Instead of tossing further invective at him, she asked through numb lips, “Have you an alternative for me?”
“I began seeking suitable employment for you weeks ago, and may be fortunate in that regard.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have invited a potential employer, a Miss Cleary, to take tea with us this afternoon. Her visit will serve as an interview of sorts.”
“An interview? For what sort of employment?”
Charles stubbed out his second cigarette and lit a third. Charles’ chain smoking was a nervous habit. Tory knew so from long acquaintance with him.
“Miss Cleary, too, runs a guest establishment and requires a polished hostess. You have served the Broadmoor well and possess many admirable skills, Tory: You speak three languages, you play piano, and your sketching is superb. Your social graces would make you a welcome addition to any strata of society.”
“But not welcome enough for your soon-to-be wife to publicly acknowledge me.”
The words slipped out before Tory knew they were there.
Charles jaw hardened as did his expression. “You should be grateful to me, Victoria. Remember the gutter from which I pulled you—a girl of mixed blood and dubious parentage. Remember that I saved you from being savaged by a gang of street thugs!”
His words were like blades, hurled in quick, deadly succession, but Tory said nothing. She lifted her chin and met Charles’ gaze, refusing to be cowed. “You owe me the balance of my salary. I shall expect it before I go.”
It was Charles who looked away first. After a moment he said, “I apologize, Tory. After all we have been through together, you deserve better from me.” He sighed. “Miss Cleary will arrive at three this afternoon. Please be prepared to receive her.”
“I shall be.”
TORY’S INTERVIEW WITH Miss Cleary went well, although Tory was likely still too incensed to take an accurate measure of her prospective employer. The woman, possibly in her late thirties, was impeccably dressed and mannered, even if her hair seemed a deep and impossible shade of auburn.
They took tea together in Tory’s suite, chatting about the weather and recent fashion trends before Tory’s guest broached the primary reason for her visit.
“I manage two large and exclusive guest houses where the mountain air is bracing and the views are inspiring, Miss Washington,” Miss Cleary explained, “We have a diverse but loyal clientele; my guests come for respite, relaxation, and a brief, transitory escape from the busyness of their lives in the city.”
“I see. So, your lodgers come for rest and rejuvenation?”
Miss Cleary dimpled. “Rejuvenation? There you have it.”
“Are these guest houses far from Denver?”
“Nearby, I assure you. Just a short jaunt up the mountain.”
She dimpled again. “The village of Corinth is lovely year-round, but it is particularly stunning in early fall. The aspens, you know. They change color and set the mountains ablaze in golden fire. The journey from Denver to Corinth by rail is convenient and the destination quite worthwhile.”
Tory smiled at the picture Miss Cleary painted.
“Miss Washington, our visitors delight in cultured diversion of an evening, and I am seeking a hostess who can engage in tasteful and refined conversation, discussing art, music, fashion, even politics. I understand that you speak French and Italian?”
“Yes; I am fluent in French; my Italian is good, although a bit rusty from disuse.”
“And you play the piano?”
“I am unpracticed of late; a little time before the keys would set me right.”
“How lovely to find a young woman of your education and abilities. You are, Miss Washington, precisely what I have been looking for.”
“And the train runs regularly? How would I—”
“Miss Washington, if you agreed to work for me, it would be my particular delight to come fetch you myself, even bringing a man to handle your luggage.”
Tory sipped her tea and nodded. “May I broach the subject of pay?”
“Certainly. Does fifteen dollars a month—plus room and board, of course—meet with your expectations?”
Tory was pleased, and she nodded. “It does . . . but, perhaps after I take up my duties, we discover that we do not fit?”
“One month’s salary at your departure and, at your behest, we would escort you down to Denver.”
Tory set her cup on its saucer. “I shall need a little time to consider your offer, Miss Cleary. Two or three days?”
Miss Cleary leaned toward Tory and took her hand in hers. “Please call me Roxanne? I know we shall get on famously.”
Chapter 23
Soon after breakfast the following day, without knocking or asking permission to enter, Miss Visser threw open the door to Tory’s suite. She stood on the suite’s threshold and folded her arms across her thin bosom.
“Well, Tory, we’ve come to it at last.”
“How dare you barge into my private rooms!”
Miss Visser just smiled. “You are to gather your things, Tory.”
Tory stared at Miss Visser, “What do you mean?”
Miss Visser’s smile was more of a triumphant smirk. “Since you were slow to accept Miss Cleary’s offer of employment yesterday, Mr. Luchetti accepted for you. I am to inform you to pack your belongings.”
“But—”
“You have sixty minutes to ready yourself for travel. Be downstairs at the top of the hour. Miss Cleary will call for you and accompany you to your new . . . employment.”
Tory stood and moved toward the door. “I shall go to Charles for clarification. He will shed light—”
“Mr. Luchetti is away from the Broadmoor at present. Why, you ask? Because he did not wish to see you, Miss Washington. He was specific in that respect. His orders were that you are to pack without delay. If you decline to go with Miss Cleary, you are still required to vacate the premises today.”
Tory’s eyes blinked rapidly as she absorbed Miss Visser’s news. Three salient facts emerged from her statements: First, Charles refused to see her, even to say goodbye. No doubt he did not wish to risk a scene as Tory left the Broadmoor. Second, he did not intend to pay her the wages he owed her.
Tory’s breath caught as she grasped with what ease, with such indifference to her feelings—after nearly five years of her undivided loyalty—Charles was able to dismiss her.
Third, Tory must have made a favorable impression upon Miss Cleary for the woman to return so quickly and call for her.
She struggled with something less clear. It niggled as a vague concern in the back of Tory’s mind. The sneer with which Miss Visser had uttered the word, “employment,” meant something, had sent a discordant jangle down her nerves.
She came to herself. “As you wish, Miss Visser. I shall pack. Please close the door behind you.”
Tory’s dismissal was as chilly in its formality as she could make it.
“Oh, so proper, so hoity-toity you are! Well, not for long, I reckon.” With a laugh that scraped on Tory’s spine, Miss Visser slammed the door to Tory’s suite.
Tory entered her bedroom, crossed to her wardrobe, pulled her suitcase from the top of it, and laid it open on her bed. She lifted the lid of her trunk. With a glance at the clock on her bureau, she began to sort through her things.
When she finished with her clothes, she went to her desk, emptied it of stationery, pens, and pencils, and placed them in her suitcase. That was when she saw the Bible she had read from only once. With a sniff of anger, she dropped it into the wastebasket.
As the lobby clock chimed the hour, Tory descended the elevator of the Broadmoor for the last time. She was dressed in her best day suit of powder blue velour with matching gloves and hat. Two Broadmoor Hotel porters carried her suitcase and trunk to the lobby.
Tory strode across the lobby; Miss Cleary was already waiting and rose to greet her with a smile.
“Ah, Miss Washington. So lovely to see you lo
oking so well.” She looked over Tory’s ensemble. “Nice. Very nice, indeed. And are your bags packed and ready to go?”
“Yes. They are there, by the door.”
“Excellent. Darrow will load them into the car.”
That was when Tory realized Miss Cleary was not alone. A large man, his meaty hands clasped in front of him, waited for Miss Cleary’s direction. Miss Cleary was, as she had been yesterday, dressed in an exquisite day ensemble—even if it was, in Tory’s estimation, cut a bit too tight in all the “right” places. Darrow, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable and out of place in his black three-piece suit.
Tory eyed him, noting with distaste the perspiration that gleamed upon his upper lip and the way his gaze raked over her. As he lumbered across the lobby to take charge of her luggage, Tory turned to the other woman.
“Miss Cleary—Roxanne—I wish to ask a few additional questions, if I may.”
Miss Cleary drew on her gloves and tucked her arm into Tory’s in a most companionable manner. “Of course, my dear. However, shall we wait until we have caught our train? I should hate to miss it. We really must arrive in the early afternoon, not the evening. We shall have time enough aboard to discuss whatever you wish.”
In step with Miss Cleary, they crossed the lobby threshold to the out-of-doors. A motorcar idled at the curb. The man Miss Cleary called Darrow finished placing her bag and trunk in the motorcar’s trunk. He then opened the door to the car’s rear seat.
Tory glanced back toward the Broadmoor, wondering if she should wait and try to say goodbye to Charles. Surely this cannot be the last I shall ever see of him?
Tory realized that she loved Charles as the foster father he had pretended he was; he had, at least in the main, been good to her since that evening when he had rescued her from the alley gang in New Orleans and taken her on the train with him to St. Louis.
Tory’s hesitation caused Miss Cleary to pause with her. “I understand. Change can be difficult, Miss Washington.”
“Yes, I-I suppose it can be.”
“Please do not fret. You are a treasure, Miss Washington, and I shall take excellent care of you.”
Tory was grateful for the older woman’s steadying hand upon her arm. “Thank you. You are most kind.”
The hired conveyance dropped them at Denver’s Union Station, and Darrow set off to check Tory’s baggage on the narrow-gauge Denver & Rio Grande Western railroad. Miss Cleary, with Tory’s arm still tucked into her own, set a pace toward the D&RGW platforms.
“Shall we walk a bit?” Miss Cleary suggested. “We shall be sitting for two hours and should take our exercise while we may.”
“Of course,” Tory murmured.
They walked to the end of the platform where steps led down to the tracks and rail yard, then retraced their steps. By then, Darrow had returned without Tory’s bags.
“Allllll abooooooard!”
“Shall we?” Miss Cleary asked. She led Tory toward steps leading up to a sumptuous private railcar and nodded at the conductor as they prepared to mount the steps. Tory thought the man’s gaze narrowed as it swept over both of them, then stopped and fixed upon her.
“How are you this morning, miss?” the conductor asked. Something in his expression was careful. Guarded.
Concerned?
Tory’s brows lifted. What was the man asking of her?
“I’m certain she is fine,” Miss Cleary answered. The hard, clipped edge to her words startled Tory.
The conductor stood his ground. “I was speaking to the young lady,” he replied. He asked again, “Are you all right, miss? Is anyone . . . forcing you to go with this . . . woman?”
That was when Darrow stepped forward. He reached around Tory and placed his ham-sized palm on the conductor’s chest, pushing him back.
“This is a private car. Mind your own business,” he growled.
Miss Cleary pulled Tory up the steps, but Tory’s head swiveled to look back at the conductor. For a moment, before Darrow’s hulking frame obstructed her view, she sought the conductor’s eyes: They held a resigned sadness that she did not understand.
Miss Cleary drew her into the car and gestured to a velvet upholstered seat. “Please sit wherever you like, Tory. This is our employer’s own personal car.”
Tory wandered halfway through the car before sitting. Miss Cleary sat across from her while Darrow chose to stand near the door into the car. He said nothing, but Tory had the uncomfortable sensation that the man was there to see that she did not leave the car.
Moments later the train began to move. Tory, as nervous as she had ever been, gazed out the windows, hoping the scenery would calm her. Soon, the train cleared the station and began a sweeping turn toward the mountains to their west.
Tory had seen these mountains from her rooms at the Broadmoor. She was thrilled to see the train drawing closer to them.
“Could you be more specific regarding the nature of the work I shall do for you, Miss Cleary?”
The woman pursed her lips—as though what Tory had asked amused her—but she smothered the smile and answered, “Not for me, Miss Washington, but for our mutual employer. He lives in Denver, but keeps the two guest houses in Corinth. He has exclusive tastes, and wishes the houses to be managed in only the best manner.”
“I see. But what, precisely, will my role be?”
Miss Cleary smiled again, this time a bit more openly. “As I said before, hostess, my dear. Our employer entertains frequently, and his hospitality is lavish. Your position will be in the larger of the two houses.”
Tory digested the information. “Could you describe the house, please?”
“Certainly. A lovely, three-story mountain home with an expansive lawn. You will have your own room, of course, near the top of the house. I should prepare you, however. Although it is almost March and nearly spring here in Denver, up high in the mountains we are still subject to snow.”
Miss Cleary’s caution was needed. The train entered a steep, snow-crusted ravine and made slow turn after turn, inching higher. When they emerged from the ravine and drew near their destination, the sun glistened off new-fallen snow—a spring snow, Miss Cleary called it.
Corinth did not boast a station. All Tory saw as they disembarked were banks of snow everywhere, a little snow-bound siding, and a faded sign that read, Corinth, Colorado. Altitude 7,586 feet. Someone had shoveled a path through the siding, but the sign, fastened near the top of its post, poked out from a high drift.
A motorcar waited for them where a beaten track indicated an unpaved road. As Darrow and the car’s driver transferred her bags to the car, Miss Cleary steered Tory to the rear seat.
In awe of the winter wonderland surrounding them, Tory looked around. When she saw not another person save the driver of the automobile, she shivered. In fact, the only sign of civilization anywhere was a wisp of smoke emerging from a stand of trees not far from the platform.
Tory, growing more nervous as Miss Cleary opened the door to the motorcar, asked, “What is over there, please?”
“Ah. That, my dear, is the home and workshop of Corinth’s smithy. Not a lot of call for a smithy these days, but the railroad occasionally has need of him.”
Perhaps the smoke is from his forge, Tory thought.
As she gave a final glance in that direction, she saw a man, no longer young, she deduced, based on his stooped posture and faded red hair. The man stared at her, a frown etched on his features.
Their eyes met—and Tory felt a sudden compulsion to run to him for shelter. She turned, but Darrow blocked her way. With reluctance, she joined Miss Cleary in the motorcar. Darrow climbed in after her and shut the door, sandwiching Tory between him and Miss Cleary.
Tory’s heart pounded in her chest and she had difficulty breathing. I am in trouble. Something is so wrong. Oh, why did I come with this woman?
They did not drive far, and no one spoke; Tory noted a few scattered houses and then a small plaza surrounded by a small number of
unassuming businesses. Not long after, the car entered a modest neighborhood, wound its way up a sweeping drive, and arrived at a magnificent house. Nearby, Tory saw a second house of similar grandeur.
Neither house seemed in keeping with the tiny village. They were both too large, too ostentatious, their grounds too pristine.
“This way, my dear,” Miss Cleary murmured.
Tory’s heart thudded and skipped as they mounted the steps to the house’s grand entrance. Miss Cleary knocked, and a man in a shiny black suit opened to them.
“Welcome home, Miss Cleary.”
Tory followed Miss Cleary into a wide foyer where the man began to take and hang their cloaks in a closet at the base of a wide staircase. The man nodded once to Tory.
Tory glanced at him, then toward the stairs. She thought she heard soft feminine voices from the floors above.
“Thank you, William. Please have Gretl serve tea in the parlor.”
“Right away, miss.”
Miss Cleary turned to Darrow. “Have Tory’s things taken upstairs.”
She beckoned to Tory. “Come with me, Tory. We will warm ourselves in the parlor while I acquaint you with your duties with us.”
Miss Cleary led the way through an arched doorway into the largest, most luxurious parlor Tory had even seen: In size, it rivaled the lobby of the Broadmoor. Tory swept her eyes around the room, taking in a roaring fire in a marbled fireplace, thick carpets, the gleaming wood of fine furniture, and a large bar surrounded by mirrors and shelves of crystal glasses and stemware.
“You must be cold, Tory, as am I. Do warm yourself by the fire while our cook prepares tea. When she serves us, then we shall talk.”
Tory walked to the fireplace and turned her back to it. She appreciated the heat radiating from the fire in more ways than one—for the chill she felt was not from the wintry weather outside. Tory had felt Miss Cleary’s attitude shift subtly the moment they set foot within the house, and Tory’s misgivings grew stronger. She could not stop clenching her hands together—she fought a wild urge to run to the front entrance, grab her cloak, and flee down the long drive.
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