An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  Beneath the cloche was a meringue structure styled to look like the turret of a castle. The waiter handed Mr Gallo a small silver hammer, which he raised in ceremonious fashion above his head. Then he brought it down on the pudding in one swift blow, sending fragments of shattered meringue flying across the table. This action was met with whoops and applause.

  “There it is! The Nesselrode!” He pointed at the domed ice pudding. “Made with only the finest Italian chestnuts and maraschino. You must all have a piece of this, I absolutely insist! I shall serve it myself.”

  Chapter 7

  I felt nauseous at the thought of eating anything further, but the Nesselrode proved rather intriguing. The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. We had been supping for close to four hours.

  “Oh dear! What’s happened to Mr Blackstone?” asked Mr Gallo as he handed out the plates of iced pudding.

  I turned to see that The Times reporter was falling asleep on his chair and appeared to be in danger of sliding off it altogether.

  “He’s three sheets to the wind,” replied Mr Somers. “He’s utterly inebriated, Nathaniel. You’ve given him far too much wine.”

  Mr Gallo clicked his fingers to summon one of his waiting staff. “I think Mr Blackstone requires some assistance,” he said. “Take him up to his room and give him some coffee. It doesn’t look as though he’ll be joining us for our tour of the kitchens.”

  I groaned inwardly. I longed to retire to bed myself; indeed, the very last thing I wanted to do was tour the kitchens at this late hour.

  Mr Gallo noticed our muted response. “But you must come and see the kitchens! Jean-François will be extremely offended if no one goes down to pay him their respects.”

  We watched with bemusement as Mr Blackstone was hauled out of the dining room with his head slumped and his arms draped across the shoulders of two tall waiters.

  “The first one to fall!” laughed Mr Gallo. “Who’ll be next? You’re looking a little unsteady, Mr White.”

  The red-haired man shrugged, then began to laugh.

  The men retired to the smoking room for cigars while Mrs Mortimer, Mrs Mirabeau and I moved into the Lady Jane Lounge. It was furnished in red and gold with polished mahogany tables and a small harpsichord.

  “How does Mr Gallo stay so energetic?” asked Mrs Mortimer as we sank into the red velvet chairs.

  “He’s always like that,” replied Mrs Mirabeau. “In fact, he scarcely sleeps. He doesn’t seem to need it. He enjoys spending all his time in company. He doesn’t particularly enjoy being alone.”

  “So when he doesn’t have guests in the hotel he pesters you for company, does he?”

  “He tries,” Mrs Mirabeau smiled. “Not in any disreputable sense, of course. He has always treated me very honourably. But if he could keep me talking all night in the smoking room he would. He would happily sit and talk all night with anyone.”

  “His wife can fulfil that role when she arrives this weekend, I presume,” I said.

  “Yes, I should think she’ll be looking forward to seeing him. Oh, is that the time?” she exclaimed, glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece, which showed that it was just after half-past eleven. “I must see to something briefly. Please excuse me.”

  “Interesting lady,” said Mrs Mortimer once Mrs Mirabeau had left the room. Her comment had a disparaging tone to it.

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

  “She strikes me as a lady with a past.”

  “Are you implying that her past is dishonourable?”

  “Exactly. You only need look at her rouge and the colour of her hair to see that. And I caught her smoking a cigarette in her office earlier. You know what they say about ladies who smoke cigarettes. It’s a pursuit that is usually preserved for a woman of loose morals.”

  “Mr Gallo seems to think highly of her, and by all accounts she is excellent at her job.”

  “I suspect she thinks highly of him in return. The pair of them must spend a lot of time together. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  Such speculation on the nature of their relationship reminded me of the comments James and I had been forced to endure until recently. Mr Gallo had spoken fondly of his family a number of times, so I felt no reason to doubt his fidelity. Furthermore, I had no wish to be drawn into Mrs Mortimer’s gossip-mongering.

  “Mrs Mirabeau is a little unconventional,” I said, “but I see nothing wrong with that. My own sister is unconventional. She refuses to wear a corset and has adopted rational dress.”

  Mrs Mortimer gave a groan. “Such ugly clothes those ladies wear. I cannot understand it at all. Since ladies are blessed with such an attractive silhouette, why ruin it?”

  “For reasons of practicality. My sister enjoys riding a bicycle, and she can hardly do so in conventional skirts.”

  “No, she couldn’t. However, the best solution would be not to ride a bicycle at all. I don’t understand this modern fashion for ladies to behave like men. Men and women complement one another because we have different abilities. That’s what makes marriages and communities work; it’s all due to a combined effort on the part of both sexes. There is no need for women to have the vote, for example, as the responsibility is shared between husband and wife.”

  It was rather late in the evening to be drawn into a discussion on women’s suffrage, so I felt quite relieved when Mrs Mirabeau returned to the room. A short while later we were joined by the men.

  “The consensus seems to be that we must tour the kitchens in the morning,” said Mr Gallo. “The hour is apparently too late for some.”

  Captain sat at my feet, expecting a pat on the head, so I obliged. The clock showed the time to be five minutes before midnight.

  “What have you done with Mr White?” asked Mrs Mirabeau.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think we lost him somewhere,” replied Mr Bolton, his words slurred with drink.

  “Maybe he went up to his room?” suggested Mr Goldman.

  “I don’t even remember seeing him in the smoking room,” said Mr Wentworth.

  “He was there all right,” said Mr Gallo, “but then he took himself off somewhere.”

  Mr Bolton leaned against the back of a chair to steady himself.

  “I believe more drinks are in order!” announced Mr Gallo.

  “Not for me, I’m afraid,” said Mrs Mortimer, rising to her feet. “I’ve had quite enough. I shall bid you all goodnight.”

  “And I shall follow suit,” I said, also standing. Captain got to his feet and trotted back to his owner.

  “Goodnight, ladies,” said Mr Gallo. “Thank you for your company this evening, and we shall see you at breakfast.”

  It was a great relief to be free of my corset and gown. I put on my familiar nightclothes and climbed into the large bed, which was comfortable but cold. A small gas lamp provided just enough light for me to read Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady by, but my mind kept wandering.

  In the dim light I could feel the eyes of the lady in the portrait hovering over me. I considered drawing the curtains around the bed to shield myself from the picture, but I had the irrational worry that doing so would enable someone, or something, to creep into the room without my knowledge.

  I got up and checked that I had locked the door. Satisfied that I had, I returned to the cold bed.

  I thought of the blaze that had taken hold of this place four years previously. Could the same thing happen again tonight? The roar of flames and the screams of trapped people desperate to escape filled my mind. The visions seemed so real that I felt sure I could smell smoke, and my heart began to pound.

  I sat up and tried to calm myself. I could still recall the aftermath of the fire. I hadn’t reported on it, but I had walked past the ruins and seen the hotel’s crumbled walls. Charred masonry and debris had littered the ground. The windows that had remained were like the empty eyes of someone deceased.

  I shivered as I thought about the extreme panic that must have consu
med everyone in this place that night. I tried to push away the thoughts of people struggling through smoke-choked corridors and stairways. Some of them had chosen to jump from the windows rather than attempt to reach the ground floor.

  I got up again and paced around the bed, reassuring myself that the tragic event was safely confined to history. Then I got back into bed and put out my lamp. Despite the dark, I still felt as though I were being scrutinised by the woman in the portrait.

  An image of the doomed hotelier, Mr Thompson, swinging from a rope flashed into my mind. My skin prickled as I thought of the staff who discovered him and how they must have run about the hotel and raised the alarm. I thought of them cutting him down and transporting him down the back stairs in a coffin shell.

  I finally managed to calm myself. The bed still felt cold, and I noticed that my body had barely warmed it. I needed my old bed shawl, which I had foolishly left at home. I realised there probably hadn’t been a fire in the hearth for some time prior to the unofficial reopening. The cold felt as though it had lingered in the bricks and timber of the building for several years.

  Although I wished Mr Gallo well, I couldn’t fathom why anyone would ever wish to pay money to stay in this detestable place.

  Chapter 8

  Sleep seemed far away as I lay in bed and tried to comfort myself with thoughts of those close to me: James and my sister Eliza. I then pictured Francis Edwards searching for my father in Colombia. I had shown Eliza and James his most recent letter over tea at the Royal Aquarium.

  El Charquito, United States of Colombia, 12th October 1884

  Dearest Penny and Eliza

  It is with great delight that I write to inform you that I have reached El Charquito! This is the little village near the Falls of Tequendama, where your good father was last seen. Anselmo and I are enjoying the hospitality of the people of El Charquito at more than eight thousand feet above sea level. The village is little more than a cluster of simple homes clinging to a track that winds down the thickly forested hillside. Although it feels remote here, we are only a short distance from Bogotá.

  The falls themselves are quite a sight, as the River Funza plunges five hundred feet. We are experiencing quite a deluge of rain at the current time, and poor Anselmo is rather disappointed! We have, however, been assured that the rainy season will soon end, and that fine weather will shortly be on its way. I recall you saying that your father always chose his expeditions in Colombia to fall during the dry season between October and March.

  I couldn’t wish for a better travelling companion than Anselmo. Not only is his knowledge of Spanish invaluable, but he is also agreeable company. I am prone to rumination at times, and his good spirits have lifted my mood on many occasions.

  We have visited the hut your father is believed to have inhabited. A delightful family lives there now. The hut sat empty for a few years, so the family knew nothing of your father, but we have spoken to a number of people in the village and some recall a European visitor nine years ago. As you can imagine, other foreigners have passed through this way since then, so we cannot be sure that every supposed sighting of your father is to be believed. However, I feel sure that we have received some accurate reports.

  The people who recall your father speak well of him. They tell us he was a pleasant, respectful man who clearly had a love for this country and its flora.

  The challenge we face now is to discover which route your father took when he left El Charquito. The people we speak to have differing opinions. I am rather wary of travelling miles along one route only to realise that we have made the wrong decision. So Anselmo and I shall stay in El Charquito for a while and make regular excursions along the various routes that lead out of the village. It is my hope that our enquiries along these routes will reward us with clues about your father’s onward journey.

  I shall dispatch this letter to Bogotá, and from there it will make its way north to the coast and the transatlantic steamships. Consequently, it will be some time before you are able to read these words. I hear that telegrams can now be sent from Buenaventura, which is a little more than three hundred miles to the west. If my travels take me in that direction, I hope to be able to send these communications with greater promptitude!

  I miss London and the company of my favourite sisters a great deal. I hope to receive a letter from you soon.

  With fondest regards,

  Francis Edwards

  “He has spoken to people who remember Father!” Eliza said, her eyes gleaming. “How wonderful! Surely someone must know where he is.”

  “That depends on when they last saw him,” I replied. “I do hope they’re telling Francis the truth and not simply saying the things he would wish to hear.”

  “Why should they do that?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps they feel compelled to be helpful.”

  “I don’t see why they should be. I think there is a great deal to be hopeful about here.”

  I felt wary of becoming too optimistic about our father being found. I had grown so accustomed to him being missing that I was reluctant to raise my hopes only to have them dashed once again.

  “This letter is dated the twelfth of October, so it has taken almost a month to arrive here,” I said. “Francis appears not to have received my letter by the time he wrote this.”

  “Your letters presumably passed each other by in the middle of the Atlantic,” said James.

  “I had hoped my letter would have been waiting for him when he arrived in Bogotá. It must have been held up.”

  “It had a long way to travel. There is no knowing what sort of hold-ups might be experienced along the way.”

  “It’s rather a miracle that any letters to and from such far-flung destinations successfully make the journey at all,” added Eliza. “What’s the matter, Penelope? Your face looks rather serious.”

  “I’m thinking about the letter I sent to Francis. I mentioned that the wedding had been cancelled.”

  “And what of it?”

  “I felt that Francis should know about it.”

  “I’m sure he will do by now,” said James.

  “Not if my letter never arrived.”

  “Then write him another,” said Eliza, “just to be sure.”

  “If he did receive it, he may not have been overjoyed about the news,” I said.

  “Because the cancellation of the wedding suggests that a courtship between you and James is now permitted, you mean?” asked my sister.

  “Yes,” I replied, giving James a gentle smile.

  “It is unlikely that Francis would be terribly upset if he were to reach that conclusion,” said Eliza. “The reason he left for Colombia was that he knew you would never marry him.”

  “That makes me sound rather mean, Ellie.”

  “But it’s the truth,” she said, taking a sip of tea. “I have no doubt that he swiftly adapted to the idea and is enjoying his exploits in Colombia without giving it any further thought.”

  “It was sensible to inform him, Penny,” said James, “just in case the man were to harbour any hope of a courtship when he returns.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he ever truly did,” said Eliza.

  “There is no doubt that he’s fond of Penny, though,” continued James. “I’m sure Francis would be reassured by your concern for his feelings, Penny.”

  “I’m not concerned,” I said.

  “Then why are we discussing the matter?” asked James brusquely. I had noticed on previous occasions that he had a tendency to become irritable whenever Francis was discussed. He didn’t give the impression that he disliked the man, but the fact that Francis had once wished to marry me sat uncomfortably with James.

  “I simply wondered whether he had received the news,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter either way,” said James.

  “So what is the status of your courtship?” Eliza asked us, her cup of tea poised beneath her chin. “What happens next?”

  “My former f
iancée pursues me in the courts, that’s what happens next,” said James with a scowl.

  “Oh dear. Really?”

  James told Eliza all about Charlotte’s legal action for his breach of promise.

  “Will you admit to the breach of promise in court?” she asked.

  “Of course I will. There can be no use in my pretending otherwise.”

  “And what was the reason you gave Charlotte and her parents for the cancellation of the wedding?” asked Eliza.

  “I told them that I felt I would be making a mistake if I were to go through with the marriage.”

  “Did you mention Penelope?”

  “No, of course not! This has nothing to do with Penny.”

  “Oh, but it does!” laughed Eliza. “Penelope is the real reason you put a stop to the wedding.”

  “I knew I was making a mistake,” replied James.

  “Is that what you intend to say in court?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have no wish to mention Penelope?”

  “Of course not! It wouldn’t be fair to bring Penny into this. I have no wish for her to receive any of the Jenkins family’s vitriol. I called off the wedding, so I must take full responsibility.”

  “Although I consider this all rather noble of you, James,” I said, “I think perhaps you need to be honest in court about why you have breached your promise of marriage.”

  “I shall be! I realised the marriage would not be a happy one. I realised I did not love Charlotte.”

  “But that you loved someone else instead,” added Eliza.

  “There is no need for the court to hear that point.”

  “I think you may struggle to keep it a secret,” replied my sister.

  “It’s not a secret; it is simply not relevant. I made the foolish mistake of proposing marriage to a lady I thought I loved, and when the day of the wedding dawned I realised it would be an enormous mistake. There is no need for Penny’s name to be mentioned in that courtroom, and I am sincerely hoping that it won’t be. Now, that’s the end of the matter, and I have no desire for discussions about this whole silly business to take up any more of our Saturday afternoon!”