The green tint behind Phoebe’s freckles lessened as the coach’s horrible juddering smoothed and we cruised serenely down the wide, paved avenue. There was less traffic on the street. But along the swept sidewalks, hundreds of mostly well-dressed people meandered past. Women in sober day dresses walked arm in arm, gazing in shop windows. Men in tweed suits and bowler hats strolled by, newspapers tucked under their arms.
“Well, this is better, aye?” Mac took a deep breath, his grip on the coach’s open window loosening.
Doug’s upside-down face appeared in the window as he leaned down. “Everyone all right, then?” he asked, gaze locked on Phoebe.
When it became clear she still wasn’t speaking to him, I answered instead.
“We’re good. How much farther?”
Doug disappeared. Seconds later his voice drifted down, informing us we’d be pulling up in less than a minute.
Even though the journey had improved immensely, I breathed a sigh of relief. Between a dead horse and having the flesh shaken from our bones by the rough ride, I was ready for this part to be done.
“Waldorf Hotel!”
“Better put this on.” Phoebe brushed flakes of dust from the huge flower-laden hat. “A lady mustn’t be outdoors without a hat, you know. You’d take on too much notice.”
“Yeah,” I said, cramming the monstrosity on my head. “Thanks.”
The wheels ground to a halt. Outside, harnesses creaked as the horses stamped, likely as ready for a break as we were.
Collum leaned in, his serious face coated in dust as he murmured, “Everyone clear on their roles? Should we refresh one last time?”
When Doug and I nodded, Phoebe groaned.
“None of that, now,” Mac chided. “The lad’s right. I know ’tis old hat to you, m’ darlin’, but Hope and Doug here, they’re new at this. Only fair to go over it once more. To be safe, aye?” He gestured at me. “Hope?”
I had only met my father’s great-aunt Abagail once. His great-uncle’s wealthy widow had been gracious and lovely, and I’d fallen madly for her when I noticed how very much she intimidated my horrible grandmother. While introducing the rest of her blond, simpering brood, Mother Bea had pointedly ignored my presence. A true Southern lady from a very old and distinguished New Orleans family, the poised, soft-spoken Abagail Randolph Walton had put the bitter Mother Bea in her place with one raised finger.
“But, Beatrice,” she said in that honeyed drawl. “You failed to mention this lovely brunette flower in your garden. Matthew’s daughter, isn’t she? And what might your name be, ma chère?”
The rest of that day, Abagail kept me by her side, enthralling me with stories about her Garden Street home and some of her more eccentric neighbors. When we’d begun formulating our backstories for this journey, I dug into Abagail’s family history.
I channeled her now, ending my sentences on an up tilt as if each statement were a question.
“Why good sir, I am but poor lil’ old Hope Battiste Randolph? Of the Lafayette Parish Randolphs? My daddy’s too busy running for district judge to take me over the big water to be married? To the second son of the Earl of Airth over in Scotland? Of course, he’s nothing but a big ole douchebag who’s marrying me for my money. Didn’t even come himself. Sent his lawyer to get me?” I gestured at Mac in his tweeds. “How romantic.”
Phoebe snorted. “What a wank.”
Mac grinned. “Agreed. A common enough occurrence for this time though, even if our earl is fictional. Not likely to be an issue, and safer than naming a real man who someone might’ve met.”
“And you’re sure this Randolph has come and gone?” Collum asked. “This could go south fast if the fellow happens to be tucked away in his wee bed upstairs when we go waltzing in, claiming kin.”
I tamped down my irritation. I knew Collum was only being cautious. And unlike our previous sojourn into 1154, I was much less sure of myself in this particular place and era. Though I had, of course, studied American history, it’d never fascinated me the way European history did.
It took only an instant before the image of the Waldorf’s yellowed register, conjured by Moira’s research wizardry, pinged open inside my mind. There. Dated less than a year previously, the June 1894 signature of wealthy Louisiana sugar cane magnate Waldo T. Randolph—Abagail’s great-great-grandfather—glowed from the page.
“I’m positive,” I said. “And the man had eleven kids, so this should be perfect.”
Collum glanced at Phoebe, then Doug. “You two?”
“Gah, Coll,” Phoebe snipped. “We’ve got it, aye? I’m the new Lady Airth’s lady’s maid, sent by her git of a betrothed to serve on her journey.” She flicked a finger in Doug’s direction, though I noticed she still wouldn’t look at him. “He is valet to his Lordship’s barrister. And you . . .” She poked a finger hard into Collum’s vest-covered chest. “Are nothing but a boot-scraping serving lad, so get to work and leave us to do ours.”
The sting in Phoebe’s tone, so unlike her usual, cheery demeanor, took everyone aback, even Collum. To my astonishment, he nodded and stepped back, raising his voice only to be heard over the sidewalk clamor as he stooped to unlatch the folded steps attached to the side of the carriage.
“We’ll just be getting your luggage down then, sir, miss.”
Mac got out first, then helped me alight. As I wobbled to the sidewalk, Phoebe scurried after, straightening my gown and tucking stray hairs back beneath the massive hat, fussing around me, playing her role to perfection.
Doug’s entire demeanor changed as he took the bag from Mac and stepped back, head bowed as he assumed his part as Mac’s valet.
“Remember,” Mac murmured quietly to me as he straightened the bowler hat over his balding pate and jerked the wrinkles out of his coat. “If I have any trouble with the manager, you act the Southern belle. The staff won’t be able to resist helping a spoiled little rich girl.”
“Let me fix that for you, miss,” Phoebe said loudly, re-adjusting a pin where one of my curls had sprung loose.
“Ow,” I grumbled as pointed metal scraped across my scalp. “Spoiled brat, huh?” I said under my breath. “I don’t see that being a huge problem.”
Mac winked, and turned toward the bellhops lined up beneath the canopy that sheltered the ornate entrance. They exchanged glances before hurrying forward, likely bewildered at our lack of luggage. Most were probably used to guests who brought half their household rather than two sad-looking bags.
“My good man.” Mac addressed the oldest bellhop, a graying man with the most gold braid adorning his burgundy uniform. “If you could see us to your manager at once. The young miss here has had a horrific experience and is in sore need of rest and refreshment.”
That was my cue. Fluttering a hand at my throat, I tried to look petulant and pitiful all at once. After what we’d just been through, it wasn’t a big stretch.
“Right away, sir.” The bellhop bowed. “This way, sir. Miss.”
Mac tapped his gold-headed cane on the sidewalk and offered me an arm. As Doug and Phoebe took their assigned spots behind us, I half turned to Collum. “Oh, and get our bags, won’t you, boy?”
He tipped his flat cap and picked up the small—the only—leather traveling case we’d managed to save. Though he kept up the blank servant’s façade, I saw his eyes tighten at the corners just a bit. Turning the snort that followed into a delicate, ladylike cough, I flipped a curl over one shoulder and sauntered through the double doors into the Waldorf Hotel.
Chapter 19
AN OLDER MAN IN A CUTAWAY BLACK SUIT MET THE senior bellhop at the door and gave our bedraggled lot a sly inspection. After a quick conference, the new man turned to us and bowed.
“I’ll fetch Mr. Oscar, shall I?” he said. “If you’d kindly have a seat for just one moment.”
From the instant we’d stepped through the heavy brass doors into the elegant lobby, I’d been trying not to gawp. It was hard. Soaring frescoed c
eilings. Marble floors. Enormous mirrors that reflected golden light from ornate chandeliers. Everything was gilded and exquisite and perfect. Even the air smelled gorgeous, perfumed by massive floral arrangements tucked into golden vases.
“Cheese ’n crackers,” Phoebe whispered in an awed tone as she nervously smoothed down the front of her black maidservant’s gown.
“Easy now,” Mac muttered under his breath. “This should be the easy part.”
At this early hour, the expansive lobby was relatively empty, though guests—mostly men in tweeds or black suits—occasionally descended the curving double staircase. Some exited. But most crossed to a pair of walnut doors labeled with a brass sign that read MEN’S CAFé. Each time the uniformed attendant opened the doors for a guest, I caught a glimpse of dark paneling, leather chairs, and cast-iron chandeliers strung from stout chains. As the doors closed behind each gentleman, the scents of coffee, alcohol, and cigars wafted our way.
Rarely, the men escorted a corseted wife or daughter. Invariably, the women split off to disappear behind a set of white and gilt doors on the opposite side of the lobby. The plaque beside that segregated area read LADIES’ RECEPTION.
“Nice.” Phoebe scowled at the darkly paneled doors. “Hey, Hope, what do you say we hold a protest? Just march into that man cave over there and demand a brandy and cigar?”
“I like it. Let’s go freak ’em the hell out.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Collum growled.
“Jeez, relax, Coll,” Phoebe said. “We’re joking . . . and besides, it’s early yet for brandy. Wonder if they’d make us bloody marys instead.” Her mouth pursed. “Um, has the bloody mary been invented yet, Hope?”
“Nope. Not till 1921, by a Parisian bartender named Fernand Petiot. But we could show them how—”
Mac wheeled on us, though I saw him hide a grin beneath the fake walrus mustache Moira had glued into place. “Enough, girls. You’ll make poor Collum’s head explode. And must I remind you—ah . . .”
A young man with the posture and perfectly pressed suit of an authority figure approached our group and bowed. “Good morning, sir. Miss. Welcome to the Waldorf Hotel. I am Oscar. And how may I be of service?”
The hard v’s and k’s of the man’s accent hinted at eastern Europe, and as I nodded a greeting, I realized we were meeting none other than Oscar Tschirky. Also known as Oscar of the Waldorf, the man who served brilliantly as maître d’hôtel of the Waldorf—and then the Waldorf-Astoria—for fifty years and was credited with inventing the famous Waldorf salad, along with other culinary masterpieces.
As with any exclusive hotel in our own time, most guests would have made reservations weeks in advance. Step one was to convince this dapper dude that despite appearances, we were bona fide rich folks.
“Oh, Mr. Oscar,” I said. “I am so grateful to see you. I cannot tell you the trials we have suffered. Before I left home, my dear papa told me, ‘Now, my darlin’ daughter. Soon as you get yourself to New York, you make Mr. Oscar’s acquaintance, you hear? Oscar’s a good man. He’ll take care of all your needs.’”
Oscar Tschirky didn’t bat an eyelash. “And so we shall, Miss . . . ?”
“Randolph.” I made a little curtsy. “Of the Lafayette Parish Randolphs, naturally,” I hurried to add. “Papa would’ve come himself, but he’s been so busy of late. The judgeship, you know.”
“Of course, Miss Randolph.” Oscar gave a sage nod. “Let us see what we can do to accommodate you, yes? I don’t recall the hotel taking a reservation under the name Randolph.”
“Well, of course we arranged one. One simply doesn’t just walk in off the street at a fine establishment such as the Waldorf, does one?”
“A good morning to you,” Mac cut in quickly. “I am John MacPherson, sent by His Lordship the Earl of Airth to escort this lovely young lady to wed his second son, Charles. Known the lad since he was in knee-britches, I have. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”
“I’m mighty tuckered out, Mr. Oscar,” I pressed. “This journey has been such a trial.” I batted my lashes at the man, though it probably just looked like I had gook in my eyes.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Collum’s eyes roll up to the high, sculpted ceiling. Doug swiped at the corners of his mouth. Phoebe didn’t even try to hide her grin as Mac put in quickly, “His Lordship had a telegram sent here not three weeks ago. I assume all arrangements are in order? I would sure hate to have to tell the earl his new daughter-in-law was not taken care of in the manner befitting her station.”
Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “And we shall of course extend every courtesy to the young miss. If you shall but follow me?” Oscar bowed once more, then led Mac over to the glossy reception desk.
“Nice flirting,” Phoebe murmured as she eased up beside me.
“Learned from the master.”
My whining, along with Mac’s letters of credit linked to a very real fortune in the Bank of New York, must have impressed. The eighth-floor suite of rooms that spread out before us dripped with decadence.
“Wow,” Phoebe gasped. “This is . . .”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
After riding up the man-operated elevator to the eighth floor, Oscar—bolstered by a train of hotel servants—took us through the enormous suite. By the time the maître d’hôtel had completed his tour of living spaces, parlor, exquisite private dining and morning rooms, library, four bedrooms, and two private baths, all I wanted was to kick off my boots and let my aching feet sink into one of the dozen Turkish carpets. I saw Doug eying a delicate, gilt-inlaid Louis XIV chair and knew he was trying to calculate the chance it would hold up under his weight.
Though each space was more magnificent than the one before, after ten minutes of admiring the no-doubt priceless bric-a-brac that covered every surface . . . the garishly painted silk wallpaper had started to close in on me.
When Oscar opened the balcony doors, a brisk March wind sliced through the room, bringing with it the scent of factory smoke and newly cut wood. Yards of lace and scarlet silk that had probably cost more than my dad’s car tried to unmoor themselves as they gusted upward on the breeze. Oscar tutted and started to shut the doors.
Phoebe, noting my flinch, spoke up. “Leave it be, please, Mr. Tschirky. Her, um . . . Ladyship prefers the fresh air.”
Oscar nodded. Pride glazed his voice as he clicked his heels together. “Although I’m certain this shan’t compare to your new home at the earl’s estate, here at the Waldorf we strive to ensure our guests receive every comfort.”
We followed the manager to the walnut-paneled dining room area. “As I assume Miss Randolph wishes to refresh herself in some privacy, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering luncheon. It shall be brought up at once. Someone will guide your servants to their dining hall, belowstairs. As is customary, staff meals are served promptly at five, a.m. and p.m.” Oscar’s gaze skimmed over Doug’s large form. “Mr. MacPherson’s valet may come to the back door of the kitchen at four thirty to receive his meals. The dining area for colored staff is located just off the stable. He may—”
“What?” Phoebe’s voice severed Tschirky’s speech as neatly as a surgeon’s blade slicing off a diseased mole. “What did you just say?”
Oscar frowned, confused. “I don’t . . .”
Doug jerked discreetly on Phoebe’s skirt. He gave a graceful bow. “Thank you, sir. I will do just that.”
I could hear Phoebe’s teeth grinding. My own hands fisted at my sides as Oscar motioned two maids forward. “Emma and Lila will serve as Miss Randolph’s first and second housemaids during your stay. And will, of course, answer to her lady’s maid.”
As the two maids curtsied, Oscar went on. “Lastly, I’ve also taken the liberty of sending for the best dressmaker in town to come at once. She shall begin replacing the trousseau Miss Randolph so tragically lost in the steamboat accident.”
“Yes,” I muttered. “The steamboat accident was truly awf
ul.”
Oscar headed for the door, where he paused to point out a series of bell pulls, each labeled with a different function.
CONCIERGE. DINING. PORTER. 1ST MAID. 2ND MAID. VALET. KITCHEN. STABLE.
“Please ring if you have need of anything at all,” Oscar said. “Miss Randolph’s personal maid shall take the small area just off her mistress’s bedchamber.” He jerked a nod at Doug. “And while the usual custom is for a valet to take the room set aside for him off the gentleman’s quarters . . .” He trailed off again, gesturing helplessly at Doug. “It seems we must make other arrangements in this case.”
Phoebe vibrated with fury. My breath hissed out. And even Collum’s face began to redden with anger. Doug only nodded. “Of course, Mr. Tschirky.”
“We thank you for your hospitality.” Mac hustled Oscar out the door before anyone went ballistic. “I’m sure Miss Randolph is eternally grateful. As is my employer, the earl.”
With a snap of the maître d’hôtel’s fingers, the staff filtered out and shut the door behind them.
“Racist bastard,” Phoebe snarled at the door. “How dare he?”
“Babe.” Doug’s voice was gentle, though I heard the underlying note of steel. “It’s 1895. The American Civil War ended only thirty years past. It’s shameful the way most people of color are treated during this time, yes. Awful. But coming here was my choice. And I am willing to face it.”
She threw up her hands and dropped down onto a tapestried love seat. “Oh, great. How very noble of you. Well, you might be ‘willing to face it,’ but that doesn’t mean I have to. Not a damn, bleeding bit of it.”
“Phee,” Collum began, but she wheeled around on him and he backed off, palms raised.
Phoebe leapt up at a soft knock on the door. She stomped over and jerked it open.
“Yeah?” she snapped at the two housemaids who stood outside, each carrying a stack of cream-colored towels.
They bobbed in tandem and entered as Phoebe stepped back.
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