Clarissa shook her head and closed her eyes.
“No peace with that man o’ yours?”
She stilled and shook her head again. “No, no peace. He ran away from me when I tried to talk with him recently.”
“When ye ambushed him,” Mr. A.J. said with a grunt.
She blushed and nodded.
“Missy, after all this time, ye gotta learn that men don’t like bein’ pushed.”
She sighed but was unable to prevent a tear from leaking out. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I’m filled with such anger at him, and yet I miss him.” She gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “Which is ironic because we live in the same house.”
Mr. A.J. held out a gnarled hand to her, gripping her fingers as tightly as he could although unable to hide a grimace of pain at his action. “I never was blessed with children. I have no idea how ye feel,.” He gave her hand a slight squeeze before letting go. “But I can’t imagine holdin’ yer pain to ye like a shield will make anythin’ better.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.” She lowered her head as a few more tears trickled free. “I’m afraid, if I don’t have my anger, if I can’t blame Gabriel, that I’ll have nothing.”
Mr. A.J. traced away her tears on one cheek, the skin of his fingers almost as soft as a baby’s. “Ye have to decide that replacin’ the anger with forgiveness, understandin’ an’ love is worth the pain of finally mournin’ what ye lost.”
On their arrival in Butte, Clarissa searched the platform for Jedediah Maloney but failed to see him. It had been twelve years since she’d been in Butte, but she’d hoped to see his familiar face. They instructed their porter to bring their trunks to the Finlen Hotel and boarded a streetcar.
“We could hire a cab,” Savannah said.
“I know, but this was how I first traveled in Butte when I fled Boston, hoping to reunite with Gabriel. I’m feeling nostalgic.”
Savannah squeezed her hand as she recalled the letter Clarissa had written, describing her journey to Butte all those years ago, only to find Gabriel had moved. “I just wish you would tell me why we had to travel to Butte today of all days. The real reason.”
Clarissa shook her head, unable to hide a smile. When she met Savannah’s gaze, she saw her arrested, shocked expression. “What?” Clarissa asked.
“For an instant, you looked happy. Like the old Rissa. And it made me sad.”
“Sad?”
“Because I know the happy Rissa is fleeting and the new Rissa will be back soon.” Sav sniffled and turned away, staring out the window as the streetcar trudged up a steep hill. “I always forget how ugly it is here.”
The streetcar passed rows of brick multistoried buildings, the late-season snow covered in a fine covering of gray coal dust. The gallow frames in the distance dotted the horizon, while ash and coal spewed into the sky from tall smokestacks. The only flashes of color were on the signs painted on the sides of buildings.
Clarissa giggled, feeling lighthearted for the first time in months. “It is. Shockingly so.” They disembarked on the corner of Main and Broadway and walked the short distance to the Finlen Hotel. “When I was here last time, Colin and I stayed in the same place, but it was a smaller hotel, called the McDermott. They tore it down and built the Finlen in its place.” Clarissa pointed to another imposing brick building kitty-corner across the street from the Finlen. “Gabriel helped build that hotel.”
“We should venture inside so we can let him know we’ve seen his work.”
“Sav—”
“I’m teasing, Rissa. I know nothing so simple will bring harmony between you and Gabe.” She turned toward the entrance to the Finlen. “Come. Let’s get settled, and then you can share whatever this surprise is with me.”
The plush red velvet seats sank a little as they sat, and Clarissa stared at the opulent ceiling design of gods and goddesses playing musical instruments, accompanied by white marble pillars and gold-gilded chandeliers. Clarissa had successfully maneuvered Savannah into the plush Empress Theater without her discovering why they were here. They sat in the front row of the first mezzanine level, slightly to the right side. When Clarissa refused to hand over her playbill, Savannah rolled her eyes.
“It’s as grand in here as almost anything in Boston,” Savannah whispered, unable to hide her awe.
“I know. Who would have thought? It shows that mining can be quite profitable.” They shared a smile and then settled down to watch the performance as the red velvet curtain parted for one man to enter the front of the stage to address the crowd.
Savannah turned to Clarissa in confusion. Clarissa had told her they were coming to watch a traveling symphony, but no sounds of instruments tuning could be heard. “Rissa?”
“You’ll see,” Clarissa whispered, unable to hide either her delight or her bright smile.
The short, rotund man, his waistcoat bulging with his girth, waved at the crowd to hush them for his address. “Thank you, loyal patrons, for once again joining me on a night I’m certain will be unforgettable. For a night that will rival any that has come before and any to follow. For tonight, we have the incomparable talent of the pianist Mr. Lucas Russell, the man who’s thrilled royalty and eastern society with his brilliance.”
Savannah gasped at Lucas’s name, gripping Clarissa’s hand until she grimaced in pain.
“He’s here to share with us tonight his latest compositions, all the way from Boston, Massachusetts. Please join me in giving him a warm Butte, America, welcome.” He thrust his arms in the air, and the curtain rose, revealing a darkened stage with only a well-lit piano centered thereon.
Savannah leaned forward in her seat, her eyes lit with anticipation at seeing her brother perform on stage. The crowd around them broke into polite applause while Savannah and Clarissa clapped as though Mozart were to appear in front of them, earning a few curious stares from their neighbors.
For the past two years, they’d read clippings of articles sent by Uncle Martin, Savannah’s and Lucas’s father, about Lucas’s successful tour through much of America and part of Europe. Savannah and Clarissa had established a routine where Savannah wouldn’t open a letter from her parents without Clarissa present so that they could read about Lucas’s latest success together. As they had sighed over the stories of Lucas mingling with the elite members of society after each successful performance, they had dreamed of seeing him perform.
On their return from Washington, DC, Clarissa had seen an advertisement for a one-time performance by Lucas in Butte, before he headed farther west to San Francisco via Seattle. With Jeremy’s aid, she’d been able to obtain two tickets.
Lucas walked onto the stage, appearing taller in his tuxedo than his five foot eight, with his light-brown hair longer than fashionable, tucked behind his ears and free of any pomade. He bowed to the applause, flicked out the tails of his jacket and sat at the piano bench, his fingers stretched theatrically over the keys. After a momentary pause, he played.
Clarissa closed her eyes as a lilting lullaby floated around the audience. She heard wisps of the song he’d teased them with when Savannah had brought Jeremy to meet Uncle Martin over ten years ago. Lucas’s composition evoked emotions from tenderness to anger to wistfulness to an aching regret. When he finished, nearly half an hour later, tears coursed down her cheeks.
He leaned away from the keyboard, lowered his hands and then turned toward the still-silent audience. After a moment, a deafening roar burst forth, the calls of “Bravo!” and “Encore!” competing with the whistles of approval. Lucas stood, smiled, bowed and exited the stage.
Savannah and Clarissa shared an incredulous look, sharing the joy at witnessing Lucas perform. They were on the verge of rising to leave when he emerged again. After a curt bow, he played another original piece, this one much faster paced, and Clarissa sighed as she sensed the rage and longing hidden in his music. He again stood to bow at the end of his song and sat again to play a much shorter
piece by Mozart. After three such encores, the master of ceremonies emerged once more to thank the audience for coming, encouraging them to continue to patronize his fine establishment.
“We must find Lucas,” Savannah said. “I doubt he knows we’re here.” They were jostled by the crowd and slowly made their way down the stairs to the main lobby area. White marble balustrades and pillars gleamed in the bright light of numerous chandeliers while gold-gilded mirrors along the walls reflected their brilliance throughout the room. Clarissa gripped Savannah’s arm as they approached a porter.
“Sir, we need to see Mr. Russell. He is my brother,” Savannah said.
The usher smirked as he looked from Savannah in a turquoise-blue silk dress with its fine lace overlay to Clarissa in a burgundy velvet dress that flared at her curvy waist. “And you’re his cousin,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Do you think I haven’t heard the likes of that before? Move along.” He glanced pointedly at the exit behind them.
Savannah dug in her heels as though preparing for battle, but Clarissa pulled her away and out the front doors. “Come, Sav. If this opera house is anything like Boston’s, there’s a back entrance down an alley.”
“You’re suggesting we traipse around an alley?” Savannah asked as they skirted around a remnant of the mingling crowd, down Park Street and then came to an abrupt halt at the mouth of a darkened alleyway.
“If we want to see Lucas, yes,” Clarissa said as she firmed her shoulders and dragged Savannah alongside her.
“You were always getting me in trouble,” Savannah muttered, although humor laced her voice.
“And you always enjoyed it.” Clarissa stifled a shriek as her foot sank into something soft.
They saw a lit entrance a few doors ahead and approached it, taking deep fortifying breaths before knocking.
A man with broad shoulders and well over six feet tall opened the door to peer down at them. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak.
“Is this the back entrance to the Empress?” Clarissa asked.
When he stared at them with a mixture of amusement and malevolence, she barreled on. “This is Mrs. Savannah McLeod, but before she married she was Savannah Russell. Lucas’s sister. I brought her here as a surprise. Is Lucas still here?”
“And you would be?”
“Clarissa. His cousin.”
He broke into a smile at her introduction. “He wondered if you’d come to his performance. He’s moping in the back because he thinks you weren’t here.”
He held open the door, and the two women entered the rear of the theater. Clarissa coughed at the stale air but did not pause.
The man led them down one poorly lit hallway to the left. They passed numerous closed doors before reaching one which the tall man pounded on a few times before thrusting it open.
“Damn it, Gil. Can’t you leave me in peace for a few moments before I have to go to that infernal party?” Lucas groused.
“It’s a soiree, and, no, I can’t. Not when your relations come calling.”
Lucas spun toward the door, sitting atop a stool in front of a small table where he appeared to have been writing. He dropped the pen, his mouth agape as he beheld them. “Sav? Rissa?” He whooped loudly as he jumped up and grabbed first Savannah, twirling her in a circle, and then repeated the same with Clarissa. She giggled as he finally set her on her feet again.
He stepped back, his hand still on Clarissa’s arm, and reached out to link his other hand with Savannah’s. “You came! Please tell me that you saw the performance.”
“Of course we did. We’d just arrived home from Washington, DC, when I read you were to be here in Butte. You should have written and told us that you’d be so near,” Clarissa chided as she ran a hand down his arm. The door clicked behind them, and they were granted privacy with Lucas.
“It was a last-minute addition to the tour. The decision was made only a few weeks ago. I’d forgotten about your trip to DC, or I would have insisted on performing here later this summer.” His gaze moved from Savannah to Clarissa and back. “I can’t believe you’re both here.”
“I can’t believe I finally heard your gorgeous compositions performed in public,” Savannah said, her eyes gleaming with pride. “I wanted to proclaim to everyone sitting near me that you were my brother.”
“You liked them?” Lucas asked, unable to hide his childlike eagerness.
“I loved them,” Savannah said.
“They were wondrous, Lucas. And to think you composed them too,” Clarissa said.
Savannah and Clarissa sat on a small settee, and Lucas settled on a chair he had turned to face them. “I don’t have long until I must go to the after-performance party. It’s seen as acceptable to arrive late, but I’m pushing the limits of propriety already.”
“We couldn’t obtain tickets for that,” Clarissa said. “It is a fund-raiser of some sort and quite expensive.”
“Of course you’re coming, as my guests,” Lucas said with a smile. “The organizer will be delighted I’m willing to stay for longer than one drink, and he’ll know it was due to the presence of you both.”
“Why would he worry you’d leave early?” Savannah asked.
“I’m becoming known as a difficult artist.” Lucas looked chagrined. “It’s hard, night after night, to enter a room filled with people I don’t know. To have them fawning over me. I always hope I’ll see someone I know, but I never do. The only way I continue to attend these events is by bargaining with myself that I only have to stay for one drink.”
“Well then,” Clarissa said with a broad smile, “let’s go prove your reputation wrong and shock them all.” She rose, reaching her hand down for his as he stood.
They strode into the lobby of the Finlen Hotel, its crystal chandeliers sparkling, marble floor gleaming, and approached the entrance to the ballroom. They heard a gentle roar behind the closed mahogany doors, and Clarissa slowed her confident strides.
“It’s all right, Rissa,” Lucas soothed, pulling her forward. “I can guarantee the Butte society won’t be like what you suffered in Boston.” He stood between Savannah and Clarissa, each of them with an arm looped through one of his. He winked as he smiled, a carefree lightness in his spirit which Clarissa sensed he hadn’t felt in too long. “They’ll be shocked and then ravenously curious to discover how the reclusive pianist could have two beautiful women with him when he just arrived today.”
Savannah rolled her eyes at him but couldn’t help giggling. “Let’s hope there’s a reporter, so we can send a photo to our parents.”
Lucas nodded to the man standing watch at the door a moment before it was flung open. A loud voice intoned, “Lucas Russell,” and the threesome sauntered into the ballroom. A hush fell over the room as Clarissa saw members of Butte’s elite strain for a view of them, and then the chatter slowly began its crescendo.
“Sauntering in late …” one voice hissed.
“With two women,” another whispered fiercely as the trio walked past.
“Well done, lad,” murmured a man with a deep baritone.
Clarissa blushed but nodded, trying not to laugh. “Lucas, you must tell them the truth,” she whispered in his ear.
“Why? People love the thought of a scandal much more than the boring truth. Besides, you keep whispering in my ear, and no one will believe you’re my cousin,” Lucas murmured.
She swatted his arm and then laughed. She shared an amused glance with Savannah, realizing she hadn’t felt this free in spirit in months. Not since … Her mind shied away from the thought, and she focused on the ballroom. On Lucas.
He smiled vaguely at those in the room and maneuvered his sister and his cousin so that they’d receive a glass of champagne. “Drink it,” he muttered before they could protest. “Butte’s far from a dry town, and you need to fit in. The ilk of Carrie Nation isn’t all that welcome here.”
Clarissa took a dainty sip and saw Savannah frown as she did the same. After a few minutes Lucas was separated f
rom them by fans and patrons of the arts. Savannah and Clarissa stood there, a large swath of space around them as though surrounded by an impenetrable moat. “I never thought spending time with Lucas would paint me as a fallen woman,” Clarissa murmured.
Savannah snorted. “Ironic, considering we’re both married with children.” Her eyes clouded after she said that. “And that we are truly related.”
Clarissa glared at a man, swaying subtly as he approached them.
He appeared confused by their frigid welcome but walked away.
“I wonder how Lucas survives these events every day.”
“He would find almost anything worthwhile as long as he could perform.” Savannah stiffened as she watched the crowd surrounding Lucas. “Rissa, is that …” Her voice broke off as she frowned.
“What?” Clarissa followed her cousin’s gaze and froze, her fingers going numb as her glass of champagne tumbled to the ground, splintering on the marble floor. She barely noticed the commotion around her as waitstaff rushed to clear the shards of glass while she stared into eyes she thought she’d never see again.
“It can’t be,” Clarissa mouthed, a tear coursing down her cheek.
A broad-shouldered man, with brown hair shot with gray, excused himself from his associates near Lucas and approached her. His brown eyes, lit with an incandescent joy, made them appear like molten chocolate.
“Patrick?” Clarissa croaked.
He beamed as she said his name, and he reached out a hand to clasp her shoulder.
She stroked a hand down his arm, her gaze taking in the subtle changes wrought by his thirteen-year absence. “Where have you been?” she asked, batting him on an arm in frustration.
He laughed, and another tear slipped out as she remembered their youth. “Here and there and everywhere in between.” His deep voice was raspier, quieter. “I never thought to see you here in Montana, Rissa.”
“Did you think I’d remain in Boston, living the life deemed appropriate by our stepmother?” She cleared her throat to forestall any more tears. “When you left, with only a note, I thought Da’s heart would break.”
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