“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.
Agnes requested a glass with two fresh raspberries dropped inside. “A present for getting to the bottom,” she said.
She introduced Paul around. He was good with names, good with noting the telltale details that might accumulate into memories. Mr. Honeyrose with the salt-and-pepper muttonchops, Mrs. Sheldon with the Spanish accent, Mr. Farnham with the short stance and silver walking stick. Paul clocked them all as he shook their hands.
Agnes seemed to know everyone. At each kiss of her hand, she deployed a joke; with each curtsy came a story she’d been simply dying to share. She took to the party as if she’d been born into it.
In a way, she had. From what Paul knew, the Huntingtons were an old family. They’d settled into America at the roots. They’d flourished in the western industries, in California gold and Colorado trains, as well as the eastern halls of the House and Senate. The Huntingtons had bloomed so colorfully across the vista of American money and power that, Paul realized, he didn’t know from which branch of Huntingtons she had descended. Her family connections had gone unmentioned in the newspaper accounts of her career.
Yet she’d come to him for representation, not to someone older or more well known. Agnes and Fannie must have lacked the protection, then, of someone more powerful than Paul. As Paul was not particularly powerful, this must mean that they came from some lesser tributary of Huntingtons. But wherever they were from, the young woman Paul watched charm her way through the Players’ Club seemed happy to be here.
“Tesla,” said Paul after what felt like the thousandth handshake. “I need to find Tesla.”
“He’ll be with Stanford, I’m sure. Grab us two more flutes and then let’s pop upstairs.”
The second floor was thick with cigar smoke. A quartet of musicians was cramped into one corner, the fiddlers sweating as they sawed their horsehair bows. The clomp of hard leather shoes against the floorboards threatened to drown out the music. Agnes led Paul across a floor of tipsy dancers stumbling to the rhythm of the fast waltz.
On the third floor Paul saw a clump of partygoers assembled around a pair of couches. The guests had organized themselves into a half circle. All eyes seemed to be focused on the thin man whose head poked up in the center.
Tesla. By the crooked grin spread across the inventor’s face, Paul saw he was enjoying the scene. Paul could not believe that someone who took so little delight in other people seemed to find such pleasure in other people’s delights.
“A magnet and a coil,” said Tesla to the crowd. “These are the tools you need. Think of it thusly: The magnetic force we have been knowing for some time. The coil is to be found in each of your mattresses.” The assembled snickered gaily at the mention of bedding. Tesla seemed not to know what had caused their laughter, but appreciated it nonetheless.
“But where does it come from?” asked the man standing next to Tesla. Considerably shorter, he wore a bushy, unkempt mustache and a trail of gold buttons up his starched white wing-collared shirt. Paul looked to Agnes for confirmation. This was Stanford White.
“Electricity arises from nowhere,” said Tesla. “Everywhere. The air everywhere and all around. It is not created. It is harnessed.”
“Like a horse?” asked White as the crowd laughed.