I reported the news to Rudolph at luncheon and said, “My family needs me. I must go back to the States.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
I’d anticipated such an offer from him, reluctant as he was to let me out of his sight for a single evening. “I think it’s best if I go on my own. I’ll try to make it a quick trip.”
Upon Daisy’s urging, I withdrew all the money from my London account: “You said you might want to invest it, and America is the place for that.”
In September of 1901, Daisy, Dicky, and I journeyed to Liverpool and boarded the SS Majestic for New York. Oh, how I looked forward to reclaiming the spirit of adventure I’d bottled up during almost nine years with Rudolph and his family.
ACQUISITIONS OLD AND NEW
FROM LONDON TO ARKANSAS—SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 1901
I so loved my well-appointed first-class cabin on the SS Majestic, the leisure of afternoons lolling in a deck chair, the beauty of sunsets at sea. In fact, I enjoyed everything about that crossing: my newfound sense of freedom; the utter relaxation of life without appointments; the companionable dinners. And after sacrificing so many youthful years to country life and reaching the age of thirty-two, I was pleased to find that men still flocked to me.
I never imagined, however, that my convivial chats with one particular American businessman would pay high dividends. Near journey’s end, Mr. Harry Drummer, an athletic but balding widower on holiday with his son, began to seek me out for late-afternoon cocktails. He jested he was “not only vice president, but finances pooh-bah” at Churchill Downs.
“Ah, Mrs. de Vries, there you are,” he said upon finding me chatting in the saloon with Daisy and Dicky. The aura of cigar smoke floated about him. “May I join you?”
Mr. Drummer hailed from Kentucky, just like my old friend Sue Marie, and I took some comfort in his long-voweled Kentucky drawl. I introduced him to Daisy and her brother, who drifted off to freshen up before dinner.
Mr. Drummer guided me to a seat by a porthole and ordered drinks for us. “What’ll you do when we land?”
I twisted my wedding ring to center its diamond on my finger. “My family is expecting me in Michigan. But I might stop a night in New York.”
“Well, I guess Robert and I’ll do about the same. Duty calls in Louisville.”
I gazed out the porthole. The seas surged with choppiness, the worst of our ten days at sea. Although I’d escaped a bad case of seasickness, the ship’s pitching did gurgle my stomach. “Goodness,” I said, “this roughness is a bit unnerving.”
“Swivel around here,” he said, rising to help me rearrange my chair and, in the process, suggestively clasping my shoulder. “It’ll help if you look at the horizon.”
I allowed—but did not yield to—his touch. “I wonder how long these unruly seas will last.”
He settled in his seat again. “The captain says just another day.”
I took a few deep breaths. “Yes, that’s better.”
Mr. Drummer braced his forearms on the table and leaned toward me. “Say, weren’t you talking about making an investment?”
“Yes, if I can find a worthy speculation.”
He lowered his voice. “Churchill Downs is planning to build a racetrack outside Hot Springs.”
“How far along are you with the plans?”
“Oh, it’s all on paper now, but we’re about to buy some property near Lawrence station. Place should be booming once we break ground.”
I grinned. “To say nothing of when you open the track.”
“Horse racing is lucrative.” Mr. Drummer swung his head in a loop. “Yes, it is.”
“Have you broken the news yet?”
“No, it’s strictly on the hush. If you’d care to join me for dinner, I can fill you in on the details.”
Our drinks arrived, and I swooped mine up and tipped it against his. “To shrewd investing.”
In early October, our ship steamed into New York, where I found the newspapers plastered with reports of McKinley’s assassination and Czolgosz’s trial and impending execution. The mood in the city was so somber I was loath to loiter even a day. I packed a suitcase and sent my wardrobe trunk ahead to Menominee with word that I would soon follow. Daisy, Dicky, and I took the train to Hot Springs and checked into the Arlington Hotel. That day and evening, we saw the sights in downtown Hot Springs, which was booming with rowdy visitors and gambling games—not that I had any interest in gambling myself. Before Dicky could search out the local ruffians, as was his wont, I sent him off to track down a horse and carriage for us to rent, and on the second day he drove the three of us to Lawrence station.
We arrived in the afternoon, parched from the journey, and toured all the dusty roads around the train station looking for a place to stay. But we found little by way of accommodations: a hotel with a sagging porch and a boardinghouse. So I ordered Dicky to drive us back to the station.
I thumped on the carriage compartment to signal Dicky to pull over.
When he jumped down, I opened the door and said, “Go in that tavern and ask if there are any nice hotels in the area. And please bring us some water.”
After a few minutes, Dicky emerged with glasses of water for Daisy and me, which we straightaway gulped down. He leaned against the carriage door, his hand braced on the door and a foot propped on the step.
“There’s a place several miles down the road,” he said. “Potash Sulphur Hotel.”
Dicky used the tavern keeper’s directions to drive us there. The eighty-four-room resort featured grounds with an archery range, badminton nets, and two bathhouses for taking the waters. The property sat atop a knoll, and behind it golden grasses rippled down to a river. Trees nestled along the river’s curves; their leaves had changed to oranges and browns but still clung to the boughs. The picturesque scene nearly tempted me to take off my shoes, skip down the hill, and dabble in the cool river waters.
We checked in, intending to relax for a few days before continuing our journey. I carried my suitcase down the long second-floor hall to my room. The construction seemed solid enough; I discerned only minimal creaking of the floorboards. But the paint on the hallway walls peeled away at the seams, and the doorknob to my room jiggled in its socket before catching. Blue-and-green floral wallpaper decorated the walls of the thirty-square-foot room, though the sun had faded the parts washed by window light. Acrid scents of perspiration and stale kerosene hung in the air. I brushed my hand over the liquid-and-cigarette-stained veneer on the bird’s-eye-maple dresser and inspected a lantern of about 1870s vintage stowed on a corner shelf. The bed, though covered with a clean, hoop-patterned quilt, squeaked when I sat on it. Upon turning in for the night, I couldn’t help but roll into the bed’s slumping middle; many bodies had obviously occupied its recess. I cracked my window to freshen the room, and the babbling river and rustling leaves lulled me into a dreamy slumber.
Daisy, Dicky, and I met in the breakfast room the next morning and seated ourselves on chairs smoothed down in their leg channels. I asked Daisy and Dicky to report on their rooms, which sounded as sorry as mine.
Studying the frayed edges of our beige tablecloth, I said, “This place could use a serious sprucing up.”
We sat near a wide window at the rear of the dining area. Dicky eyed the weathered window casing. “Maybe a good gutting.”
“At the least, new wallpaper and furniture,” said Daisy.
As we finished our flat cakes and ham, the owner’s wife, white-haired Mrs. Honeyman, came around to greet us.
“I just want to welcome you folks to our little piece of paradise.” Her cheeks plumped into cheery mounds as she spoke, and she clasped her hands over her round, aproned belly.
I reached out to shake her hand. “I’m Mrs. May de Vries. These are my traveling companions, Belle and Richard Emmett.”
Daisy and Dicky greeted her with nods and smiles.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
I looked into her
baby-blue eyes. “You have a lovely property here.”
“Well, thank you. We’ve been cherishin’ it for thirty-eight years now.”
“I’m surprised to see so few guests.”
“Oh, in its heyday people came from all over. But now it’s mostly regulars.”
“Is that likely to change in the near future?”
“No reason it should.”
“That adds to its appeal,” I said, glancing out the wide window overlooking the resort’s rolling property. “It’s very peaceful.”
With a “You folks enjoy your stay, now,” she sauntered off, swaying back and forth on her bowed legs.
I sipped my coffee and meditated on the view of rusty leaves glistening in the sun.
As Mrs. Honeyman sidled up to a table a few down from ours, Daisy whispered, “They don’t know about the racetrack.”
I replaced my coffee cup. “That appears to be the case.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“You and Dicky go into Hot Springs and track down some information about property sales, especially places comparable to this one. That’ll help me determine a fair offering price.”
Dicky pulled up out of his slump. “Might take some time to find some sales.”
“Stay overnight in Hot Springs if you’d like.” I calculated—two rooms and four meals for two, but not enough to tempt Dicky to drink intemperately—reached into my coin purse, and handed Daisy a twenty-dollar bill. “For your expenses.”
Daisy tucked the money into her skirt pocket. “We’d better get going.”
Daisy and Dicky dropped their napkins on the table and rose.
I caught Daisy’s eye. “And for goodness’ sake, be discreet.”
“You might have noticed: I’m actually quite good at that,” said Daisy, scraping her chair back into place and marching out with Dicky.
After Daisy and Dicky returned, I pored over the newspaper listings and property-sale records they’d retrieved, calculating what I considered a more-than-reasonable offer for the hotel.
I’d not yet met Mr. Honeyman, though I’d observed him speaking with his wife earlier in the day. His body type contrasted so sharply with his wife’s that they looked quite comical together. She was about five four, roly-poly, and stood at a backward slant, with her weight centered on her heels. But he reached a good five ten, with twiggy arms, lanky legs, and a stooped torso. Perhaps they’d made a more handsome couple in their younger years.
I strolled to the lobby that evening and found the owner working at his desk behind the counter. “Good evening, Mr. Honeyman. I’m one of your guests, May de Vries.”
His putty-gray mustache wriggled about his lean face as he settled a chew into his cheek. “Yes, the wife tells me she met you at breakfast. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to buy you and Mrs. Honeyman coffee tomorrow. Might you have time to discuss a business matter with me?”
He scrunched up one side of his face. “You mean your bill?”
“Heavens, no. My and my companions’ rooms are all paid up.”
He frowned as if he couldn’t imagine what other business there might be.
I looked around the lobby. “You have a lovely hotel here. I must say, we are very much enjoying our stay.”
He nodded and ventured a smile. “Well, I suppose we can meet you around ten.”
The next morning, I showed up in the breakfast room a bit before the appointed hour, dressed in my most conservative day outfit, a pastel-peach dress with a white lace collar. Mr. and Mrs. Honeyman emerged from the kitchen promptly at ten and sauntered over to the corner table I’d selected. Mrs. Honeyman carried a tray with silver coffee service and fine china cups, which was probably a personal set. I’d not seen anything like it at the breakfast offering.
I rose to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. Honeyman, I’m so pleased you could join me.”
“Why, sure, honey,” said the missus as she placed the tray on a nearby table and set out our coffee service.
I insisted on pouring the coffee, and we chatted for a bit about how they kept up the hotel and its grounds. Mr. Honeyman explained that they themselves took on kitchen duty, but they hired two groundskeepers and two maids to do the heavy work. “The wife and I are getting on in years. Can’t do as much as we used to.”
I lifted the pot and freshened our coffee. “Have you ever thought about selling?”
Mr. Honeyman cocked his head. “I don’t reckon we could afford to do that.”
“Are you carrying a contract?”
“No, we paid that off years ago.”
“What if I offered you fifty-two thousand dollars?” I knew this to be a generous offer, considering that the hotel hardly ever filled up and sorely needed repair and renovation.
Mrs. Honeyman’s eyes popped to alert, and Mr. Honeyman glanced at her and lifted his palm, obviously warning her to keep quiet. He planted his other hand on the table edge and straightened his arm, pulling his torso upright. “Now, we’ll have to think on this, Mrs. de Vries. Not something we really planned on doing.”
“Of course, by all means. And please don’t forget to put this coffee on my bill.”
The Honeymans did think on it. They proposed a price of fifty-six thousand, and we met in the middle, at fifty-four thousand, which I believe satisfied all three of us.
Mr. Honeyman and I recorded the sale the next day in Hot Springs, and I arranged to transfer funds for the first installment from my New York bank. We agreed that the remainder would be disbursed upon the closing of the sale. When I informed Daisy that we could be on our way, she invited me to her room “to discuss a private matter” with her and Dicky.
They offered me the wooden chair in Daisy’s room, and I sat and braced myself against its back. “Now, what’s this all about?”
Daisy, who sat beside Dicky on the bed, glanced at him and gave me one of her I’m-perfectly-serious looks. “You’re going to Menominee next, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You know you’re welcome to come along.”
“Dicky and I want to visit our mother. Didn’t really have time to do that on the way in.”
Was this what they were fussing about? I flapped my hand at them. “Oh, heavens. Of course you can do that. I’d never stop you from seeing your mother.”
“Dicky and I will require sixty dollars for our fare and expenses.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“That’s not all,” said Daisy. She crossed her legs and straightened her spine. “I stopped sending money to Mother after you emptied that first fund from Rudolph.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. You know that forced me to stretch the new account.”
“If I’d kept sending her money all this time, it’d amount to one thousand fifty dollars.”
“That sounds about right.”
“You said you’d make up the money for Mother if I helped you come into some funds.”
“And I will keep my word. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant than you, Daisy.”
Daisy nodded to Dicky and turned to me. “Dicky has something to show you.”
Dicky levered himself up off the bed and pulled out the bottom drawer of Daisy’s dresser. He extracted a soft cloth pouch and handed it to me.
The black pouch weighed heavily in my hand, as if the contents were concentrated—like gold or lead.
Daisy grinned at me. “Go ahead, open it.”
I loosened the slip string on the pouch and poured the contents into my palm.
“My yellow-diamond necklace. Dear God, I’ve got my necklace back.” I bounded to my feet and hugged Daisy, Dicky, and Daisy again, all the time shedding tears of joy.
THE BONDS OF FAMILY AND FRIENDS
TO MENOMINEE—OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 1901
The next day, I bade Daisy and Dicky good-bye. They caught the morning train to the East Coast, and I left in the late afternoon, bound for Michigan.
As my train chugged out of Lawrence station, I squeezed by the other passeng
ers navigating the car’s narrow corridor. My sleep compartment, which was barely wide enough to turn around in, featured a neatly made-up bed, an overhead storage rack, and, on the opposite side, a counter with an inset wash basin and two wide but shallow drawers. I deposited my suitcase on the bed, unlatched it, and dug out my yellow-diamond necklace. Bracing myself against the counter, I stood before the mirror and fastened it on. Such a beautiful piece, I thought; I’ll never tire of gazing at it.
I’d shaken a finger at Dicky during our private meeting, “So you’re the one who nabbed my necklace.”
His expression brightened with one of his rare smiles.
“As I was leaving the ball?” I asked.
He nodded. “A little trick I learned on the streets of New York.”
And then Daisy took my hand. “So you mustn’t ever show it in public, either in England or anywhere else.”
But I could wear it in the privacy of my own quarters and, in some distant future (after everyone had forgotten it was a stolen item, with the insurance money already disbursed), once again dazzle admirers with it.
I was traveling on my own for the first time in nearly a decade, with nary a soul to answer to. It was exhilarating. My first full afternoon on the train, I circulated about the lounge car, where I met several august gentlemen. No sooner had I accepted Mr. Ramsey’s invitation to dinner than Mr. Weber joined us and asked if we had dinner plans. Turning to Mr. Ramsey, I said, “Why not make it a party?” Mr. McFarland came along soon thereafter, and the three gentlemen escorted me to dinner. I asked to be seated at a table that could accommodate one more person, just in case someone else happened along. Mr. Ramsey ordered a bottle of claret and told the waiter not to rush us.
Mr. McFarland, a wiry young man with a red beard that tangled at its fringes, said, “Mrs. de Vries, I understand I should be addressing you as Baroness.”
“Technically, yes,” I said. “But we’re not at a royal ceremony, are we?”
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