by D. L. Koontz
She took a breath, so Libby asked, “A hat?”
“Yes, miss. Maybe you noticed mine?” She pointed to her head, blushing at her own boldness.
Libby had noticed. She studied the hat closer. Made of white straw, it was cloche style, and sported a curled red ostrich feather anchored in place by a multi-colored ribbon. Libby stifled the urge to make a quip about how Hobby Lobby and a glue gun would have made her task easier. Instead, Libby marveled that the girl didn’t have those at her disposal, so the craftsmanship of the hat was all the more impressive.
“It’s lovely,” Libby said and, remembering her cover story with Davis, added, “You’ll have to show me others. I’ll need some new hats since my luggage was lost at sea.”
Rose blushed. “I’d like that, miss.”
“Libby.”
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Libby. My name is Libby.”
Rose hesitated as though not sure what the point was. “Alright, Miss Libby.”
“No, I meant that you can call me Libby. There’s no need for the Miss.” Again, remembering her new profile, Libby quelled a cringe and added, “Besides. I’m a widow now and—”
“A widow! You’re so young, ma’am.”
Libby ignored how quickly she’d gone from a Miss to a Ma’am, and focused instead on Rose’s reference to her as young. It was rude to put her on the spot, but Libby had to know. “How old do I look?”
When Rose’s eyebrows shot up and her face turned red, Libby said, “It’s just that I’ve been living overseas for years. Things are quite different there. I’m just wondering how I’ll fit in...with people here, I mean.”
Rose relaxed her features and responded, even as she kept sewing. “Twenty-three. Twenty-four, maybe. There you go.” She flipped the finished hem over and sat back, a look of pride on her face.
“You’re very talented,” Libby said, admiring the work. “It’s perfect.”
The timing was too, because at that moment a huge vehicle approached from the direction Davis had walked. A motorcar. It was British green with a black roof, running boards on the side, and white-wall tires. As it approached, Libby hitched her breath as once again the realities of this period hit. It had been easy to dismiss the clothing since she could still don jeans in private. But this motorcar, was so antique, and so large...and so real.
Davis came to a stop, pulled the brake, left the car idle, and walked around to them, eyebrows hiked in curiosity.
Libby shot him a here-we-go look. “Uncle Davis, this is Rose Morgan. We met on the road and I hoped we could give her a ride. She’s going to the hotel, too.”
For a moment he hesitated. Libby suspected his thoughts mirrored hers: they would have no more opportunity to fine-tune their story before arriving at the hotel.
“Of course. Any friend of my niece,” he said tipping his hat.
Rose curtsied. “Thank you, sir.”
Davis opened the passenger door for them, as a gentleman should. He gestured. “Go ahead. Get in while I load these things.”
“Rose,” Libby motioned for the girl to precede her.
When Rose didn’t move, Libby gazed at her expectantly.
“Don’t know how, ma’am. I’m all at sea with one of these,” Rose whispered, her gaze glued to the metal beast in front of her. “Never rode in one before. Me mum’s cousin John has a small truck, but I only ever rode on the back of it.”
Libby hid her surprise. “No worries. Uncle Davis isn’t looking so just do your best.” With hopes that vehicles operated somewhat universally through the years, Libby demonstrated and Rose stepped onto the running board, grasping tightly to the edge of the door, then the rear bench seat before hoisting herself in, dropping with relief. She looked at Libby, a blush on her face. “Must take practice to do that like a lady,” she mumbled.
In no time Davis loaded the gear and they were off. He said the motorcar was a 1924 Oldsmobile, and they were, at this moment, driving parallel to Shobers Run creek which was a spring-fed, prized trout stream, directly over the hill from the Springs Hotel. However, due to the steep hills, switch-backs, and condition of the roads, their drive would involve a distance of a couple miles. The area was made up of hills and mountains filled with crevices, dips, gullies, deep valleys and soaring peaks.
As they crawled and bounced their way down the road, Libby refrained from making a quip about the lack of shock absorbers or the atrocious mileage that vehicles must get in this period. Rose wouldn’t understand the remarks anyway. Instead, she turned to look back at the girl, sitting frozen in place, wide eyes glaring straight ahead, fingers clinching her bag in a white-knuckle grip. To refocus Rose’s concern, Libby asked, “Do all the maids curtsey to the guests?”
Davis moved his hand over surreptitiously and pressed on Libby’s forearm, no doubt a gentle reminder of his advice the night before to learn by observation, not by asking questions. But if he thought she was inquiring about the differences between the social classes, that wasn’t her intent. She simply wanted to understand the culture at this time.
“Oh no, ma’am. I’m from Wales, I am. Came here when I was seven. Me parents were in service to a British family. When they hit hard times, me folks was let go. So me father spent all his money to buy us passage to come to the Land of Opportunity.”
“How nice. You have a large family?” Libby asked.
“No it’s just me mum and me now. Me father couldn’t get us all passage on the same ship, so we had to split up. He and me three brothers came a few days before us. We followed later on another ship. Ma and I were already out to sea and on our way by the time we learned that their ship, the Titanic, had gone down.”
Davis and Libby exchanged startled glances, murmured condolences.
From the back, the girl continued. “Me family was in steerage. We reckon they never even made it to the lifeboats. Me mum’s distant cousin let us move in with his family here in Pennsylvania. Mary Pearl he says—that’s me mum’s name—we’re family and family sticks together. Anyways, Ma taught me service manners in the British way.”
Libby didn’t know what to offer back. To say, ‘I saw the movie; it was heart-wrenching,’ wouldn’t make sense to Rose. “It was nice of your cousin to let you move in. That must make it crowded.”
“Oh no, ma’am. Me mum and I share a room in the back. The ten of them sleep in the rest of the house.”
“Ten!”
“Yes, ma’am. Me mum’s cousin, John, his wife Emma, and their eight children.”
“Must get a little crazy there at times,” Libby said.
“Not really. It’s a farm, so there’s plenty o’ places to get away from one another.”
Davis followed the dirt pathway about a half-mile before pulling onto a road that looked as though it had some sort of manmade topping on it. Next came a bend, cut through the hills that struck Libby as familiar. Her thoughts switched from counting the limitations of the interior of the car—no radio, air conditioning, cup holder or GPS—and dwelled instead on the thought that this was the road that she and Andrew must have traveled recently. If recently could be considered more than a hundred years in the future.
They passed a wide building on the left called the Arandale Hotel and Libby’s heart raced. She recognized it as the Bedford Elks Country Club that she and Andrew had passed.
After two more twists around rolling hills, a building came into view. No one needed to tell Libby it was the Springs Hotel. Its size and opulence alone tagged it as their destination, set as it was, apart from the local town and surrounded by immaculate lawns, flower gardens and paths, tennis courts, a golf course and club house, and rows of motorcars. The massive brick and wood structure, reminiscent of Greek Revival style architecture, was fronted with white columns, and looked to be four stories tall, stretching on forever against the curve of the hill behind it. A long two-story walkway—she would later learn it was referred to as the colonnade—led from the hotel to an elevated walking bridge over Shobers
Run that crossed the road and ushered pedestrians down steps to the mineral springs. Elaborate porches and walkways were everywhere.
Before she time-traveled, Libby had read online that in 1846 a writer named Daniel Rupp had dubbed the hotel, a ‘Palace in the Wilderness.’ For the first time since traveling back in time, she felt a spark, although guarded, of delight. Her thoughts shifted, however, when Rose spoke from the back.
“May I be dropped off right here, Mr. Davis, sir? I must walk ’round back. To the employee entrance. Wouldn’t look right if I arrive with ya. Mrs. Henderson, she’s the maids’ supervisor, might say I was puttin’ on airs, she would. ’Sides, I don’t wanna walk under that next arch. It’s the thirteenth one from the door, ya know.”
Davis eased up on the accelerator and wound down the window, giving a hand signal to indicate he was making a turn.
After helping Rose exit the motorcar, an effort that took a little more pushing and pulling than it should have, Libby climbed back in.
“Thirteenth arch?” Davis asked as he pulled back on the road for the rest of the short drive to the main entrance.
Libby shrugged. In rushed delivery, she told the story of how she had met and helped Rose earlier.
He had no chance to respond before they reached the porte-cochère. A uniformed porter hurried to open Libby’s door. “Welcome to the Springs Hotel, Miss.”
Chapter Eighteen
1926
Libby stepped from the motorcar wondering if it was possible for others to hear her heart thundering wildly.
People milled about everywhere, talking, strolling, and sitting under the covered walkway playing checkers or sipping drinks. She studied them while Davis discussed their limited luggage with the chief porter. The uniformed attendant was her height and stalky. She was just as tall as many of the men. They passed by, wearing suits, bowties, knickers, Oxford pants. Such a variety. Most of them wore hats—bowlers, fedoras, even a couple Panamas—which they readily tipped, casting her admiring looks and more than a passing interest. When the men removed their hats—sometimes to fan themselves or sit for a game of checkers, she noted hair styled in pompadours or parted in the middle and slicked back. Their faces were mostly clean-shaven, few sideburns and mustaches, rarely a beard.
The women, young and old, wore vivid colored dresses, heels no higher than an inch or two, and hats—wide-brimmed straw hats, berets, turbans, but most of them cloche. Most, particularly the young, wore layers of make-up, applied to look dramatic. A few carried decorative umbrellas as a barrier against the harsh sun. With dismay, Libby noticed that dental care wasn’t what it was in 2016.
Davis stepped to her side, offering his arm. “You ready?”
Libby took a deep breath. “Do I have a choice?”
The details that graced the hotel’s façade were impressive, but nothing compared to the opulence within. The ceiling rose well over twenty feet above the lobby, where a canopy of decorative squares surrounded a crown of crystal pendants. Behind the front desk, an ornamental, multi-layered grand staircase rose initially above a two-floor span, then opened to reveal four stories. The lobby’s side walls were lined with seating and watercolor landscapes. Ornate archways interrupted the flow of walls. Colorful carpets and richly upholstered furnishings with puffy pillows were clustered to provide guests with ample lounging space. Signs propped on decorative metal tripods announced that the Pennsylvania Bakers’ Association would be holding their annual meeting at the Springs that summer, with sessions to include “The Profession of Baking” and “The Campaign to Eat More Wheat.”
She also noted what wasn’t there: computers for check-in, trash bins with stretchable bag liners, artificial greens and planters, plastic “Exit” signs.
So absorbed in soaking in her new surroundings, Libby didn’t remove her hand from Davis’s arm until they stood at the front desk. As Davis spoke to the clerk behind the counter, Libby watched a man with perfect posture pass by two giggling young women wearing staff uniforms. With a quick flick of his eyebrows and a slight tilt to his head, he communicated something that made them stand straighter and drop their voices. When he neared Libby, his stern features relaxed into a smile and he nodded courteously to her before gazing at Davis. “Mr. Whitaker. Delighted to see you with us again.”
The man was thin, an inch shorter than Davis, and looked to be early or middle forties with thinning hair and several wrinkle lines at his neck. His tweed suit, stiff collar, and perfect bow tie were in impeccable order, and his leather shoes were polished to a startling shine. His clothes did not suggest wealth, but the air of prosperous distinction he wore spoke louder than his clothes anyway.
Davis shook his hand. “Good to be back.” He turned to Libby. “This is Philip Jarvis, the hotel manager, although he asks guests to call him Jarvis.” Looking back to Jarvis, he said, “Allow me to introduce my niece, Libby Grey—”
“Shaw,” Libby cut in.
“Uh...yes, Shaw,” Davis said. “She’s been living in Europe—”
“Australia.” Her answer collided with Davis’s.
Jarvis’s brows shot toward his receding hairline. An awkward beat fell as Libby watched his face return to the grim, imposing person she’d first seen, his critical gaze taking in every detail of her appearance. She clenched her teeth, enduring his demeaning scrutiny in silence. Careful. Maintain an air of confidence and decorum.
Davis emitted a mirthless chuckle. “Yes, Australia. It’s been a tiring morning already. Just collected my niece a few days ago.” He cleared his throat. “Haven’t seen her in a long time, you see.”
“I see. Very good, sir,” Jarvis intoned in a voice that suggested he didn’t see, it wasn’t very good, and it wasn’t his business to pass judgment on guests anyway.
Davis forced a smile. “Libby, we both have rooms on the second floor of the Anderson. You’ll need to sign the ledger.” He turned to Jarvis. “My niece is a recent widow. Lost her things at sea. Could you arrange for a local dressmaker to come to her room soon?”
“Certainly.” Jarvis turned to Libby and offered a slight bow with his head. “Have a good stay, madam.” Before she could respond, he walked away.
After Libby signed the ledger, the young man behind the desk handed her a tortoise shell mug. “It’s for the water,” he explained. “All the guests receive one.”
Davis made quick arrangements for a porter to deliver his lone bag to his room, but he carried Libby’s muslin sack with him. He led Libby toward the red-carpeted stairs, pausing long enough by a side table to pick up a thick book. He tucked it under his arm and motioned for her to proceed.
As they ascended the steps, Libby muttered, “Sorry about the faux pas back there. I was afraid there would be guests who frequent England. Andrew said I should stick as close to the truth as possible.”
“I understand,” he said, making a facial expression that suggested he wished they could have talked about it. “You didn’t want me to say the name Grey. Why is that?”
Libby shrugged. “Same reason. I’m not used to it.”
He nodded, but said nothing.
Why hadn’t she opted for Grey? She’d have to think about that later. “Jarvis certainly over-reacted. Did you see—”
“He thinks you’re my mistress.”
“What!” The word popped from her mouth, a near shriek. Libby stopped, mid-step, staring at Davis. He appeared concerned, but not angry.
After waiting for another couple to pass, she whispered, “What do you mean? How do you know?”
He splayed a hand. “What man would actually stumble over his niece’s name, and where she’s been living?”
Libby muttered an inane sound and covered her heated face with her hands. “They’ll never accept me now. The staff, the guests...they’ll all know right away. Gossip spreads so quickly.”
“I doubt it.” Davis took her arm and urged her to keep moving, his tone hushed. “Jarvis will not jeopardize the reputation of the hotel by repeating it. No, I
think the moment will remain with him. However, I doubt he’ll go out of his way to help you.”
“I’ll steer clear of him.”
“Hard to do in this environment.”
“What should I do?”
He patted her arm. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Libby took that to mean that they shouldn’t continue talking in the hallway. Despite her concern she focused on memorizing her way through the labyrinth and stretches of long hallways, and in admiring the décor, with its intricate, painted woodwork and rich carpets. The hotel had both an elegant and an intimate feel to it, the latter due to the endless nooks and sitting rooms tucked into curving hallways. A heavy aroma hung in the air which reminded her of burning oil. She noted cords running from walls to lamps, the telltale signs of electrification, but deduced that oil lanterns must still be put into use with regularity.
As they proceeded, Davis said the hotel was more like a complex, made up of five long buildings, in this order as you walked the halls away from the first one, the Colonnade—Evitt House, Stone Inn, Swiss Cottage, Anderson House. Each was strung to the next with attached hallways, which meant guests staying in the far reaches of the Anderson House could have a ten-to-fifteen-minute walk to reach their room from the lobby. However, each structure was fronted with lengthy covered porches that provided stairwells to the grounds at both ends of each building.
Davis stopped at a door marked 208. “Your room.” He handed her a long key.
“No key cards?” Libby quipped.
Davis twisted his lips. “’Fraid not. But don’t worry about losing it. The routine is to give the key to the front desk when you go anywhere. Then, retrieve it when you return. You may have noticed the pigeonholes behind the desk where the staff will place messages and telegrams for you?”
Libby took a deep breath. “Telegrams,” she said with dismay.
“They’ll place your key there while you’re out. Of course, you can wear it around your neck too, if you can find some string.”
Her shoulders drooped as she stuck the key into the lock and entered. “So much to learn.” She’d never gotten a telegram before. She remembered from the movies that they were always depicted as brief and expensive. With thoughts of communication on her mind, she asked, “What about phones?”