Thomas, who wouldn’t say another word about Mrs. Trevelyan, didn’t have the same reservation about describing the hotel he worked for. According to him, the dining room served the finest food, the baths were unsurpassed, the service was renowned. They included a daily supply of bottled water, from any spring in town, on demand.
“. . . and there’s no less than three different springs being pumped into the bathing rooms. Of course there’s steam heat in every room. Even the servants’ quarters have electric lighting and indoor plumbing; the whole works,” he said. “There are dozens of hotels and boarding houses in town, ma’am, but the Arcadia is the best. And it’s not just me saying so. I’ve heard it’s as good as any of those fancy hotels out East.”
As we crested the hill, the forest opened up to reveal the hotel, resplendent in its row of flags across the front, immense gold-leaf painted clock, and meticulously manicured parkland, complete with stables, lawns, and gardens, radiating out in all directions. It was breathtaking.
And I’m to be staying here?
I caught a glimpse of an arbor-covered staircase going down the hill. A large fountain with marble statues dominated the center of a circular drive and sparkled in the last rays of the setting sun. Two hatless women sat on a wall encircling the fountain, laughing and dipping drinking cups into its basin.
Thomas helped me out of the wagon. I stepped down onto a red carpet that led up a long flight of stairs, passing over a wide front portico filled with rocking chairs, and ended at tall double entrance doors. The front portico was empty except for a white-haired man smoking a pipe.
“Is there a servants’ entrance, Thomas?” I asked.
“Not for you, ma’am. You’re a guest here now.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That wouldn’t be proper.”
A bellboy hovered around the entrance. He had flaming red hair that clashed with his uniform and brimless cap. He scurried over to collect my luggage as Thomas retrieved my typewriter case.
“Just so you know, Owen,” the driver said, gesturing with his thumb toward the approaching tally-ho laden with women I’d seen at the depot, “she ain’t one of them.” Then he tipped his hat. “Enjoy your stay, ma’am.” He was shaking his head as he mounted the wagon and drove away.
“Right this way,” Owen said. His free arm directed me toward the front doors. I walked up the stairs, amazed at the sudden turn in events. Two days ago, I was in Kansas City at Mrs. Larson’s Boarding House for Single Women, wondering what to do on my first day off in years. Today, I was at the Arcadia Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, the most luxurious hotel west of the Mississippi River.
Standing here, it was difficult to believe what they had said at the train station about my new employer. The woman as described wouldn’t be welcome at such a highly respectable hotel. Besides, Sir Arthur wouldn’t recommend me to someone of questionable character. Granted, I haven’t enjoyed every assignment that he has generously provided for me, but such is the working life. I’m grateful for his patronage, and I know how fortunate I am. I have always been able to rely on his sound judgment. Otherwise I might never have accepted this assignment, sight unseen, no matter how marvelous the accommodations.
“After you, ma’am.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been blocking the entrance. The corner of my suitcase pressed into my back as the bellboy, a few steps behind me, guided me through the open doors into the opulent hotel lobby. The chandelier’s crystal prisms in the high ceiling above were catching the setting sun, casting sparkling light across the expansive wooden inlay floors. The inside of the hotel was as impressive as the outside. I felt out of place and hastily tried in vain to contain the wisps of chestnut hair that hung loosely about my face.
A massive fireplace dominated the rotunda. Made of limestone brick, the hearth was six feet wide and loomed large enough for a person to stand in. Thick Persian rugs were laid out throughout the lobby. A cluster of plush-looking couches, armchairs, and rocking chairs spanned out in a wide semicircle. Several men, all reading the evening newspaper, sat with their feet propped up, availing themselves of the small fire burning in the hearth.
“May I?” I asked one of the gentlemen, pointing to a copy of the Cassville Democrat next to him on the table.
“Be my guest, young lady.”
Scanning the headlines and shifting through Cassville’s society pages, I could find no mention of a temperance rally. Instead, news and commentary on the upcoming elections filled the pages. Nor did I find anything more enlightening than a mention of Mrs. Trevelyan in a snippet about broken windows at a local barroom. The owner had insinuated “that temperance woman” was “not all she claimed to be.” This must be the “saloon smashing” the old woman at the depot had alluded to. Had I been needlessly anxious after all?
Beyond the fireplace, a series of French doors opened onto a smaller version of the front portico. Several women, with sashes of sky blue tied at their waist, emerged from the parlor on the right, singing.
Who hath sorrow? Who hath woe?
They who dare not answer no;
They whose feet to sin incline,
While they tarry at the wine.
Who hath babblings, who hath strife?
He who leads a drunkard’s life;
He whose loved ones weep and pine,
While he tarries at the wine.
The men around the fireplace looked up and frowned as one when the women approached. Without a sideways glance at the stares directed their way, the women passed me and continued singing right out the front door.
The chime of an elevator bell to my right drew my attention away from the temperance women to an elegant couple gliding down the broad stairway. I brushed the front of my jacket and readjusted a cuff. They passed without acknowledging me and, following the aroma emanating from my left, disappeared down the hallway.
The bellboy dropped my luggage with a thud.
“You check in at the desk over there,” he said. “Ring the bell when you’re ready.”
The office was tucked away in the corner of the room. The registration desk, extending a half a dozen feet and covered with swirls of intricate carvings, had a locked brass mailbox at one end and a bell at the other. Pigeonhole shelves lined the back wall. I walked over to the desk and lightly tapped the bell. A man with a stoic countenance and a bald pate appeared out of a back room and asked for my name.
“Miss Hattie Davish,” the clerk repeated as he flipped through a registration book. “Ah, yes, here it is.” Turning his back to me, he took a key and a packet of letters from one of the pigeonholes. He handed them both to me. “Welcome to the Arcadia, Miss Davish. You’ll be staying in room 220.”
“Excuse me, but I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not here as a guest, as everyone seems to think, but as a secretary and personal assistant to Mrs. Trevelyan. A room in the servants’ quarters will be quite adequate, I assure you.”
“There’s no mistake, Miss Davish. Mrs. Trevelyan left strict instructions. You’re to stay in the room adjacent to her own; Mrs. Trevelyan is next door, in room 218. And you’re to assume responsibility for her correspondences immediately upon arrival. She’ll provide further instructions when she sees fit.” He indicated the packet that he had just handed me with a tilt of his chin. “Seeing that there’s no mail today, those are all telegrams and hand-delivered letters. Yesterday’s mail is already in your room.”
I looked back at the opulence of the lobby and the men around the fireplace. Was one of them staring at me? “I don’t feel comfortable with these arrangements. Don’t you think it’s inappropriate for me to stay with the guests,” I looked at the clerk’s name tag, “Mr. Oxnard?”
“I’m sorry, miss, but these are your instructions. Mrs. Trevelyan won’t have you mingling with the servants.” The clerk snapped the registration book shut. “You’re gonna have to stay in a guest room.”
“May I ask if Mrs. Trevelyan is still staying at the hotel?”
The
clerk squinted and knitted his brow. “Didn’t I already say, Miss Davish, that she’s staying in room 218?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Oxnard.” Again some of my fears had been alleviated.
Then what was Thomas talking about?
“Mrs. Trevelyan?”
As the bellboy deposited my luggage in my room, I saw a woman go into room 218 down the hall. I knocked on the door. No reply. I knocked several times harder than was polite, and the door opened slightly.
“Mrs. Trevelyan?” I repeated as I peered inside. A small table lamp illuminated the cool yellows, blues, and reds infused throughout the lavish room, in the floral wallpaper that had flecks of gold leaf paint, in the wall-to-wall Belgian carpeting, in the velvet-cushioned chairs, in the brocade counterpane on the walnut four-poster bed, and in the inlay on the mahogany wardrobe, which stood eight feet tall against the wall. Machine-turned oak moldings surrounded the doors, windows, and ceiling, complementing the large oak desk. Only a large, well-worn steamer trunk in the middle of the room seemed out of place. A blond woman in her early thirties, only a few years older than me, was retrieving something from the back of the wardrobe. She was oddly attired in a completely sky blue dress and matching hooded cape, a faux pas for this time of day and so late in the season.
“Mrs. Trevelyan? I’m sorry. The door was ajar.” The woman quickly hid something in her cape before turning around. Her curving hips and ample bosom swayed as she walked toward me standing in her open doorway. Despite her size, she glided across the room as if she were balancing a book on her head. Two scars, on her left cheek and chin, were all that marred her plump, round face. She held a Bible in her hand.
“I’m Hattie Davish, ma’am. I hope this isn’t an inopportune time, but I’ve only just arrived.”
“Oh, dear, no, I’m not Mother Trevelyan. You’ve missed her by a quarter of an hour. I am Mrs. Josephine Piers.” She offered me her soft, manicured hand. “So you’re the one Mother Trevelyan sent for? Well, Miss Davish, I’ve never met a professional lady typewriter before, though I hear you come highly recommended.”
“I assure you that I’m more than a typist. As a trained private secretary, with extensive experience serving clients such as herself, I’d stake my reputation on exceeding Mrs. Trevelyan’s expectations.”
“Of course you would. Still, it’s a shame. You came all this way for nothing. Mother Trevelyan doesn’t require your services.”
“Why do you say that, Mrs. Piers? The depot wagon driver said so as well, but the desk clerk assured me Mrs. Trevelyan is still staying at the hotel.”
“Of course she’s still staying at the hotel. Where would she go? No, no, you misunderstand me. I’m Mother Trevelyan’s secretary now, and have been for almost two weeks. After that dreadful woman eloped, I humbly volunteered my services to the cause. I told Mother Trevelyan that she needn’t send for you. Divine intervention brought me to her and the coalition, and I feel blessed to serve.”
“I admire your charity, Mrs. Piers, but Mrs. Trevelyan has already paid me a week’s wages in advance.”
“That’s all right. You keep the wages.” She took my chin in her hand and turned my head one way and then another, scrutinizing my face. “Look at those dark circles, such a shame for one with such expressive hazel eyes.” I glared at her in consternation. “And I’d stay out of the sun. You’re getting freckles.”
Releasing my chin, she inspected me from head to toe. “And you’re so thin. You could obviously use a holiday. When was the last time you had a day off? Poor girl. Obviously God was at work bringing you here. Enjoy the spas. Attend our meetings. A drink from the springs will refresh your soul.”
“Thank you, but I’m here to work.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant that I reap great joy from helping the cause. It’s God’s work. So take a much-needed vacation.” She reached for the packet of letters under my arm. “I’ll take care of that now.” I took a step back.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Piers. But my instructions are to assume responsibility of her correspondences. Until I hear otherwise from Mrs. Trevelyan herself, I’ll do what I was paid to do. Now would you be kind enough to tell me where I can find Mrs. Trevelyan?”
Calm down.
I stood in the middle of my room with my eyes closed and took a few deep breaths.
“Un, deux, trois . . .” Counting in French to relax was a trick I’d learned as a child. “Trente-huit, trente-neuf, quarante. ” Reaching forty with no effect, I gave up.
In a burst of frustration, I flung my key, purse, gloves, and jacket to the floor. I unpinned my hat from my hair, and then tossed it on the bed. With her kindness, Mrs. Piers had touched a nerve.
I don’t need a vacation. I don’t need the spas. I need to get to work.
But Mrs. Piers had informed me that Mrs. Trevelyan was at a sermon and would be indisposed until morning. I dropped into a nearby chair, hung my head, and sighed. When I looked up, the room had grown dark. Still feeling petulant, I tried to remember what the bellboy told me to do. Fumbling, I felt for the brass plate next to the door and pushed a button on the wall. Brilliant electric light from the Edison lamps illuminated every inch of the small, airy room, reaching into the corners of the lofty ceilings and tiled fireplace.
Instead of the simple, white-walled room I had been expecting to stay in, this room was full of color and opulence. I was suddenly humbled and ashamed of my outburst. It was the nicest room I’d ever stayed in. Though smaller and decorated in shades of warm burgundy, gold, and green, it was almost a duplicate version of Mrs. Trevelyan’s room, down to the large oak desk and crystal vase on the tea table overflowing with ivy and azalea blossoms. In this room, though, a mound of unopened correspondences marred the desk’s polished surface. No care had been taken. Telegrams, letters, and parcels had been thrown haphazardly in a heap. A few letters had fallen to the floor.
I picked up the letters, collected up my things from the bed, and added the newest correspondences to the pile. I arranged everything into neat stacks and set up my typewriter. I opened the desk drawer and found ample supplies of stationery, pens, and ink. I unpacked my luggage and put everything away. In the bath assigned to me, two identical small mahogany washstands stood side by side. One, labeled 222, was already covered with ladies’ toilet articles. The other, labeled 220, was empty except for a bottle of water marked Basin Spring. I opened the drawer; it was packed with thick, plush green towels. I pulled one out and held it to my cheek. I relished the softness, a stark contrast to the rest of the room, the necessary porcelain features of modern plumbing, the hard, bright white tiles covering the walls, the black and white mosaic tile covering the floor. Only the sword fern on a stand rivaled the warmth of the towel.
At least Thomas was right about the baths. This is extravagance itself.
Next to the towel I tentatively set out the contents of my toilet case, a pitiful few items, on the right corner edge of the expansive washstand top, in case this space wasn’t all meant for me. I aligned the bottles in a row and straightened my hairbrush.
There, I thought. Now all’s in order.
With nothing left to do, I returned to my room to eat. Despite my rushed departure, Mrs. Larson had packed me a lunch: sliced cold chicken, bread, butter, pickles, and several pieces of her specialty, ginger snaps. I’d only eaten half the meal on the train. A velvet burgundy drape, pulled back to one side, revealed a French door, which led to a second-story balcony I’d seen from the carriage earlier. I tried to open it. The door swung open, letting in a breeze that dispelled the stuffy air in the room. I took my dinner out on the balcony and, espying a bench, spread my meal out on my lap. I took a deep breath of the crisp, clean air. All around me, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, was a wide expanse of mountains and valley and sky. The evening should’ve been lovely. But then that eerie glow had appeared down the hill toward town, in the darkest part of the valley, in the saloon district.
I had risen to my feet, and leaning on the wrought-iron railing, I’d heard a shout. As soft as an echo, I’d heard it again: “Fire. ”
I hadn’t known yet where my curiosity would lead me. I hadn’t known yet that Mrs. Trevelyan was at the center of the bedlam below. But considering how extraordinary everything about this job had been so far, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
CHAPTER 4
“Are you injured?”
His warm, gentle voice surprised me. I tore my focus away from Mrs. Trevelyan’s retreating figure to see not one of the saloon men, covered in soot from the extinguished fire and smelling of beer, but a gentleman holding his top hat. He was handsome and sparkling clean from his shining, polished shoes, to his tidy mustache, to the glisten on his teeth as he smiled. My heart skipped a beat. But wasn’t this the man who had come to the injured woman’s aid when the window shattered? Shouldn’t he be at least disheveled?
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Blue laws don’t mean much here,” he said. He glanced back at the men stomping out the flames in the doorway. “It seems the temperance ladies took offense.”
“I was told they were attending a sermon.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Was the lady by the window badly injured?” I asked.
“Mrs. Turnbull? Luckily, no, though she did have several glass slivers in her face. Are you certain you’re okay?” He lightly touched my sleeve at the point of two finger-shaped smears. “There’s blood here.”
“Oh, no.” I pointed to Mrs. Trevelyan and her companions. “One of those women grasped my sleeve. It must’ve come from them.” He looked in the direction of my gaze, absentmindedly dusting dirt from his shoulders and sleeves. Of course he was covered in dust from the road. How could I have ever thought otherwise? He smiled again, and I knew.
“I hope we meet again, lovely lady,” he said, tipping his hat. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” I covered my burning cheeks and watched as he ran up the road.
A Lack of Temperance Page 2