She swallowed before adding, “And the payment is due in six months.”
Charles looked away, then back. “I must be adding to our coffers.”
Tory searched his face—an older face to her eyes, not belonging to the daring and confident man who had rescued her from the streets of New Orleans nearly five years past.
“How?”
“I can still play cards, Tory.”
She jumped to her feet. “No. You promised—no more gambling.”
“Circumstances, not good intentions, dictate our paths, Tory. I am, perhaps, not as sharp as I once was but, if I am careful, I can still bring in a steady income until the hotel is solvent. I would not involve you in the games, of course. Your job would be here, helping me to manage the hotel.”
Tory stared at him, unspeaking.
Charles pursed his lips. “And I will require a stake if I am to bring in the needed funds.”
“You have no money left?”
“Precious little, Tory. I’ve sunk everything into the hotel.”
“Then where—”
“I must borrow from the hotel’s accounts.”
“But . . .” Tory, who oversaw the accounts and paid the bills, knew they had no margin between their account balance and the bills coming due.
“Decide which bills you can let slip for a few weeks, Tory, and provide me with the cash I need. I will require at least five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred!”
“The games I will seek to join are with players who can afford to lose.”
With sinking spirits, Tory nodded. “If you say so, Charles.”
Later that day, having tussled with the upcoming bills and chosen which she would allow to lapse into the “past due” category, Tory walked to the bank and withdrew five hundred dollars. Before she left, she carefully noted in the ledgers that the funds were withdrawn at Charles’ instruction and that she was giving them directly into his hands. Then she drew up a separate paper.
Tory set the bundled cash and the note on Charles’ desk. “Please sign this before you take the money,” Tory murmured.
“What is it?”
“A note authorizing me to withdraw the funds at your direction and acknowledging your receipt of them.”
Charles snorted. “Not very trusting of you, Tory.”
“It has more to do with trust than you think, Charles. You entrusted me with the hotel’s finances. Well, I take that commission seriously and insist on managing my responsibilities in a forthright manner.”
Charles signed the note without comment and pocketed the money. “I will be out late this evening.”
Tory stopped at the door and said, “I wish you good luck.”
Tory did not know how late Charles stayed out, but he did not make an appearance at breakfast. When she saw him midmorning, he looked tired but triumphant.
“How did you do?”
“For a first night, as a new face, I played conservatively. Still, I came out a hundred dollars ahead.”
Tory released a sigh of relief. “This is not the direction I had hoped we would go, but I am glad of your success.”
Three evenings a week after that, Charles left the hotel to play cards. His late nights meant he slept in the following mornings, and Tory found that more and more of the responsibility of the hotel fell on her.
For room, board, and five dollars a month, she complained silently. She did not, however, see a way out of their impasse. Either Charles brought home additional funds, or they would not make the second half of their down payment on the hotel. To that end, she banked every dollar of the winnings he brought home, maintaining his stake at the initial five hundred dollars.
She had started to hope they might make the payment on time when Charles came to her office mid-November and closed the door.
“I will need another stake.”
Tory swallowed. “You lost last night?”
“And the night before that.”
“But . . . if I withdraw another five hundred dollars, that is half of what we have saved toward the second part of the down payment.”
“And we are still five hundred ahead, are we not? Five hundred we would not have had?”
Tory could not argue with him. “I will go to the bank after lunch.”
She did not say what was obvious: Barring a miracle, they would not make their March deadline.
December 1907
“I WOULD LIKE THE HOTEL done up right for Christmas, Tory.” Charles drew on his cigarette, but the haze of smoke he released did not disguise the dark circles beneath his eyes and the new lines at the corners of his mouth. “We need to entice the holiday revelers, capitalize on the influx of visitors the city will receive through New Year’s.”
“What did you have in mind?” Tory had stopped presenting the accounts to Charles. He understood how perilously close to losing the hotel they were without seeing the numbers.
“A large decorated tree in the lobby, bows and greenery throughout the lobby and dining room.” He waved away the smoke. “I leave it to you to present the old girl in the best possible light.”
Changing the subject—as he always seemed to do to avoid any talk of their accounts—he asked, “Have we guests in our large suite?”
“Not at present.”
“Hold it back, please. One of my new acquaintances is expecting an old friend, a Mr. Holmes, to visit Denver next week. This acquaintance promised to send Holmes to my hotel.”
“Is this . . . guest also a card player?”
“No, but, according to my acquaintance, Mr. Holmes has, in the past year, come into a considerable fortune. I would have him spend it with us rather than elsewhere. My acquaintance also tells me Mr. Holmes may be looking for investment opportunities.”
Charles sighed. “More to my point, I hope to persuade Mr. Holmes to invest in the Broadmoor. While I regret the necessity of parting with a share of the Broadmoor’s ownership, I would regret the hotel’s loss more if we are unable to meet our obligations.”
Tory nodded, relieved and glad of Charles’ concession to their precarious position. “All right, Charles. I will present the Broadmoor in its most advantageous light and do my best to make Mr. Holmes amenable to your proposition.”
THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, the guests Charles expected arrived. Tory had whipped the staff into a flurry of Christmas decorating and had turned out the lobby in exquisite style.
“Tory, may I present Mr. Darius Holmes and his granddaughter, Miss Belinda Holmes?”
Tory inclined her head to a bent, gray-haired gent and his companion, a delicate blonde in her early thirties. Tory stood a head taller than the gentleman and towered over his granddaughter.
Charles looked from their guests to Tory. “And this is my foster daughter, Victoria Washington. She was the daughter of an old and dear friend and, as my foster daughter, I have taken the affectionate liberty of calling her Tory.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes and Miss Holmes; welcome to the Broadmoor.” Tory smiled and extended her hand to them.
“Delighted, my dear, simply delighted to be here,” Mr. Holmes murmured, giving her hand a perfunctory squeeze. His accent confirmed his distinctly Southern origins.
As Tory offered her hand to Miss Holmes, the woman shifted her gaze back to Charles. Tory kept her hand extended a moment before she drew it back to her side, telling herself that Miss Holmes had merely missed her gesture.
“I must say, Miss Washington, the lobby is stunning,” Mr. Holmes added. “Festive and breathtaking. Of course, not as breathtaking as you—you are quite lovely.” He peered up at her with much the same awe as a boy staring through the window of a candy store.
“You flatter me, Mr. Holmes.” Tory found that she liked the old gent. “I can hear that you hail from the South, sir. May I ask where you call home?”
“The capital of Mississippi, Miss Washington. Jackson. Have you visited our fair city?”
“No, I confess that
I cannot claim that honor.” She turned to include his daughter. “By the way, you may be interested to know that we are installing you and Miss Holmes in our best suite, the Broadmoor Regal.”
“Excellent! If it lives up to its billing, Belinda and I shall be more than comfortable.”
Charles, sensing how well things were going, said, “Tory is responsible for the hotel’s décor. The lobby and the Regal suite are her creations. I will allow her to show you to your rooms.”
He beamed in Tory’s direction. Tory, happy of his pride, lifted her chin and returned his smile with pleasure.
“Ah, that explains it,” Miss Holmes murmured, the lilt of her accent as soft and silky as rose petals.
“Yes?” Charles asked.
“I am certain her tastes are as charming as they are simple, but I prefer my surroundings to have a certain . . . Continental flair, with the shimmer of crystal and a soupçon of gold, the rich texture of velvet and brocade.”
Tory blinked. Miss Holmes had spoken as if she were not standing less than three feet from her, perfectly within earshot.
“And Mr. Luchetti—may I call you Charles?” Miss Holmes blushed. “Oh, do say I might, Mr. Luchetti? You may call me Belinda.” Even before Charles responded, she took his arm. “Charles, I hope you will personally show us to our rooms?”
As he acquiesced and led her away, Charles seemed flustered. Everything about Miss Holmes bespoke softness and femininity: She stood less in height than her grandfather’s shoulder, and her voice was as sweet as nectar, yet she had, with little effort, taken charge of the proceedings.
“My, my, my,” Mr. Holmes muttered. “Well, perhaps you would do me the honor, Miss Washington?”
“But of course, Mr. Holmes.”
Mr. Holmes offered Tory his arm. As they followed after Charles and Miss Holmes, the woman smiled into Charles’ face. “And I must say you have done an admirable thing, Charles,” she gushed.
“Oh? What might that be?”
“Why raising your dear Tory to from child to womanhood. Think of it: To have given her a home all these years, to have invested your time and talent in her, to have trained her in a skill that enables her to go out into the world and live an independent life? Why, a man who performs such a selfless duty, even when that duty must have been a terrible burden, is to be esteemed.”
Miss Holmes smiled again. She glanced back once. When she saw Tory on her grandfather’s arm, her smile wilted. As Charles threw open the door of the suite, Miss Holmes rushed to her grandfather’s side and dismissed Tory with, “Thank you for looking after Grandpapa, Miss Washington. You have been most kind.”
Tory nodded and pivoted on her heel, thinking, This queen bee warrants prudence. She dips her stinger in honey.
Chapter 22
The Christmas season sped by, the hotel a delightful procession of holiday activities and visitors. The influx of guests provided a layer of padding to the books that Tory hoped would continue into the new year.
It did not.
The numbers of guests dropped to a low point as winter set in and visitors to Denver declined. However, Darius and Belinda Holmes tarried at the Broadmoor after Christmas. In fact, Tory was surprised, when she turned the calendar to February, that the Holmes party was still ensconced in the Broadmoor Regal suite.
And Charles, it seemed, had made it his mission to accompany them throughout the city in his ongoing effort to induce Mr. Holmes to invest in the hotel. He and Mr. and Miss Holmes were inseparable through the holidays and beyond.
Tory had been too busy through the holidays to notice Charles pulling away from her. They seldom took meals together of late, yet Charles regularly dined with Mr. Holmes and his daughter. Tory had attempted to join their table once, but Charles had given her a signal they had perfected during the years in St. Louis, a signal that simply meant, “stop,” or “no.”
Tory, thinking Charles to be close to inducing Mr. Holmes to buy into the hotel, had backed away and made no further efforts to join the threesome. For, in addition to Charles’ signal, Tory found it obvious that Belinda Holmes would no more eat with a half-negro woman than she would dine in the gutter.
Staring at the calendar marking the first day of February, Tory’s stomach clenched. She had more pressing concerns than Miss Holmes: The note for the second half of the hotel’s down payment was due in four weeks.
BY THE TIME THE SECOND week of February ended, Tory had grown numb with continual worry and with the distance Charles had put between himself and their financial woes—and between himself and Tory. That morning, she beckoned Charles into her office.
“Charles, are you any closer to securing financing from Mr. Holmes?”
“Ah, Tory. Yes, um, I do wish to apprise you of my progress.” He took a seat behind his little-used desk and Tory sat opposite him. Then Charles fiddled with a pencil, chewed his bottom lip, and exhaled.
Tory blinked at Charles’ uncharacteristic behavior.
“The thing is—and as I am certain you are aware—if I do not come up with the remainder of the cash payment by the first of next month, the man from whom I purchased the hotel will move to repossess it. I must act quickly to avert this disaster.”
“Act quickly? In what way? To do what? I do not . . . I do not understand what you are saying.” Tory’s heartbeat quickened.
“I have spent a great deal of time with the Holmeses since their arrival in December. I cautiously broached the topic of the Democratic National Convention this July, how the convention will draw upwards of forty thousand conventioneers to Denver—in addition to the fifteen thousand or so convention volunteers. I suggested to the Holmeses how this single event has the possibility of setting the Broadmoor on its feet.”
“But only if we pay off the second half of the down payment first.”
“Yes, of course, but even paying off the note will not save the Broadmoor.” Charles exhaled again and plowed ahead. “We require a large infusion of cash to also finish the renovations before the convention so we can let all of the rooms. Only then would the Broadmoor stand a chance of regaining its previous standing.”
Tory’s elevated sense of apprehension jumped higher. “And how do you propose to accomplish these lofty aspirations, Charles? Where do you expect to find such money?”
Charles hesitated, then blurted, “I have asked Miss Holmes to marry me.”
Tory sputtered, “What? You want to marry that woman, Charles? You must be mad! Surely you are joking?”
“I am not joking, Tory. Miss Holmes is her grandfather’s sole heir. When Belinda and I marry, Mr. Holmes has agreed to pay the balance of the hotel’s debt and provide the funds to fully remodel the north wing.”
Tory felt stress bleeding from Charles as if it were blood flowing from a mortal wound.
If Mr. Holmes is going to provide such a large amount of cash—in exchange for Charles sacrificing himself on the altar of matrimony—why is Charles behaving so?
Charles stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “Tory, changes are coming to the Broadmoor and you must . . . you must ready yourself for the inevitability of such change.”
“The inevitability of such change? What change?”
“It, ah, does not suit the future Mrs. Luchetti to have you continue in my employ, Tory.”
Tory sat straighter. “Not continue in your employ? Why ever not?”
Charles looked away. “Miss Holmes and I will marry at the end of the month.”
“In two weeks, you mean.”
“Yes, and I . . . I must insist that you depart before our wedding. She wishes to exercise her own tastes over the hotel and—”
“That woman confuses garish gilt with understated, timeless elegance. Why, she would—”
“I must be clear, Tory. Miss Holmes sees you as an impediment to the hotel’s, er, character.”
Tory laughed. “Me, an impediment to the hotel’s character?” Then his meaning became clear. “By character you mean my mixe
d blood. She thinks my kind should not represent her hotel. She is a bigot, Charles—she and Miss Visser are hand in glove.”
Charles sighed. “Perhaps what you say is true, Tory, but Belinda—Miss Holmes—has certain, ah, sensitivities to which I must give due consideration.”
“Due consideration? Consider this, Charles: Denver is not Jackson, Mississippi; Denver is not at all like Miss Holmes’ precious ‘Magnolia State.’ How dare she—”
“You make my point for me, Tory. The survival of the hotel is at stake; I, therefore, cannot countenance any clashes between you and . . . my wife.”
Tory scoffed. “Your wife. Does your future wife comprehend what she is getting? A man who prefers other m—”
In one fluid move, Charles stood, reached across his desk, and slapped the rest of Tory’s words from her mouth. If Tory’s heart had not been so hurt, she might have responded. As it was, she stared at Charles, not believing what he had done, not believing he would throw off their friendship of years in order to save the Broadmoor.
Charles sat back. Looked down and tried to regain his equilibrium. “You would do well to bite your tongue, Victoria.”
Tory, her hand still to her face, spit back, “So it is Victoria now. After I have given and given, Charles, you turn me out? All to save your precious hotel?”
“It is not merely the hotel, Tory; it is me. I can no longer make a living at the card table, and I am too old to begin again with nothing. I must stick with the Broadmoor and make it work. And,” he paused long enough to make a point, “you have often expressed your desire to be an independent woman.”
Tory wanted to scream, to curse. She wanted to hurt Charles, score his face with her fingernails. But she did none of those things. By a supreme effort of her will and with the practice of years of self-effacement, Tory’s expression settled to a placid state. Outwardly, she looked calm and unmoved, while within she seethed.
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