New York - The Novel

rage, she got him to tell her all about it. And after she had looked round all the work and admired it very much, she remarked to him gently: “If you put Boss Tweed and Nast over there”—she pointed to a wall that had some spare space—“it wouldn’t look so bad.”
    “I suppose you’re right,” he said grumpily.
    “I wish you’d do it for me,” she said.

    There was a good crowd at the opening that evening. Of course, everyone went to see the portraits of Tweed and Nast, but Frank Master proved to be right, for having done that, they were circulating round the rest of the show, and lingering over some of the best work too.
    So after greeting his sister, and making polite conversation with all the people to whom the Masters introduced him, Theodore could almost relax. Almost, but not quite. For there was one person who had still to arrive. One person who was very important indeed. If he showed up.
    The reporter from the
New York Times
. It was Sean O’Donnell who had promised that the fellow would come, but at seven o’clock there was still no sign of him. Nor at ten minutes past the hour. It wasn’t till nearly seven thirty that Master came to his side and murmured, “I think that’s him.”
    Horace Slim was a quiet man in his thirties, with a thin mustache and sad eyes. He greeted Theodore politely, but though he wasn’t giving anything away, something in his manner suggested he was only there because he’d been sent and that, as soon as he had enough material for a short piece, he’d be gone.
    And Theodore needed more than that. He made himself keep calm, though. He knew it was no good pushing too hard; one could only hope for the best. But he’d handled journalists before, and he was not without cunning. So, giving the man a professional nod, he said quietly, “I’ll take you round, Mr. Slim.”
    The exhibition filled several rooms, and was arranged thematically. He’d already decided to start with the portraits, but not to go straight to Boss Tweed. He’d got some famous people, after all. Names that should give the journalist some useful copy.
    “Here’s President Grant,” he pointed out. “And General Sherman. And Fernando Wood.” Slim duly noted them. There were some big city merchants, with imposing architectural details behind them, an opera diva, and Lily de Chantal, of course. Theodore paused by her.
    He’d always had a pretty good idea why Frank Master had suggested he take the picture of Lily de Chantal, though he wasn’t such a damn fool as to ask why. It was a suspicion reinforced when, ten minutes ago, he’d heard Hetty Master drily remark: “She looks a lot older than that in real life.” The picture was excellent, with a theatrical backdrop.
    “I took this after her recital last year. Did you go to it?”
    “Can’t say I did.”
    “It was a notable event—quite a society occasion. Maybe worth a mention.”
    Slim had a look at the other portraits, and took down a couple more names. They’d been carefully chosen to attract more clients. Then they came to Boss Tweed and Thomas Nast, and the courthouse.
    “Good timing,” said Mr. Slim, making a quick note.
    “I suppose so,” said Theodore. “People have been looking at them.”
    “It’ll make a good opening for an article,” said Slim.
    “So long as it’s not the only thing you mention.”
    “Any other sitters you’d like to tell me about?” the journalist asked quietly. “Anyone of interest?”
    Theodore glanced at him. Were those sad eyes better informed than they let on? Did Horace Slim know about Madame Restell?
    “All my sitters are interesting,” said Theodore carefully. But he’d better give the fellow a story. “I’ll tell you whose picture’s missing,” he offered. “Abraham Lincoln—at the Gettysburg address.”

    At the end of that summer of the Draft Riots, when he’d decided to leave New York for a while and follow the war out in the field, there’d been only one sensible way to do it. And that was to work for Mathew Brady. Brady had the government concession. He’d send you out, even provide you with a special carriage, converted into a movable darkroom. And so, in November 1863, along with several other photographers, Theodore had found himself down in Pennsylvania, at Gettysburg, where a new cemetery had just been prepared to receive the fallen heroes of the great battle that had taken place nearby only months before.
    There had been little doubt, by then, about the