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Also by Fiona Davis

The Dollhouse

The Address

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2018 by Fiona Davis

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Davis, Fiona, 1966– author.

Title: The masterpiece : a novel / Fiona Davis.

Description: First edition. | New York, New York : Dutton, 2018.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017060556 (print) | LCCN 2018000513 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524742966 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524742959 (hc)

Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION Mystery & Detective General. | FICTION / Literary.

Classification: LCC PS3604.A95695 (ebook) | LCC PS3604.A95695 M38 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017060556

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

For Tom

CONTENTS

Also by Fiona Davis

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

New York City, April 1928

Clara Darden’s illustration class at the Grand Central School of Art, tucked under the copper eaves of the terminal, was unaffected by the trains that rumbled through ancient layers of Manhattan schist hundreds of feet below. But somehow, a surprise visit from Mr. Lorette, the school’s director, had the disruptive power of a locomotive weighing in at thousands of tons.

Even before Mr. Lorette was a factor, Clara had been anxious about the annual faculty exhibition set to open at six o’clock that evening. Her first show in New York City, and everyone important in the art and editorial worlds would be there. She’d been working on her illustrations for months now, knowing this might be her only chance.

She asked her class to begin work on an alternate cover design for Virginia Woolf’s latest book, and the four ladies dove in eagerly, while Wilbur, the only male and something of a rake to boot, sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. Gertrude, the most studious of the five members, was so offended by Wilbur’s lack of respect that she threatened to toss a jar of turpentine at him. They were still arguing vociferously when Mr. Lorette waltzed in.

Never mind that these were all adults, not children. Whenever Wilbur made a ruckus, it had the unfortunate effect of lowering the entire class’s maturity level by a decade. More often than not, Clara was strong enough to restore order before things went too far. But Mr. Lorette seemed possessed of a miraculous talent for sensing the rare occasions during which Clara lost control of the room, and he could usually be counted upon to choose such times to wander by and assess her skills as an educator.

“Miss Darden, do you need additional supervision again?” Mr. Lorette’s bald pate shone as if it had been buffed by one of the shoeshine boys in the terminal’s main concourse. The corners of his mouth curled down, even when he was pleased, while his eyebrows moved independently of each other, like two furry caterpillars trying to scurry away. Even though he was only in his early thirties, he exuded the snippety nature of a judgmental great-aunt.

He’d been appointed director three years earlier, after one of the school’s illustrious founders, John Singer Sargent, passed away. The school had increased in reputation and enrollment with each new term, and Mr. Lorette had given himself full credit for its smashing success when he’d interviewed Clara. She’d been promoted from student monitor to interim teacher after Mr. Lorette’s chosen instructor dropped out at the last minute, putting her on uneven footing from the beginning. It hadn’t helped that the class had shriveled to five from an initial January enrollment of fifteen. Ten of those early enrollees had walked out on the first day, miffed at having a woman in charge.

Mr. Lorette’s dissatisfaction, and the likelihood that she’d not be asked back next term, mounted each week, which meant tonight’s faculty show would probably be her last opportunity to get her illustrations in front of the city’s top magazine editors.

Since coming to New York the year before, Clara had dutifully dropped off samples of her work at the offices of Vogue and McCall’s every few months, to no avail. The responses ranged from the soul-crushing—“Unoriginal/No”—to the encouraging—“Try again later.” All that would change, tonight. She hoped. By seeing her work in the hallowed setting of the Grand Central Art Galleries, alongside the well-known names of other faculty members, the editors would finally appreciate what she had to offer. Even better, as the only illustrator on the faculty, she was sure to stand out.

Mr. Lorette cleared his throat.

“No, sir. We don’t need any assistance. Thank you for checking in.” She maneuvered around to the front of the table where she’d been working, in an attempt to block his view of her own sketches.

No luck. He circled around and stood behind it, his nose twitching. “What is this?”

“Some figures I was working on, to demonstrate the use of compass points to achieve the correct proportions.”

“I thought you’d covered that already.”

“You can never go back to the basics enough.”

He offered a suspicious nod before winding his way through the tables, his eyes darting from drawing board to drawing board. Her students stood back, hoping for a kind word.

“Why is it each student seems to be drawing something completely different from the others?”

She nodded at the novel she’d left out on the still-life table. “The assignment was to create a cover for a book. I encouraged them to use their imaginations.”

“Their examples of lighthouses and beaches are apropos. Yet you are drawing undergarments?”

Even if he had been a more sympathetic man, there was no way to explain how the hours stretched painfully long with her having so few students. How the skylights diffused the light in a way that made each day, whether sunny or overcast, feel exactly like every other. She routinely made the rounds, suggesting that a drybrush would work best to create texture or offering encouragement when Gertrude became frustrated, but at some point, the students had to be left alone to get to their work. Which was why today she’d pulled a chair up to a drawing table and sketched out the figures for her latest commission from Wanamaker Department Store: three pages of chemises for the summer catalog. The work paid a pittance, but at least it was something.