Brides of Banff Springs

by Victoria Chatham

  Fliss laughed. “Oh, come on, Tilly, that’s the kind of gossip that’s too juicy not to share. Not only that Saul later overheard Frederic telling Jeffrey that he’d slip a five spot to whoever pushed her if he could find out who it was.”

  “Poor Burma,” Tilly murmured.

  “I know she helped me,” Fliss said, “but I still can’t think of her as anything other than a spoilt rich girl who got what was coming to her. I’ve seen the likes of her many a time, and they all seem to get what they deserve in the end.”

  “That’s not fair. You don’t know what she has to put up with.” Despite Burma’s haughtiness, Tilly sensed a deep unhappiness in the girl. How could someone have all the benefits that such wealth could provide and still be unhappy? She made an instant decision. “I know it’s late but I’m going up to see her.”

  “She’ll probably throw something at you,” Fliss warned.

  “And will get it thrown right back at her if she does. I’ll see you later.”

  Tilly hurried to Burma’s room, knocked smartly on the door and was ordered to go away.

  “Burma, it’s Tilly. Can I come in?”

  She listened carefully as she waited for an answer and heard mutterings and crashes as if Burma stumbled into things. Maybe she was drunk, Tilly thought.

  “All right, if you must.” Burma slurred her words as she wrenched the door open. Her hair was still damp from her tumble into the pool. Her mascara had smudged, leaving a black trail on her cheeks and appeared to have difficulty in focusing her vision on Tilly.

  Tilly stepped inside and looked around in disgust. “Good Lord, Burma, your room is a disaster.”

  Clothes, as usual, cluttered the floor. Magazines were thrown carelessly beside one chair, and onto the seat of another, as if Burma had begun reading in one place then moved to the other. A couple of bottles of wine and another of champagne in a bucket sat on a side table with an empty glass on floor beside it. The red dress lay in a wet heap in the bathroom doorway.

  “Pooh.” Burma shrugged and sniffed loudly as she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, spreading the mascara further astray. “Who cares?”

  “Well, I do as I have to pick up after you.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Don’t be so snide.” Tilly picked up the dress, placed it on a hanger and hung it over the bathroom door. “I don’t know if we can do anything about this, but I’ll take it to Laundry anyway.”

  She perched on the arm of the sofa and regarded Burma gravely. “Come on, out with it. What happened?”

  Burma chewed on a nail and looked as though she would burst into tears. “In a word—Frederic.”

  “What about him?” Tilly asked carefully. She could not reveal a word of her own involvement with Frederic and hoped that he had not said anything about it either.

  “He and that obnoxious Jeffery are hanging out with Sylvia Turville and Cecily Waters. Those stupid girls think they have snagged a pair of gems. I’m not sure which is the worst of the two, Jeffery or Frederic, but it is so humiliating to have one’s ex-fiancée dangling a new girlfriend on his arm right under my nose.” Burma collapsed on the bed, throwing her forearm across her eyes in a dramatic gesture worthy of a stage performance.

  “You know you are better off without him,” Tilly said reasonably. “Why are you making such a fuss? I would have thought you would be relieved?”

  “I should be, but I’m not.” Burma sniffed. “It was such a lovely feeling to be actually wanted by someone. I felt so special when I had his ring on my finger.”

  “But Burma,” Tilly said softly, “surely it’s better to be wanted by the right person, someone who will love you for who you are rather than what he can get from you?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Burma said mournfully. “And I still have to explain everything to Papa.”

  “You still haven’t told him?”

  “I’ve tried, I really have.” Burma sat up, piled the pillows in the middle of the bed and reclined on them. “But everything is arranged. Papa’s secretary has liaised with the catering manager here and organized everything for two hundred guests. The invitations have gone out, rooms have been booked for those who are coming. We’ve even received wedding gifts.”

  “So what?” Tilly sat on the end of the bed. “If your father’s secretary is so efficient, she can take care of returning those as easily as she sent out your invitations. I’m sure people will understand.”

  “I’ll be a laughing stock,” Burma sniffed. “Especially to my bridesmaids who all told me I was acting in too much of a hurry, but I thought Freddy loved me.”

  “Maybe they knew something you didn’t,” Tilly said carefully. “Are they here?”

  Burma shook her head. “Helen and Ruth are in Italy, Lillian is in France, and my matron of honor, Frances, is in the Bahamas. They’ll all be arriving next week and I just don’t know what I’m going to tell them.”

  “The truth, I should think,” Tilly offered. “Frederic turned out to be an absolute cad, so you ditched him. It wouldn’t hurt to tell them the whole truth either. You might find they have more sympathy for you than you think.”

  “But how do I deal with Papa? I told you, he really likes Freddy and was so looking forward to taking him into the business. Freddy is the son he never had.”

  “Have you actually talked to your father?” Tilly asked, suddenly suspicious that Burma might be avoiding him.

  “Once.” Burma punched a pillow. “He said he had something to tell me but it would have to wait until he got here. He didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. Something about wedding rings. I had no idea what he was talking about. Freddy took care of all of that.”

  “Burma, I could shake you.” Exasperated, Tilly stood up. “Are you so used to playing the helpless little woman that you really cannot stand up for yourself? You’re pretty and sophisticated, well-educated, and yet you have no back-bone.”

  “Who made you my mother?” Burma snapped back. Her mouth puckered into a disapproving pout.

  Tilly rolled her eyes. “No one. All I’m saying is that you really should try standing up for yourself a little more. Who knows what may come of it?”

  “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Burma acknowledged ungraciously.

  “Well, maybe I am or maybe I’m not. What you do is up to you. Right now I’m going to take this dress to Laundry. Can I do anything else for you?”

  Burma shook her head and Tilly left the room and headed for the stairs. She preferred them to the elevator. Half way down the flight she heard music again and thought the Toronto Trio must still be playing. She stopped and cocked her head. It sounded more like a full orchestra than the three musicians she’d listened to earlier. Where was it coming from?

  It was a waltz, she was sure of it. She followed the sound, stopping when the music faded, following it when the notes became clear again. Picking up the melody, she hummed in time with it and then stopped, surprised to find herself outside the grand doors of the ballroom.

  A chilly draft of air swirled around her neck. She shivered as she opened the door and peeked inside, expecting to find an orchestra practicing its repertoire. Moonlight fell through the tall window panes, filtering between the half-drawn, full-length drapes hanging from the swagged valances. The silvery beams made the shadows darker, yet somehow illuminated the gold accented ceiling and the splendid chandeliers.

  Puzzled, Tilly looked around. A grand piano with several rows of chairs placed close to it, sat at the conservatory end of the ballroom. Tall potted palms marked each end of the last row of chairs, but of pianist and audience there was no sign. That someone had been there was evident from the pile of sheet music placed on the bench seat at the keyboard.

  She could still hear the music. It was louder now, pulsating in her ears, vibrating in her body. She turned around, thinking that maybe someone had turned on a radio or started playing a record on a gramophone. She was quite alone. The music must simply be in her head, but sh
e knew she had never heard that particular piece before.

  Shadows suddenly shifted in the center of the floor and the chill drifted over her, making her shiver again. There was nothing she could see that could have caused it, yet the shadows continued to twirl like fall leaves caught in a capricious breeze. A mist formed before her eyes, swirling out of the shadows and spiralling upwards, becoming more and more solid until she detected a wispy, smiling figure who beckoned to her.

  That’s right, Tilly, come in. Come and waltz with me.

  The words echoed in Tilly’s brain, resonated through her as clearly as if a living person had spoken to her. A compunction she could not deny drew her into the center of the ballroom.

  Details on the bride’s dress emerged, shimmering into view—white silk flowers embroidered onto satin. The bride’s blonde hair was swept into a topknot with loose ringlets framing her smiling face and tiny tendrils curling at the back of her neck. Her white, elbow length gloves covered slender arms. The music swelled and the bride flowed around the floor, leaning back as if held by invisible arms.

  Tilly lifted her own arms. The red dress dripped water onto the floor but she took no notice as she picked up the melody and began to hum along. It was intoxicating. She was laughing now as she and the bride spun around and around, faster and faster as the music roared in her ears. Her feet moved in a blur and did not seem to belong to her. Breathless now, she lifted her arms higher, the red dress lifting and falling like a flag in the wind.

  The ballroom doors flew open and a loud voice brought her to a sudden stop. Disoriented, she blinked and stumbled. The music had faded. The bride had gone. In her place stood Miss Richards, red-faced and furious.

  “McCormack,” she snapped. “What do you think you are doing?”

  A flush of embarrassment crawled up Tilly’s neck. “I’m sorry, Miss Richards. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Your behaviour is disgraceful. You have no business being in here.” Her sharp gray eyes focused on the dress in Tilly’s arms. “Whose dress is that?”

  “I was taking it to Laundry for Miss Evans.”

  “Then you’d better get on with it.” Miss Richards walked past Tilly and surveyed the splattered ring of water on the polished hardwood floor. “I hope for your sake that floor is not ruined. Now get along with you.”

  Almost in tears, Tilly made her way to the laundry. She handed the dress in and had assurances that every effort would be made to restore it, but she barely heard a word.

  Her head still spun from her giddy waltzing and she felt a little sick. She needed air.

  Now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tilly gulped in long, sweet drafts of the cool evening air and waited for her whirling mind to slow down.

  Where had that music come from? Why had she been so entranced with it? And why had the bride chosen her to dance with? Had it really happened or was it all her imagination?

  Quite apart from the ghostly apparition appearing before her, the music still haunted her. Every note, every chord still swelled within her. She had to find out what it was. Of all the people she knew, only a musician was likely to know, and the only musicians she knew were the gentlemen of the Toronto Trio who played each evening in the dining room. If she ran, she might just catch them as they finished up.

  She tore back into the hotel, ignoring the astonished glances of patrons as she rushed by them and raced up the stairs. Her passage would be noted and reported to Miss Richards, she was sure. Panting, she halted at the entrance to the Fairholme Dining Room. Thank goodness. They were still there. They looked slightly formidable, formally dressed as they were in black tail jackets and white bow ties, but Tilly pulled back her shoulders, lifted her chin and approached them anyway.

  Mr. Adaskin had his violin case open and was lovingly storing the instrument in it. Mr. Crerar collected sheet music, making a pile easily as thick as the one she had seen on the piano bench in the ballroom. Mr. Ysselsteyn smiled at her as she caught his attention.

  “Could you gentlemen please help me?” She licked her lips, now almost too nervous to make her request.

  Mr. Adaskin looked up. “What would you like help with?”

  His soft, cultured voice encouraged Tilly. “I heard a piece of music which I now cannot get out of my mind, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “How annoying for you.” Mr. Adaskin chuckled. “We all get tormented with that from time to time.”

  “If I hum it, might you recognize it?” Tilly held her breath.

  “Why don’t we try?” Mr. Crerar had taken his seat at the piano again. “Close your eyes and just let the music take you.”

  Tilly took a deep breath and allowed her lids to fall. Instantly the music swelled in her ears and she began to hum, softly at first but then as the melody overwhelmed her she began to vocalize the tune. She la-lahed the waltz time, keeping measure with graceful, flowing sweeps of her hands as if she were conducting an orchestra. Gradually she heard the soft, quivering notes of the violin take over, then the tinkle of the piano keys as the gentlemen took up the meter and melody. Mr. Ysselsteyn picked out the lower tones on his cello to complement them and she opened her eyes.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she breathed. “What is it?”

  “That,” Mr. Adaskin said, smiling as he inclined his head to her, “is the barcarolle from The Tales of Hoffman, the opera by Jacques Offenbach. Where did you hear it?”

  “That’s just it.” Tilly shrugged helplessly. She really could not tell them that she had been dancing to it with a ghost. “I really don’t know. It just came to me and is driving me crazy.”

  “Did you see any of the operas staged in the Cascade Ballroom by Mr. Alfred Heather?” Mr. Crerar asked.

  Tilly shook her head. “That must have been before my time. I only started this year.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, I don’t think they ever performed the Tales, but the barcarolle is a Venetian boat song from Act Three of the opera. The rhythm represents the rocking of the boat, you see.” He played a few bars of the melody and to her surprise Tilly easily pictured a gondola being poled along a canal. When she looked up he was nodding his head and smiling at her. “There you go, you’ve got it,” he said. “If you can, come and listen to us Saturday night. We’re playing in the Mount Stephen Hall and we’ll try and slip it into our repertoire in your honor.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” Tilly begged. “At least, play it if you like but not for me. I shouldn’t have bothered you but do thank you so very much.”

  “No bother, miss.” Mr. Crerar closed the piano lid. “It was something of a challenge but we were pleased to help.”

  People, having finished their evening meal, began to leave the dining room. One gentleman, a fat after-dinner cigar between his fingers, came up and clapped Mr. Adaskin on the shoulder.

  “Well done, Murray. I do believe having soft music playing in the background while dining helps my digestion. Good night.”

  The couple walked away, the lady’s hand tucked into the crease of her husband’s elbow.

  Tilly thanked the musicians again and wished them a good evening. She took her time going downstairs, admiring the vaulted ceilings above her and the satiny sensation of the highly polished banister rail as it slipped beneath her hand. Art work and artifacts decorated the walls and as she stepped off the last stair she realized she was not far from the Mount Stephen Hall.

  She looked over her shoulder. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek at it and to imagine the trio set up in there for their Saturday night concert. There was no other member of the hotel staff in sight, no one to ask what she was doing there or to stop her. She walked into the great hall with its solid wood dining sets and leather upholstered sofas beneath the windows.

  Although the hour was late, enough light fell through the panes for her to see the stained glass panels set in them. Her footsteps echoed on the bare flagstones. She marvelled at the span of oak ribs across the ceiling and the ornate chandelier
s hanging from the central beam. A small balcony opened out above each arch of the cloister corridor and, wanting to see what the view from them would be, she headed for the stairs.

  About to take the first step, she paused. A distinct click, as if one sharp thing had hit another, shattered the silence, followed by the sound of women laughing. Drawn by the sound, she drew back from the stairs and followed the corridor. Light spilled across the hall and, suddenly wary, she kept to the shadows.

  “Good break, Jeffrey,” one of the women sang out.

  “Nonsense, Sylvia,” came a voice that sent a shiver down her spine. “He’s playing like a duck with a broken wing. Look at that angle. Preposterous.”

  There was another click and a muffled oath followed by Frederic’s insincere, “oh, bad luck.”

  Tilly knew she was close to the billiard room and ladies’ retiring room. She had no wish to be seen, especially by Frederic and started to back away. She had only taken a couple of steps when Sylvia spoke up.

  “So tell me, Freddy, are you going to try and make it up with Burma?”

  Even at this distance Frederic’s exasperated sigh seemed to vibrate through the space. “Her old man will be here at the end of the week so I suppose I’ll have to. Shame, though, because I won’t be able to play around with you two. I’ll have to be a good boy, at least until after the wedding.”

  “Are you so sure of Burma?” Cecily Waters asked.

  “Do you doubt my fatal charm?” As he spoke, an image of Frederic’s smug smile flitted across Tilly’s mind’s eye. “I’ll twist her round my little finger just like I did the first time. I’ll get togged to the bricks and she won’t be able to resist me.”

  “You’ll have to really dress well to impress her,” Sylvia said with a laugh. “You are such a cad, Freddy.”

  “But you love me anyway.” Another resounding click and a delighted, “Yesss,” from Freddy told her he must have made a good shot.

  She didn’t wait to hear anymore. Soft-footed, she fled back to the stairs and ran up, thankful that she had not been seen. She stopped on one of the balconies above the cloister corridor and looked down into the great hall below her. Hearing Frederic talking so disrespectfully and callously about Burma made her blood boil.