“Mmm, what a nice-looking man,” whispered Vinnie nearly in her ear. “I wonder who he is. Maybe he’s going to Banff too.”
To have her own thoughts come out of Vinnie’s mouth, and with an inflection Francesca herself would not dream of, gave the words an almost risqué quality that startled her. All ideas of attraction had been tucked away behind a convenient barricade of remorse and grief. All thoughts of Banff had been of escape and rest, never the possibility that so remote a place could offer diversions other than fresh air and exercise.
What of Connor? The friction of their encounters, in spite of their buried compliment to her, threw a wrench of consternation into her feelings at the same moment when his wit and intelligence made him fascinating. He might trouble himself to romance her, Francesca thought, a skill that remained to be seen. That the fleeting regard of a total stranger could set her thoughts dancing caused her to wonder what kind of complete fool she could make of herself and whether she really even cared. By the time she had arrived at this disconcerting notion, they had reached the dining room.
The room of rough-hewn beams and rustic paneling was filling up with passengers eager to feast on fresh local game. Vinnie made for a table for four and stood with her hands upon the back of the chair as she waited for Francesca and Esther. With Vinnie’s back to the corner, her position commanded the room. Torn between scenery and satisfying her natural curiosity, Francesca faced Vinnie, content with a view out the nearest window. Esther drew up between them and, with a nod of approval, sat on Francesca’s right. With these two ladies as her eyes and ears—and the balance between sensationalism and sense—Francesca would miss nothing. No sooner had they ordered the soup than a voluble lady of middle age could be heard approaching.
“Silly girl,” said the voice with a flat twang that grew louder with each tap of a walking stick. “I thought I asked you to save a table for me. Now they’re almost all full up.”
The reply came in a whisper that arrested movement. The room strained to hear.
“But madame rekested zee tapestry reticule and a fresh handkerchief before proceeding, which rekired a search sroo madame’s luggage.” The voice was refined but with an edge that suggested familiarity with confrontation and a disinclination to back down.
“Zere is a seat at zat table,” she continued. “I am sure zoz ladies will not mind so much to share. It appears to be zee custom, no?”
Realizing at once that they were the target of “zee custom,” the three ladies froze—Esther with eyes fixed on the sugar sifter, and Francesca with a reproving eye on Vinnie’s suppressed smile. The walking stick gave a tap of finality behind the empty chair. Francesca was surprised to find that the Amazonian voice belonged to a diminutive, buxom middle-aged woman, wearing a gray woolen traveling suit and a black hat with a short feather held in place with a cameo brooch. A three-strand pearl necklace fought with the ruffled blouse collar around the short neck. The reticule in question was of fine petit point and hung from her wrist by a silver chain.
“I’m sorry to trouble you ladies,” she said with a smile and more grace than Francesca expected, “but I seem to have been a bit slow out of the starting gate, so to speak. Would you mind so terribly if I shared your table?”
“Not at all,” said Esther, gesturing toward the empty chair. “Please join us.”
“Thank you kindly,” she returned, waving a hand of dismissal at the maid, who gave the briefest curtsey before vanishing.
In an instant, a waitress was at her elbow, proffered a menu, and waited for instructions. The woman hooked the ivory handle of her walking stick on the table, laid the reticule and gloves in her lap, produced a pair of pince-nez from her breast pocket, and glanced through the menu.
“Is the fish fresh?” she inquired of the waitress.
“Of course, madam.”
“The soup of the day?”
“Bean soup, madam.”
“Very well,” she said, handing back the menu and replacing the pince-nez. “That’s what I’ll have.”
“To drink, madam?”
“Well,” said the woman, looking at the water pitcher and three glasses on the table and frowning. “I guess it’ll be water then.” The waitress took the empty pitcher away. The woman folded her hands on the table, as if prepared to mind her own business.
“Please continue with your meal, ladies,” she said. “Don’t let it get cold on my account.” The three took up their soupspoons.
A few moments passed. The waitress appeared with a large tray and deposited the water pitcher and the soup and a glass. Francesca looked at Esther, to gauge between them whether to offer conversation. This stranger, despite the bluff manner and incongruous costume, seemed eager not to offend. Esther cleared her throat.
“Is this your first journey to the Rockies?” she asked.
“Land sakes, no,” said the woman, appearing relieved to be addressed. “Sometimes I ask myself why I’ve come, exchanging one end of the Rocky Mountains for another. Denver is my home—Denver, Colorado. So you see, I already have the Rocky Mountains on my back doorstep, as you might say.”
“That must be very pleasant,” offered Francesca.
“It is,” replied the stranger, “though I’m afraid a person gets used to his surroundings wherever he might be and might not appreciate them as much as when they were new to him.”
“That’s probably true,” said Francesca.
“I suppose that’s one of the virtues of travel among folks who are strangers to a place,” the woman continued. “They help a person to see things fresh and new, as you might say. I’m sure when I was in Europe last year I noticed ever so many interesting things that the Europeans themselves took for granted. So much more history than we have, of course, and art and music and so many refined and beautiful things to see and hear.” The woman sighed. “It was almost more than a person could take in.”
“Were you there long?” asked Vinnie.
“Yes, indeed. Nearly a year. My daughter was being married in England and we had many arrangements to attend to.” Her plain speech was modest and perhaps even a little embarrassed. They lapsed into silence at the arrival of the main course.
“I declare, one does miss home, though,” said the woman at last, her tone softened by a touch of wistfulness, “traveling for such a long time. The Alps were certainly splendid, I’m not saying they weren’t, but they were different. They did make a person homesick.”
A widow, thought Francesca, who has just married her daughter to a penniless European, perhaps with a title—a vagabond of the nouveau riche whose work is done, now that her daughter is well settled. The woman seemed to gather her wits and posed a polite question in return.
“Have you ladies seen the Rockies before?”
“No,” said Francesca. “This will be our first encounter with them.”
“You say that as if the Rocky Mountains were people,” said the woman with a little more animation. “Well, I daresay you’re right, if you’ll allow me to say so. The mountains—and the trees and the rivers—each has a character of its own, if we could just appreciate it. Some say, ‘You’ve seen one mountain, you’ve seen ’em all,’ but if that’s so, you may as well say, ‘You’ve seen one cathedral, you’ve seen ’em all,’ or one palace or one fountain, but I never found that to be the case myself. Every peak is as different as people can be.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” said Francesca, glad to see this glimmer of sentiment. “Are you traveling far—if you’ll forgive my inquiry?” Esther threw her a cautionary glance.
“Why, land sakes, of course. I’m stopping off for a time at Banff, but I may go as far as Vancouver if the mood takes me.”
“How interesting,” said Esther.
The first shift of luncheon diners was beginning to leave. A waitress, brandishing an enormous tray and a damp cloth, cleared and wiped a small nearby table and returned the condiments to their proper order.
“We’re going to Banff . . .” sa
id Vinnie, cutting herself off in mid-sentence. The other three ladies followed her gaze, which had lighted on the sporting gentleman in tweeds making his way across the room. Before he sat, his eye caught that of the stranger at their table, to whom he gave a slight bow. This she returned with a smile and an upraised hand.
Amazed at this new factor in their acquaintance with this unknown woman, the ladies gave up all decorum, exchanged glances, and fixed their collective gaze upon her.
“Yes,” she chuckled, raising her napkin and daubing her lips. She lowered her voice and bent toward them a little. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he? His name is Sándor Krisztián Filip Király. A count, a member of the Hungarian nobility—a second cousin so-many-times removed to someone. He told me who it was, but I do so like to learn to pronounce a name properly, and I’m afraid I didn’t quite master it this time.”
“You’ve met him, then?” asked Francesca.
“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “You probably saw his varnish on the siding. He and his manservant have been here for a few days, hiking and hunting and such. I stopped off here for two days to break my journey and stretch my limbs. He’s keen on all sports. He used his varnish but came in here to take his meals. He was kind enough to take coffee with me one evening and we got to chatting.”
“How very interesting,” said Vinnie.
“Will he be staying on here for very much longer?” asked Esther.
“It looked like they were preparing to hitch his varnish,” added Francesca.
“That’s right. They’re joining this train and will travel to Banff for the sport. I understand from him that he’s climbed almost everything there is to climb in his native land and thereabouts, so he means to begin on the Rockies.” She chuckled again.
“It sounds as if we shall all be in Banff,” said Vinnie.
“It does indeed,” said Francesca with a raised eyebrow and a look at Esther.
“In that case, it would only do to introduce ourselves,” said Esther on cue. “My name is Mrs. Gray, and these are my companions—Miss Lund and Miss Lawrence.”
“Thank you kindly,” said the new acquaintance. “I’m very pleased to meet you, I’m sure. I’m Mrs. West—Mrs. Ida West.”
CHAPTER 44
No Inducement
If you wish to avoid the company of any one that has been properly introduced, satisfy your own mind that your reasons are correct; and then let no inducement cause you to shrink from treating him with respect, at the same time shunning his company. No gentleman will thus be able either to blame or mistake you.
—Decorum, page 31
Francesca had suggested that Mrs. West dine with them in the main restaurant of the Springs. The ladies had been coolly polite to Ida West at first, not wishing to foster an acquaintance that might prove to be a nuisance. Mrs. West, however, did not assume a single meal at a remote dining stop was the basis for fast friendship. Her plain speech and ensemble of tweeds and pearls may have caused a smile, but she was kind to all and appeared to be sensible and discreet, of which the sensible Esther could only approve. Sándor Király had dined with Mrs. West the first evening, and through his introductions she had made desirable connections. Indeed, it began to appear that better acquaintance with Mrs. West might be advantageous. After three days in Banff with no alarming incidents, Francesca thought it would be churlish to exclude Mrs. West.
By nine o’clock, the four ladies were well settled and waiting for the main course, having feasted on an aperitif, soup, fish, salad, and wine. A new crop of visitors had arrived that afternoon, the Banff Springs’ tallyho having transported the guests while wagons followed, laboring under trunks, valises, portmanteaux, and sporting goods. Like the first night aboard ship, the newcomers wore their Sunday best, not full evening dress, their servants working at full throttle to unpack and prepare silks and jewels for the following evening.
“Why, I never,” said Mrs. West in some surprise. She sat upright, both hands on the table, staring across the room.
“What is it?” asked Esther, following her gaze to the entrance, where the maître d’ had just engaged a familiar figure.
“I can’t believe it. Connor O’Casey. As I live and breathe.”
“You mean you know him?” asked Francesca, with astonishment shared by Esther and Vinnie.
“Land, yes,” Mrs. West replied in a low voice, clearly preoccupied with the sight before her and the memory he stirred. “Though I haven’t seen him since . . . land sakes, I don’t know when. Must be three years now—going on four maybe. He and my late husband were business partners together in Leadville. Connor was in the mine disaster that killed my husband.”
“Oh, my heavens,” said Francesca, still fixed on the thought of a mutual acquaintance in the person of Connor O’Casey. A thousand contradictions passed through her mind. What sort of disaster was it—physical or financial or something else she couldn’t grasp? Was Connor a cause or a remedy applied too late? Did he possess virtues with which Esther had been loath to credit him, or was she justified in thinking him a fiend?
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Esther with genuine feeling, as she laid a tentative hand on Ida’s wrist.
“Connor nearly died, too,” said Ida. “He was laid up for months, poor soul.”
The three ladies looked at each other in alarm.
“Connor? Nearly died?” echoed Francesca. “I can hardly believe it. He’s never said a word.”
“Do you think he would?” asked Ida. “How does a man talk about a thing like that, lives taken before his eyes, and knowing he was nearly one of them?”
As Connor was shown to his table, he spied them at their table by the window. It was as if Francesca, Esther, and Vinnie didn’t exist, his eyes were so clearly on Ida with a look—of compassion? Francesca wondered. He diverted his steps as the maître d’ continued to his table and waited there to seat him.
As he approached, Ida raised a hand and he took it in both of his and held it as he stood close by her and looked into her face. Before he uttered a word, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. His open demonstration of regard took Francesca by surprise. She looked at the other ladies as if she mistrusted her own heart and hoped to gauge by their faces how she herself should feel. Esther’s face was serene and betrayed no indignation, no sidelong look or hint at impropriety. Vinnie, too, looked on in wonder, oblivious to the attention the display had drawn.
“Hello, Connor.”
“Hello, Ida,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
He squeezed her hand and a smile of old friendship passed between them.
“You too.”
She clasped his hand and shook it, and, as if remembering herself, released him.
“I believe you know these ladies,” Ida said, motioning around the table.
“I do indeed. Mrs. Gray. Miss Lund. Miss Lawrence,” said Connor, nodding to each lady in turn. “It’s good to see you, Ida. It’s been far too long—and entirely my fault.”
“No matter,” said Ida, shaking her head. “We were each living our own lives.”
“And Mary, is she well?”
“Married off, you scoundrel.”
“No, not really,” said Connor in mild surprise. “A good match, I hope.”
“I think so. I hope so. It should have been you, you know. I always said so.”
“Well then, my loss,” said Connor graciously. “I see they’re holding my table. Don’t let me disturb you. We’ll catch up by and by. Ladies.”
He bowed and left them. Francesca felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.
“How long do you intend to be with us?” said the pleasant but professional clerk.
“As long as necessary,” Blanche said as she stood at the registration desk, her pen poised over the guest book. She wrote her name—Mrs. Blanche Wilson. The clerk looked puzzled behind his professional reserve. The letter of credit she bore for two thousand dollars would guarantee her admittance to the Banff Springs Hotel; it would re
main to be seen whether it would cover a prolonged stay.
The clerk didn’t challenge her. Financial matters required delicate handling—and social matters no less so.
“Excuse me while I call the manager, madam. He may wish to assist you personally.”
“Certainly.” Blanche expected no less. She turned and looked at the spacious and lofty lobby, with its tiers of balconies from which guests were observing the hotel’s activities. Others were seated in comfortable chairs or clustered about making plans or recounting the day’s exhausting occupations. She pulled a small mirror from her handbag. First-class sleep in a first-class train carriage and a brisk tallyho drive to the hotel had left her spirits refreshed and her skin clear. She half-expected to see O’Casey himself saunter through the lobby. Indeed, she had fantasized about their first encounter and her delight at the shock her presence would administer.
Among the seekers after fresh air and exercise was a small, chestnut-haired young woman who walked into the lobby, drawing off her gloves and unbuttoning her jacket. Blanche knew this woman instantly—the little Busy-Body from the milliner’s who was attached to the source of all her problems. If the Busy-Body was here, the Iceberg wasn’t far behind. She turned to chasten her companion, and in so doing turned toward the registration desk. In the same moment, Blanche turned away, raised the mirror high, and pushed a black wave under the brim of her hat. At the movement of the electric blue of her traveling suit, the Busy-Body stood stock still and looked. By the time she remembered herself, two companions had joined her. The Iceberg’s look drifted to the registration desk. A quick whisper apprised a third lady of the object of their attention. This lady hastened the younger women through the lobby and up the stairs, circling the balcony before disappearing. Through the mirror she saw the clerk approach with the manager. She turned.
Decorum Page 35