by Beth Byers
“I find,” the woman answered in her prim and proper tone, “that Dorothea’s voice is wasted in basement venues.”
“Dorothea? Oh, you mean Dot.”
“No, young lady.” The woman fixed her sharp, clever gaze on Lola. “Dorothea. I can’t abide such silly names.”
“I think Dot is a perfectly playful name. It suits her. Though,” Lola said, considering, “Dorothea suits her, too. Especially with the sort of songs she performs.”
“Indeed.” That single word told Lola that the woman considered herself the victor in their little argument, which hadn’t been an argument at all, but Lola let it go.
“I’m Lola Rose,” she said, extending her hand.
The woman looked at it, then looked back at her. Lola kept her hand extended. Finally, long after someone else would have given up, the woman clasped Lola’s fingertips with a dry, cool grip, but only for a breath.
“Rose, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t have any connection with the hotel,” Lola assured her.
“I should think not.”
Lola let that pass, too.
“Are you a guest here, Mrs. . . . ?”
“No, I am not.”
Lola quirked her mouth to the side. Challenge accepted.
“I am. My mother and I have the finest room on the twelfth floor. Carmen says that floor is for the larger suites. Carmen is—” Lola started to add, but the woman cut her off.
“I am well aware of who Carmen is.”
The woman spoke without looking at her, watching the stage instead. Dot, or Dorothea, had begun a new song with a faster tempo. Her long, black hair swayed as she sang, one ruby-ringed hand against her dark throat, the other gesturing with her words.
“Stage training,” the woman said.
“Oh? How can you tell?”
“Presence. Projection. Polish.”
“A lot of singers have those.”
“They pretend to have them.”
Dorothea finished the song and thanked the audience as they clapped.
The woman began to stand, her long, thin fingers gripping the rounded arms of the chair. Lola leapt to her feet and held out her hand without word.
The woman eyed it, then eyed Lola, then accepted the hand.
“Are you attending the final part of the gala?” Lola asked her. The woman had a firm grip on her wrist now, as she steadied herself. Lola still couldn’t judge her age. She spoke clearly, her eyes were unclouded, and she had a lively if subdued demeanor. But she moved carefully, as if fragile, with stiffness in her legs and back.
“I am not.”
“Whyever for?”
The woman glanced up at her. “No one says ‘whyever’ anymore, my dear.”
“Perhaps I’ll bring it back into fashion.”
They reached the exit of the club. A man was waiting in the hall outside the door. He was dressed in a professional suit and tie, not a tuxedo, and he made Lola nervous. She didn’t understand why at first, and then she realized it was the way he stood. Still and unmoving. Like a wolf waiting for prey.
“Madame,” the man said, glancing warily at Lola.
“Mr. Abernathy,” the woman said with annoyance.
“They are about to begin in The Heritage Rose Hall.”
“So they are.”
“Can I escort you, Madame?”
“If you feel you must.” The woman released Lola’s wrist. She accepted the man’s instead and they went toward the lift without another word.
Lola tapped her teeth with her fingernail, then made herself stop the old childhood habit.
Madame.
Widow.
Architect Meunier.
Lola smiled. “Found you.”
Chapter Five
11:00 p.m.
The Heritage Rose Hall, 1st Floor
The Regal Rose Hotel
The Heritage Rose Hall was as elegant as the name. The parquet floor was lovely for dancing, the orchestra at the far end of the room hardly had to pull a bow across the strings to be heard to the other side of the spacious hall. The walls were papered in lovely rose hues above walnut wood paneling on the lower half. Tasteful, high-back chairs with rose patterns cushions gathered throughout the room, saving space for dancing. Wait staff in crisp uniforms circled with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Lola found herself famished.
“How can I still be hungry after that dinner?” she asked Willa.
“Perhaps because we spoke more about the food than ate it?”
“There is that.” They giggled and reached for a passing tray for a few bites.
“Do try this,” Vera said as she joined them, handing them both a glass of champagne. It was fizzy and sweet and paired wonderfully well with the fruit and cream pastry nibbles.
Lola listened as Willa and Vera spoke, comparing who they knew until they discovered common acquaintances. She watched the crowd flow through the room. Her mother was dancing with Sir Caldwell and they appeared to be enjoying themselves. It was good to see her mother smiling freely again. They’d both been so stricken when Lola’s father died. It seemed to take a lifetime to return from that empty, dark place.
It was good to feel alive herself. Lola downed the champagne and reveled in the sensations of music and laughter and friendship. She could dwell in that place forever. She hadn’t considered that it would end, but soon it would, and she and her mother would be on a ship, sailing home. Well, sailing, then taking the train, home.
It was still a long while before they’d be back in Texas, even when they set out for home.
Lola sighed.
“All right, luv?” Willa asked.
“Yes, of course.” Lola drew herself up. “I’m in a new country, in a new hotel, with new friends, about to ring in the New Year. What could be better?”
“A new man to kiss,” Vera said. “I think I see mine.” She threw back her drink, set the flute on a passing tray, and squared her shoulders before stalking across the hall.
“We should put a bell on her,” Willa said, watching Vera.
“A bell? To keep track of her?”
“No, to warn men that she’s coming.”
They laughed.
“Oh, there.” Lola craned her neck to see around a group of guests.
“Where?”
“Just there.” She stepped forward. “Yes. It is her.”
“Her?”
“Excuse me, won’t you? I promise I’ll be back.”
“It’s no bother.” Willa gestured her away as Brandon found them.
“Ladies.” He smiled winningly at Willa. “Miss Maitlyn.”
Willa turned her head as though demurring, but she gave Lola an eye roll and mouthed, ‘Four.’
Lola was baffled.
Willa held up her hand and wiggled her finger.
Ah. Lola laughed. The last proposal of the year. Poor Willa.
Though, reconsidering, perhaps it should be poor Brandon.
Lola made her way through the crowd to where she last saw the old woman. She was still there, seated in one of the high-backed chairs set apart from the others, and from the crowd for that matter. The woman held a champagne glass in her hand and sipped from it from time to time.
Lola approached. “Madame,” she greeted. “We meet again.”
“Indeed.”
Lola stepped away, grabbed a nearby chair, and dragged it across the parquet floor to sit next to the woman. “It’s such a lovely gala, isn’t it?”
“After a while,” the woman said without looking away from the dancers, “they run together.”
“How many have you attended?”
She got a look for that. “Clever, my dear, quite clever. But you’ll not get my age in such a manner.”
“No, of course not.” Lola smiled. “If that’s what I wanted to know, I’d just ask.”
“Would you?”
“Why not?”
“Propriety for one.”
“Propriety tends to get in my way.”<
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The old woman chuckled, surprising Lola.
“You’ve been a bit of a mystery tonight,” Lola told her.
“I?”
“Oh, come now. We both know it.”
The old woman sat back, relaxing, before she finished her champagne. “Yes, I suppose we do. And what have you uncovered, Miss Rose?”
“You were the wife of the hotel architect.”
“Yes. My dear Michel. How he would have loved to see this.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The old woman nodded. “Thank you, my dear. It never gets easy, does it?”
“No, I suppose not really.”
They watched the dancers. Lola’s mother laughed at something Sir Caldwell said, and then they retreated from the dance floor.
She noticed Arthur standing on the other side, also watching them.
“What else have you learned?” The old woman’s question drew Lola back.
“That you own the hotel.”
“I do indeed.”
“What is that like?” Lola sat forward, but the old woman waved off the question.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Sir Winston takes care of those matters.”
“Sir Winston?”
The old woman nodded to where a portly, importantly looking man with a bald head ringed with short, wispy hair was waiting to speak to the orchestra leader.
“Sir Winston Gladstone, the director of the hotel.”
“Ah. So, you own it, but he runs it?”
“That is close enough to the facts.”
Lola smiled. “I know you live on the top floor, apparently a reclusive widow.”
The old woman lifted her chin. “Also close enough to the facts. You’ve done quite well.”
“Oh, but I’m not finished.”
The old woman focused on her and Lola saw her alarm before she masked it under that detached demeanor.
“Go on.”
Lola straightened. “You were born into the aristocracy and married into it as well, but once that husband passed, my condolences,” she added somberly, “you remarried your creative and skilled architect, Mssr. Meunier, and had planned to live with him here.”
The woman said nothing.
Undaunted, Lola continued. “Unfortunately, he also passed, and again, my condolences, I can’t imagine grieving for two husbands, but you continued with your plans and why not? This place is a paradise!”
The woman smiled. “Yes, it truly is.”
“But,” Lola added, “you also live here because you are finished with society and have no wish to return.” She paused. “How did I do?”
The old woman sat back. She gestured, and a waiter appeared as if through the wall to hand her another champagne glass. He offered one to Lola, too, who accepted. She was feeling the two cocktails, well, two and a half, and now the second glass of champagne. The world was a happy, joyous place and she was content as she’d ever been.
“You are quite clever, as I’ve said.” The woman sipped from her glass. “That is quite a feat. I had thought I was taking more care.”
“I’m sure you are,” Lola hastily assured her. “I’m simply curious and like to eavesdrop.”
“Do you?”
Lola nodded.
“And what did you overhear?”
Lola considered. “The two rich women in The Steward Room talking about a woman living here in a manner that said they knew something about your past, and the fact that an earl, apparently ‘The Earl,’” Lola stressed.
“He certainly likes to think so,” the old woman inserted dryly.
“The fact that he had told one of them. Also, you yourself, ma’am.”
“Indeed?”
“You have aristocracy written all over you.”
The old woman actually glanced down at her hand. She held it up, turning to show Lola the blue veins under the thin, pale skin. “I suppose I do at that.” She lowered her hand. “I am curious why you’ve gone to such trouble.”
“I happen to like secrets.”
“Do you?”
“I like discovering them. And uncovering them. And learning everything I can about them.”
“I hope you also enjoy keeping the occasional one.” The woman eyed her.
Lola nodded, all playfulness gone. “When it counts, absolutely.”
“Then consider this one expensive, indeed.”
Lola smiled. She held out her hand. “Lola Lucille Rose. Pleasure to meet you.”
The old woman hesitated, then extended her hand. “Edwina Blythe Fromer Meunier, Baroness of Alwick.”
Lola stared. Baroness. Blythe.
“You . . . you’re Sir Caldwell’s mother?”
“Oh, my dear, no. I’m his aunt. His father was my older brother.”
Sir Caldwell the baroness’s nephew.
The baroness smiled. “I still had a few secrets you did not discover.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lola frowned. “Or is it My Lady? Your Grace?”
Her laughter was light and airy. “As you say, I’m finished with society. Here, I am Madame Meunier, widow and inheritor of the Regal Rose Hotel. For you, though, Miss Edie will due.”
“Miss Edie.” Lola smiled again, her nervousness fading. Miss Edie patted her on the arm.
“You’ll grow accustom to this life. Now, you’d best return to your mother. Midnight approaches.”
“I’ll stay if you like.”
“I’m quite content to watch from afar.” She took another sip of her drink.
Lola stood and wished her a happy New Year before walking away. She crossed the room to join Arthur.
“Well?” he asked. “Mystery solved?”
“You knew all along,” she accused.
He smiled, revealing those winsome dimples. “Of course. She is my great aunt.”
“But you said nothing! You suspected I was trying to discover who she was.”
Arthur made a slight shrug, a gesture she was recognizing as a common one of his. “It wasn’t my secret to share.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Lola watched the dancers circle the room in a lively waltz. The orchestra played beautifully. Lola could admire it even if she it wasn’t her cup of tea. Or mix of cocktail, to put it more in her perspective.
“Now would you care to dance?” Arthur asked.
“Oh, goodness, no.” She answered so quickly that she didn’t think how it would sound. “It isn’t you, Arthur. I don’t waltz.”
“Ah.”
They stood in awkward silence.
“Are you going to share my great aunt’s secret?” Arthur asked, pitching his voice lower as a couple neared, chatting about the gala. “You did say you couldn’t keep one.”
Lola winced. “I do have some self-control, when it counts.” And this was expensive, she reminded herself. If she were completely honest with herself, this was a delicious secret to know, and to keep.
“Ah, good.” Arthur looked relieved.
“Besides, I’m happy to have discovered the facts. I did also say that I like mysteries.”
“Because you like solving them.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you satisfied with the ending to this one?”
Lola considered, tapping the heel of her shoe on the parquet floor as she did. She knew Arthur was watching her, so she took her time. The question felt like it required a considered answer.
She put her rose-painted nail against her lips. “Yes,” she finally answered. “I think I am. Though it was intriguing, having a mystery in the hotel.”
Arthur chuckled. “Are you certain there aren’t more?”
Lola opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but the crowd fell silent around them.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the portly Sir Winston called in a deep voice to reach the entire hall. “May I have your attention, please. Sir Caldwell Blythe, if you will.” He gestured and Sir Caldwell joined him at the front of the hall. Lola’s mother was with him.
Butterflies began to flitter inside Lola’s stomach. Was it possible there was another mystery she hadn’t seen?
“Friends,” Sir Caldwell called, “it is my great joy and honor to share that the lady Deborah Addington Rose has agreed to become my wife.”
She gasped. But it made sense. Her mother going straight to Sir Caldwell in The Steward Room. Sitting next to him at dinner. Even the waltz . . . they had all been signs. And she’d completely missed them.
The hush continued. Lola, shocked at the silence, looked at the gathered guests, truly looked at them. Many were emotionless, apparently having no stake in the news, but several looked absolutely horrified.
Lola gritted her teeth, lifted her chin, and called out in her best British.
“Raise your glass to the happy couple!” And she raised her glass.
“Cheers!” Arthur called, raising his own.
It took only a moment for the rest of the hall to follow along. Soon the hall echoed with well-wishes.
Lola lowered her glass to throw back the rest of the champagne.
“Steady on, there,” Arthur warned.
“Oh, I’m fine.” She glared around her. “What burrs got under their saddles?”
Arthur chuckled. “Found you.”
“What?”
“Texan-Brit.”
Lola’s shoulders slumped. “Gave myself away, didn’t I?”
“No, not entirely. I’ve been paying attention all evening.”
“You have?”
He made that half shrug.
“And what did you see?”
His answer was interrupted by Sir Winston.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention. Midnight and 1923 are approaching.”
“He makes it sound like the Apaches are attacking,” Lola whispered.
Arthur bit back his laughter.
“Ten, nine, eight . . .” Sir Winston counted down, his eyes on the pocket watch in his hand.
Arthur faced her. “May I have the honor of bestowing the traditional New Year’s kiss?”
“. . . four, three . . .”
Lola turned her face up to him, warmth spreading through her. “You may.”
“Joyous and happy New Year,” Sir Winston called as Arthur’s lips brushed hers.
“Happy New Year,” he said.
“Oh, I think it will be.”
The End
