and they were alone together outside Number 4.

Paul knew enough to offer her his arm for the short trip across the park. But before he could even discuss the pleasantness of the evening, Agnes spoke first.

“Oh my dear Lord, do I need a drink.” Agnes had spoken so little in their previous meetings that Paul was surprised at both the timbre of her voice and its sudden gaiety.

“You are a consecrated saint,” she continued, “for getting me out of that house. I did not move to Gramercy to spend every night playing Hearts with Mother.”

Paul found himself on uncertain ground. He thought of Fannie’s admonitions. “I hope the environment won’t be too unruly. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, you may take your leave of—”

“Are you kidding? Stanford’s parties are heaven. The last one I went to lasted until two hours past dawn. When I finally got home, Mother was up in the sitting room, just waiting to catch me. Somehow I convinced her that I’d woken early for a fresh-air stroll. I thought she bought it, but I’ve barely been able to get away from her for a month. Which means you, Mr. Cravath, are my guardian angel.”

The Agnes Huntington in whose company Paul found himself was evidently quite different from the vision of respectability he’d signed on to represent. That perfectly crafted smile was suddenly replaced with a devilish grin.

“You’re friendly with Mr. White?” he asked as they approached the club. He didn’t know how to feel about the prospect of that, and instantly worried that the question was impolite.

For the first time in his presence, she gave a great roaring laugh. “Any girl who’s trod the boards is friendly with Stanford White. The only reason I haven’t had to worry about getting even friendlier is my age. Thank goodness.”

Paul tried to appear at ease with this line of conversation. “I’m glad to hear that your youth is…a welcome deterrent to such men.”

Agnes looked at him disappointedly. “Quite the contrary. I’m far too old for him.” Paul looked to his shoes so she couldn’t see his surprise. “That little Astor girl whose trip to the family doctor—I’m sure you can guess why—started his recent mess? She was fourteen.”

“Oh” was all Paul could think to say.

“Sort of ironic, don’t you think? He gets caught swelling the belly of the one girl he consorts with who’s old enough to swell.”

Paul felt himself at the precipice of a world whose rules he did not know.

“Now,” said Agnes brightly as they ascended the concrete steps to the Players’ entrance, “my mother has gone to sleep, the night is waking, and I think it’s high time that we got low-down drunk.”

Inside, Paul was greeted by more champagne than he’d ever seen in his life. It was everywhere, and the flowing torrents from every open bottle matched the golden frames along the walls. Even the alcohol in this place was the color of money.