by Matt Braun
Lillian returned from rehearsing a new number late that afternoon. Reverend Hunnicut was on his way out and stopped to chat with her for a moment. A slight man, with oily hair and an unctuous manner, he seemed forever on the pulpit. He nodded as though angels were whispering in his ear.
“Praise the Lord,” he said in a sepulchral voice. “Your father has been delivered from the damnation of hell’s fires. He is truly blessed.”
“How wonderful,” Lillian demurred. “Thank you for all your concern, Reverend.”
“I am but a humble servant of Christ, Miss Fontaine. God’s will be done!”
“Yes, of course.”
Lillian showed him to the door. The male nurse, who was seated on the divan reading a newspaper, started to his feet. She waved him down with a smile and proceeded on into the bedroom. Her father was propped up against a bank of pillows.
“Hello, Papa,” she said, bussing him on the cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Quite well.” Fontaine studied her with an eager look. “I have something to tell you, my dear. Reverend Hunnicut convinced me it was time.”
“Oh?”
“The day the wagon ran over me—actually it was that evening—God spoke to me in the moment of my death.”
“You weren’t dying, Papa. And since when have you become so devout?”
“ ‘Ye of little faith,’ ” Fontaine chided her. “ ‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles.’ ” He paused, holding her gaze. “I have been spared death for a greater mission in life.”
“A greater mission?”
“Yes indeed, my dear. I shall carry the word of our Lord to the infidels in the mining camps. Their immortal souls are but a step away from perdition.”
Lillian was never more stunned in her life. “Are you serious, Papa?”
“I most certainly am.”
“What about the stage?”
“All the world’s a stage.” Fontaine’s eyes burned with a fervent light. “I shall be an actor for our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Really?” Lillian said dubiously. “You intend to give up Shakespeare to become a preacher?”
“ ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’ That comes from Ecclesiastes, not Shakespeare.”
“Yes, but how can you forsake the stage?”
“On the contrary, the stage has forsaken me. I go now to spread the word of Him who so oft inspired the Bard.”
“Are you certain about this, Papa?”
“I have been called,” Fontaine said with conviction. “The Gospel will light my way.”
Lillian returned to the sitting room in a daze. The male nurse rose from the divan and went past her into the bedroom. As she sat down, the door opened and Chester entered the suite. She gave him a look of baffled consternation.
“Papa has decided to become a preacher.”
“I know,” Chester said, crossing to the divan. “He’s been working himself up to telling you. I found out last night.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” Lillian was astounded. “Do you think he’s lost his mind? I have to talk to the doctor.”
“Think about it a minute and you’ll understand. What he lost was his faith in himself as a Shakespearean. He’s adopted a new role in life—a man of God.”
“Oh, Chet, how can you say that? He’s an actor, not a preacher.”
“As the Bard said,” Chester quoted, “ ‘one man in his time plays many parts.’ I’m taking on a new part myself.”
“You?” Lillian said. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve decided to quit the stage.”
“I don’t believe it!”
Chester sat down beside her. “You know yourself I was never much of an actor. I stayed with it because it was sort of the family tradition. I think it’s time to move on.”
Lillian’s head was reeling. “Move on to what?”
“I really believe I was cut out to be a merchant. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy working in the store. Ethel’s father says I have a head for business.”
“For business or for Ethel?”
“Well, her, too,” Chester said with a goofy smile. “But the point is, what with the act breaking up, I have no future on the stage. Time to make a new career for myself.”
“I’m speechless.” Lillian felt dizzy and somehow saddened. “Papa a preacher and you a merchant. Where will it end?”
“As for Dad and myself, who’s to say? You’re the only sure bet in the family.”
“I’d so much rather have you and Papa onstage with me.”
“You don’t need us where you’re going, little sister. You never did.”
Lillian snuggled close in his arms, her head on his shoulder. A tear ran down her cheek and she wondered how they’d come so far to have it end this way. So abruptly, so unforeseen. So final.
The end of The Fontaines.
* * *
My wild Irish Rose
The sweetest flower that grows
You may search everywhere
But none can compare
With my wild Irish Rose
Lillian’s voice was particularly poignant that night. She was thinking not of the lyrics but of her father and Chester. Her eyes shone with tears, and the emotion she felt inside gave the song a haunting quality. She got hold of herself for the last refrain.
My wild Irish Rose
The dearest flower that grows
And someday for my sake
She may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose
A momentary lull held the audience in thrall as the last note faded away. Then the house rocked with applause, men swiping at their noses, their eyes moist with memories evoked by her performance. The noise quickened, went on unabated, the crowd on their feet, bellowing their approval. She left them wanting more with a fifth curtain call.
Some while later Otis Gaylord met her at the stage-door entrance. She was dressed in a gossamer satin gown, a fashionable Eton jacket thrown over her shoulders, her hair pulled back in a lustrous chignon. A carriage took them to Delmonico’s, one of the finer restaurants in Denver. The owner personally escorted them to their table.
“That was some performance,” Gaylord said when they were seated. “You had the boys crying in their beer.”
“I feel like crying myself.”
“What’s wrong?”
Lillian told him about her afternoon. Gaylord was no less amazed to hear that her father was to become a preacher. The news of her brother was no great surprise, for he’d always felt Chester was the least talented of the family. She ended on a rueful note.
“Nothing will ever be the same again. We’ve been an act since I was a little girl.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame,” Gaylord agreed. “Of course, maybe it’s the best thing for Alistair, and Chester, too. You have to look on the bright side.”
“What bright side?” Lillian said. “We’ll be separated now.”
“Only on the stage. Sounds to me like Alistair and Chester will be doing something that makes them lots happier. Think of it that way.”
The waiter appeared with menus. Lillian thought about Gaylord’s advice, and after they ordered, she looked at him. Her eyes crinkled with a smile.
“I was being selfish,” she said. “If they’re happy, why should I be sad? Isn’t that what you meant?”
Gaylord chuckled. “I think I put it a little more tactfully. But yeah, that’s the general idea.”
“Well, you were right, and I feel like a ninny I didn’t see it for myself. No more tears.”
“Maybe this will cheer you up even more.”
Gaylord took a small box from his pocket. He set it before her on the table, his expression unreadable, and eased back in his chair. She opened it and saw a gold heart-shaped locket bordered with tiny diamonds, strung on a delicate chain. Her mouth ovaled with surprise.
“Oh, it’s
beautiful!” she said merrily. “No one ever gave me anything so nice!”
“We’ll have to correct that,” Gaylord said. “Lots of pretty presents for a pretty lady. I like it when you laugh.”
Lillian batted her eyelashes. “Are you trying to ply me with favors, Mr. Gaylord?”
“I’ll ply you any way I can, Miss Fontaine. I intend to be the object of your affections.”
“Do you?”
“No question about it.”
“Well …” She gave him a sultry look. “We’ll see.”
Gaylord ordered champagne. Lillian strung the locket around her neck, aware that he was watching her. She wondered if tonight was the beginning of what would lead to a proposal. She certainly wasn’t going to surrender herself without a wedding band on her finger. But then, on second thought, she wasn’t at all sure that love and marriage were the same thing. She felt awfully old to still be a virgin. Too old.
The waiter poured champagne, then moved away. Gaylord lifted his glass, staring at her over the rim. “To us,” he said in a seductive voice. “And the future.”
Lillian laughed vivaciously. “Yes, to the future.”
CHAPTER 24
SOME DAYS mark a passage in time. Lillian was never to forget June 12, 1872, the day her world turned topsy-turvy. She felt alone for the first time in her life.
Alistair Fontaine stood at the curb in front of the Brown Palace Hotel. He was dressed in a black frock coat, with dark trousers and a white shirt, the crown of his hat rounded in a dome. His horse, a swaybacked gelding donated by the church, was black as well. Fontaine looked every inch the part of an itinerant preacher.
Lillian and Chester waited while he checked his saddlebags. Over the past week he had recovered fully from his encounter with the lumber wagon. By now, after daily sessions with Reverend Hunnicut, he virtually had the Bible memorized, and the paperwork, properly endorsed, had been submitted to have him ordained. He was a man of God.
Watching him, Lillian thought he’d never looked so fit. He held himself tall and straight, and there was fire in his eyes, the zealotry of a man reborn in faith. The saddlebags held all his worldly possessions, and he pulled the strap tight with a firm hand. He turned to face them with an expression that was beatific, at peace with himself.
“Come now,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Will you send me off with dreary faces?”
“Oh, Papa!” Lillian sniffled, on the verge of tears. “We’ll miss you so.”
“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me. I go forth to give light to them that sit in darkness. I am blessed among men, my dear.”
“Dad, I’d like to hear your first sermon,” Chester said, grinning. “You’ll probably convert those miners in droves.”
Fontaine chortled. “I will try to save my first wedding ceremony for you and Ethel.”
Chester was himself like a man with a new lease on life. After a whirlwind courtship, he’d announced that morning his betrothal to Ethel Weaver. Her father, who knew a natural-born tradesman when he saw one, welcomed Chester into the family. They were to be married in October.
“God bless you both and keep you safe until I return.”
Fontaine hugged Lillian and shook hands with Chester. He stepped into the saddle, tipping his hat with a jaunty air, and rode off along Larimer Street. They stood watching until he rounded the corner and turned west toward the distant mountains. Lillian dabbed at her eyes with a hankie.
“How things change,” she said. “I expected him to leave us with a quote from Shakespeare. Something properly dashing, or adventurous.”
“Actually …” Chester paused, nodding to himself. “I was thinking of Cervantes. A line he wrote in Don Quixote strikes me as perfect: ‘Many are the ways by which God leads His children home.’ ”
“For a storekeeper, you’re still very much the actor. Are you sure you’ve given up on the stage?”
“Never more sure of anything. And speaking of the store, I have to get back. I’ll see you later.”
Chester hurried off down the street. Lillian turned into the hotel, feeling lonely and blue. Upstairs, she wandered through the empty suite, reminded of her father everywhere she looked. She wished she had a rehearsal, or a dress fitting, anything to take her mind off the overwhelming loneliness. She thought she might go to the theater early tonight.
A short while later there was a knock at the door. Lillian was staring out the window, brooding, and she welcomed the distraction. She moved across the sitting room, opening the door, and found two men standing in the hall. One was short and stocky, the other one tall and lean, both attired in conservative suits. She nodded pleasantly.
“May I help you?”
“Miss Fontaine?”
“Yes.”
“I’m David Cook,” the short one said, “and this is my associate, Jeff Carr. I wonder if we might speak with you a moment.”
“May I ask what it regards?”
“A personal matter involving Otis Gaylord.”
Lillian invited them inside. Once they were seated, Cook explained that he was head of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, located in Denver, and currently retained by Wells Fargo. Jeff Carr, he went on, was the county sheriff from Cheyenne, Wyoming. They wanted to ask her a few questions about Otis Gaylord.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why are you interested in Mr. Gaylord?”
Lillian would later discover that David Cook and Jeff Carr were renowned manhunters. Cook, the chief operative of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, had tracked fugitives all across the West. Carr, who had killed several men in gunfights, was reputed to be the only lawman who had ridden into Hole-in-the-Wall, the outlaw sanctuary, and ridden out alive. Cook looked at her now.
“We have reason to believe that Gaylord’s real name is Earl Miller. He’s wanted for robbery and murder.”
“You’re mistaken,” Lillian said tersely. “Mr. Gaylord is a mining investor. He’s quite wealthy.”
“Guess he oughta be,” Jeff Carr said. “He robbed a Wells Fargo stagecoach outside of Cheyenne. Got forty-three thousand in gold bullion and killed the express guard.”
“And those investments?” Cook added. “We checked out the story he uses, about owning mines in Central City. Nobody there ever heard of him.”
Lillian sniffed. “That isn’t proof. There could be any number of explanations.”
“How’s this for proof?” Cook said. “Gaylord sold almost forty thousand in gold bullion to Ed Chase for seventy cents on the dollar. Our informant saw the transaction.”
Everyone in Denver knew the name Ed Chase. He was the underworld czar who controlled the rackets and ruled the Tenderloin with a gang of thugs. One of his sidelines was operating as a fence for stolen goods.
“I don’t believe you,” Lillian said tartly. “If you have evidence, why haven’t you arrested Mr. Gaylord? Why come to me?”
Cook informed her that the gold bars, once in the hands of Ed Chase, were untraceable. As for Earl Miller, the robber and murderer, he always wore a bandanna mask and had yet to be positively identified. The break in the case came when they were informed of the underworld sale of the gold.
“We know of your relationship with Gaylord,” Cook went on discreetly. “We hoped to solicit your assistance in identifying him.”
“Really?” Lillian countered. “Why would I help you?”
“The man’s a killer,” Carr said bluntly. “Because of him that express guard left a widow and three kids. How’s that for a reason?”
“And you might be doing Gaylord a service,” Cook argued. “If he’s not Earl Miller, you could clear his name. Prove we’ve got the wrong suspect.”
Lillian was less certain of herself than a moment ago. Yet she couldn’t believe that Otis Gaylord was a robber, not to mention a murderer. Still, the lawmen were determined, and unless he was cleared, they might very well destroy his reputation. She decided to cooperate.
“What do you want me to
do?”
Cook told her what they had in mind.
Gaylord maintained rooms at the Windsor Hotel. Lillian sent a note by messenger, asking that their usual late supper be changed to an early dinner. She suggested their favorite restaurant, Delmonico’s.
All afternoon she fretted over what seemed to her a conspiracy. For more than two weeks now, Gaylord had been her lone suitor and her constant companion. She wasn’t in love with him, but she thought that might come with time. He was immensely attractive, and she’d even had wicked dreams about him. Wild, delicious dreams.
By five o’clock, she had all but convinced herself that she was betraying him. However much she rationalized it, the plot hatched with Cook and Carr left a bitter taste in her mouth. She went over it again as she was dressing for dinner and forced herself to justify it as a means to an end. Tonight, she would clear Gaylord’s name!
Gaylord called for her at six. As they walked to the restaurant, she excused the early dinner by saying she was lonely. She told him about her father’s departure that morning and Chester’s announcement of his impending marriage. She was happy for them, for one had found salvation in God and the other with the girl of his dreams. But she’d never felt so alone, and a little lost. She missed her father terribly.
Over dinner, Gaylord sympathized with her sense of loss. She felt all the more guilty because he was so considerate and understanding, hardly the traits of a robber and murderer. Finally, when she declined dessert and Gaylord ordered chokecherry pie she knew she was unable to avoid it any longer. She waited until he was served, then leaned forward on her elbows. She lowered her voice.
“Today, two men called on me at the hotel … a detective and a sheriff.”
“Oh?” Gaylord said curiously. “What was the purpose of their call?”
Lillian composed herself. “The detective works for Wells Fargo and the sheriff is from Wyoming. They’re searching for a robber.”
“That’s the strangest thing I ever heard of. Why would they ask you about a robber?”
“I’m afraid they were asking about you. They said your name is really Earl Miller.”