Parlor Games

by Maryka Biaggio

  The hollow-cheeked Mr. Ramsey sat up straight, adjusting the collar of his starched white shirt. “At least tell us how you came to marry a baron.”

  “It’s a long story. We married at his home in Holland. My goodness, it’ll be nine years next month.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” said the solid Mr. Weber, “how did you meet a baron?”

  “Gentlemen, I’m just a simple girl from Michigan—a modern Cinderella, you might say.”

  Mr. Weber thumped one of his sausage-fingered hands on the table. “Ach, I don’t believe it.”

  “Honestly, I grew up in a log cabin in Muskegon. I can tell you all about it.”

  “Please do,” said Mr. McFarland, with a sweep of his arm.

  “My father owned a tavern. I had an older brother, Paul, who walked me to and from school every day. One day, when Paul took sick, I stopped at my father’s tavern instead of going straight home. A fiddler stood on a table in the corner, sawing away at that fiddle and making everyone merry. When I walked in, the men lined up to dance with me. Mind you, I was only seven, but my father had taught me how to dance. I reeled from one man to the next and had such a wonderful time I arrived home very late for dinner.”

  “What a naughty Cinderella,” said Mr. Weber.

  “My mother was furious, hollering at me for worrying her to death. ‘But, Maman,’ I said, ‘I had to help Louise with school lessons.’ ‘I don’t care what Louise wanted,’ she said. ‘Please,’ I begged, ‘please forgive me.’ She said, ‘When flowers turn blue. Now off to bed. There’ll be no dinner for you tonight, or tomorrow, either.’ Once the house quieted, I scrambled out my bedroom window with a candle lantern. I found a thicket of wintergreens and feasted on their tender new leaves. Then I picked some tiny forest-floor blossoms, arranged the miniature bouquet in an inkwell, and left it on the kitchen table with a note apologizing to Maman. By morning, the blooms had turned indigo blue.”

  “And did you have dinner the next night?”

  “My favorite—perch and potatoes.”

  The men lit into laughter, and the woman at the next table—a solid-framed woman in a stylish wool suit—guffawed.

  Once her laughter subsided, I turned to her. “Would you care to join us?”

  “You bet I would,” she said, striding over to our table and sticking out her hand. “I’m Frank Shaver. From Chicago.”

  It turned out that Frank, who I guessed to be roughly my age, was quite a storyteller herself. The men she’d attended law school with had dished out a lot of guff, and she regaled us with some of her comebacks: “Better watch out, buster, we might meet across the aisle in some big case”; “Is that the best insult you can muster?”; and “You think a woman’ll be out of place in a courtroom? Well, at least my voice carries, which is more than I can say for that banjo twang of yours.”

  Frank and I took to each other like old school chums. When she announced she needed to retrieve her bag for the next stop, I said, “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see Frank off.”

  As Frank and I sidled along through the cars, I asked where she was from.

  “Grew up in Pittsburgh. My parents still live there. But the place is too stodgy for me.”

  “But Chicago, you couldn’t call it stodgy.”

  “Oh, no. Sometimes the excitement’s not the right kind, but it keeps the law and lawyers busy.” Frank opened the door to the next car and guided me through, as amiable as a gentleman showing a friend around. “How long are you in the States for?”

  “I hope to stay awhile,” I said. “Catch up with my family in Menominee and see to some business.”

  “I love the U.P. Get up there every summer to fish.”

  “Really? Well, you’ll have to stop in Menominee and visit.”

  “I’ll take that as an invitation.”

  “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Wills, contracts for small businesses, property sales. Just two of us in the office, so we end up doing a little of everything.”

  We flattened against the windows to let a party of four pass.

  “Really? I just bought a resort hotel in Arkansas. I could use some legal advice.”

  “I can help with property contract matters, as long as they’re not particular to Arkansas law.” Frank yanked her suitcase off the storage rack.

  I asked, “Do you know Michigan law?”

  “I sure do. Went to law school at University of Michigan.”

  “I may need your counsel in the future.”

  “I’d be glad to be of service.”

  By the time the train pulled into Milwaukee, we had exchanged addresses and promised to write each other.

  With my train scheduled to arrive in Menominee early in the morning, I rose at five to dress and pack. I’d set aside one special outfit for my arrival: a maroon dress with a multilayered skirt, puffed sleeves, lapels brocaded with black braids, and a narrow embroidered strip of white fabric binding the lapels—an altogether regal look.

  The train pulled into a dark and drizzly Menominee shortly after six. I stepped down my compartment steps onto the familiar platform and took in the red station—more shrunken and dull-colored than my memory had painted it. A pine-scented breeze carried hints of burning wood. Plopping my traveling case on the platform, I hugged myself for warmth. I’d neglected to pack my pelisse, and fall had not lingered here: It was nearly cold enough for sleet. I lifted my face into the bracing mist and surveyed the jagged treetops silhouetted against dawn’s milky sky. A rush of memories—of rambling through Michigan’s pine-needled forests, running barefoot along its sparkling shores, and warming up on chill mornings before a blazing woodstove—flooded me with nostalgia.

  “You there, May.”

  I followed the voice—Maman’s—and she, Paul, and Gene hurried up to me, shuffling flat-footed on the platform’s rain-slicked slats.

  I flung my arms around Maman. “It’s been too long.”

  “By ten years,” she said, nearly hugging the breath out of me.

  “And, Paul”—I turned to him—“missed you, big brother.”

  He embraced me. “You, too, little sister.”

  “And who do we have here?” Little Gene was not so little anymore. At twenty-four, he’d matured into a handsome young man, with a comely, chiseled face and lively ocean-blue eyes. I reached up to hug him. “My goodness, you must be six feet tall.”

  “Six two, sister.” He lifted me up in his arms, swung me a quarter turn, and eased me down. Chuckling, he asked, “Or should I call you Baroness?”

  I patted his cheek. “ ‘M’lady’ will do.”

  Paul reached for my suitcase, and Gene, who was dressed quite fashionably in a wool jacket and plaid vest, offered his arm. I nestled my arm in his and squeezed up close to him.

  Maman walked to my other side, took my hand, and led me down the platform. “You wouldn’t believe all the talk around town. Our very own baroness coming to visit.”

  I believed it when we walked through the double-boxcar-sized train station, which was unaccountably crowded for such an early hour. All eyes turned on us. Some of the smattering of gentlemen fingered their hat brims as I passed, and the ladies either nodded or attempted modest curtsies. To be honest, although I knew Menominee had never before laid eyes on a baroness, all the attention surprised me.

  Another surprise awaited me when we reached the house. The furniture did gleam from a fresh polishing, the carpets smelled fresh, and the kitchen counters sparkled, but the pantry contained fewer than twenty jars of put-up vegetables, mostly tomatoes, green beans, and beets.

  While Maman prepared a breakfast of egg-battered bread, I asked, “Didn’t you do your usual canning this year?”

  She kept her back to me. “Sure I did. We’ve just been eating more from the pantry this fall.”

  “You been buying much from the butcher?”

  “Not much. Hunting season opens week after next. Paul’ll get a deer.”

  It pained me
to think of it: While I had been living the rich life in London, Maman had been struggling to get by with her garden, a few laying hens, and paltry supplies of flour and sugar. Still, I didn’t want to fuss about it. I poured myself another cup of coffee. “Meantime, let’s go shopping and buy some fancy canned food. And stop by Daltry’s and get a roast for dinner.”

  “That’d be nice,” said Maman, flipping the bread onto a platter and pretending at nonchalance.

  Paul stomped into the kitchen. He’d changed out of his cotton shirt and black dress jacket into a dull-green flannel shirt. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “I’ll be going out on the lake after breakfast. We’ll have trout for dinner.”

  “Mmm, fresh-caught fish,” I said, twisting around to smile at him. “I won’t turn that down.”

  I could have predicted Paul’s resistance to my offer, stubborn and proud as he was. But fishing and hunting couldn’t stock the pantry or buy coal for the furnace.

  It took me only one day to determine how to help my family—and at the same time handle the remodeling and management of the Potash Sulphur Hotel.

  I found Gene lounging over the Menominee Herald in the parlor my second morning at home. “Gene, I need you to help me with an errand. Will you get the carriage ready?”

  He flipped the newspaper to the next page. “I was going to meet some fellows this afternoon.”

  I gripped the center of the paper and lowered it to catch his eye. “I have something to discuss with you.”

  He uncrossed his legs and set the paper aside. “If you say so, m’lady.”

  When we got to Shimek’s Furniture Store, I asked him, “If you were furnishing a hotel from scratch, what sort of things would you buy for it?”

  Gene stroked his chin. “Aren’t you mysterious?”

  Mr. Shimek swaggered up to us and asked if we needed help.

  “Oh, no. This is just a scouting visit,” I said. As he rambled off, I turned to Gene. “Come, now, tell me how you’d go about it.”

  “Do I have unlimited money?”

  “No one has unlimited money.”

  He headed down the store aisle, passing by the couches. “I’d do the rooms first. Figure out some kind of coordinating theme. Stylish but not too expensive.”

  We stopped at the beds and dressers. Gene pointed to a bed with square, four-foot-high posts and a headboard edged with scrollwork. “Like that, tasteful but not too ornate. And that matching dresser over there.”

  I nodded. “What else would you put in the rooms?”

  “In the suites, a couch and maybe a secretary. In the regular rooms, a stuffed armchair, maybe two if there was room. And curtains and bedspreads to match the upholstery.”

  “And the lobby?”

  “I’d splurge there. Sprinkle it with a few comfortable sofas and lots of stuffed armchairs. And coffee tables and side tables for drinks and newspapers.”

  “What about decorations—paintings, rugs, and such?”

  “I’d put up paintings of the lakeshore and area lighthouses. Maybe a few deer racks. And acquire some quality carpets. Should plan on a lot of feet passing over those carpets.”

  “Hmm,” I said, turning toward the door, “shall we discuss it over luncheon?”

  Once on the sidewalk, Gene offered his arm, twisted his head toward my ear, and whispered, “But first I’d check the Sears and Roebuck Catalog. Likely to find better prices there than at Shimek’s.”

  After we’d been seated at a corner table in the Erdlitz Hotel’s dining room, Gene flattened his forearms on the table. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  I revealed my recent Arkansas purchase and asked, “Can I hire you to remodel and manage the place?”

  “Why, you little fox,” Gene said, leaning back and appraising me with crossed arms. “Why not ask Paul? He’s handier with tools.”

  “Because I need someone who gets along well with people. Workers can always be hired.”

  Gene chuckled. “I don’t know. Don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of work.”

  “What kind of work are you cut out for?”

  “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

  A waiter headed in our direction. I put a hand up to warn him off a moment. “What about dentistry?”

  “Who wants to muck about in people’s mouths all day?”

  I drew my spine up straight and glared at him. I’d paid for his dentistry schooling and this was how he thanked me? “What have you done lately to help Maman put food on the table?”

  “Now, that’s not fair.”

  “Do you expect to live off my contributions all your life?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’ll pay you well. And deposit a portion of your pay with Maman. You won’t even have to think about it.”

  He nodded, knowing full well he had no choice. “All right, then.”

  “Good, you’ll leave next week. The remodeling will take at least six months.”

  Two weeks later, I received my first letter from Rudolph. While I’d been traveling, he’d had no mailing address for me, but I’d written him three times, informing him of my movements and the resort business.

  November 8, 1901

  My darling May,

  How lonely the house is without you. I even miss Daisy’s cheerful face and Dicky’s way with the horse and carriage. That nice elderly couple who live next door have had me to dinner once or twice a week. (Remember the Allens? They helped us find the nearest grocer and the shortest route to the train station.)

  Miriam is well, but Mother took a spill and broke her ankle. Of course, she is terribly aggravated over being in a wheeling chair. She cannot get around without Miriam or her maid, and you know how she hates depending on others. I will leave London sometime this month and spend Christmas and January with them, unless you can hurry back for Christmas. If so, I can wait for you and we can travel together.

  It sounds like the hotel purchase was wise, that is, if it turns out as you hope. But do be careful about taking advice from strangers. From what little I know of America, not all its businessmen are above reproach. In any event, I expect you to not become encumbered with the hotel. If it truly is a good speculation you should be able to take your profit once word gets out about that racetrack.

  Darling, I think of you constantly and miss you more than words can say. Please come home soon. I promise I’ll take you to the theater and opera, just as we did those summer months after we first met. We’ll have a grand time.

  Write soon, and tell me of your plans, my dearest.

  All my love,

  Rudolph

  GENE AND FRANK

  CHICAGO AND PITTSBURGH—1902

  I begged my husband’s indulgence—I couldn’t possibly be home for Christmas—and informed him I’d embarked on a thoroughgoing remodeling of the Arkansas resort, a project that sorely required my supervision. And since Rudolph was incapable of understanding the sort of financial woes burdening my family, I explained that the situation required delicate handling to avoid wounding anyone’s pride, at least not Maman’s and Paul’s.

  As for Gene, it wasn’t his pride that concerned me but, rather, his ability to oversee the remodeling and effectively manage the business. Thus, I provided detailed instructions, required frequent reports from him, and meted out funds for the expenses in small lots.

  Five months after Gene traveled to Arkansas and undertook the remodeling, a number of important decisions had cropped up, and I suggested we meet in person to discuss them. I chose Chicago, because Frank and I had been corresponding regularly and she’d invited me to visit. When I mentioned having my brother join us, she said she’d love to meet him.

  Such delight I took in my return to Chicago, relishing the carriage ride from the train station through Chicago’s gleaming downtown: its upright citizens bustling about their business in springtime attire; buds plumping out on the trees; avenues lined with potted pansies and violets; and here and there a shiny new a
utomobile zipping around the horse-drawn carriages. Not even the knowledge that Dougherty resided here dampened my spirits—after all, I was now a baroness living a respectable life.

  Inviting though the evening’s sun-warmed streets and brick buildings were, Gene and I found ourselves exhausted from our travels and business discussions, so, our first night in town, we asked Frank to meet us for dinner in the hotel’s dining room.

  “You couldn’t have picked a more modern hotel,” Frank said as the maître d’ escorted us to our table. (I’d insisted Frank take a room—at my expense, of course—at our hotel, the Auditorium Annex, so that we’d have more time to visit.) “It was built for the Columbian Exposition.”

  Gene pushed Frank’s chair in for her and circled his glance around the high, gilded ceiling. “And to think May wants me to turn a broken-down Arkansas firetrap into this.”

  Frank and Gene had a giggle at my expense.

  “Only an approximation,” I said. “It’s a rather different clientele.”

  Frank, who wore a long-sleeved, burgundy dress that showed off her buxom build, turned to Gene. “How do you find Arkansas?”

  “Scorching hot already,” Gene said. He caught the eye of a nearby waiter before continuing. “Would you believe it?”

  “I found it quite pleasant into fall,” I said.

  Frank smiled at me. “I suppose it’s all part of the bargain—heat half the year and temperate weather the rest.”

  “I’m sure Gene is grateful to be employed,” I said, mostly for his benefit. “After all, he could be fighting in the Philippines.”

  Frank shook her head. “Roosevelt’s winding it down. Public’s turned sour on this war.”

  “You know,” said Gene, “you can actually build down there in the winter. Can’t do that in Michigan. Or Illinois.”

  Frank leaned toward me. “I’ve never been that far south.”

  Just as I said, “You must visit,” Gene rushed in with, “Then come on down.”

  Frank threw her head back and laughed. “Two invitations! How can I resist?”