Quiet Eleanor had fashioned both of their hair, and she had done so with surprising fluency and speed. Hattie suspected Eleanor had worked as a lady’s maid back east, but she did not ask. No one wished to speak about their pasts.
Mr. Montgomery had purchased Hattie’s dress as a birthday present over a year ago, when Hattie turned eighteen. The green gown belled from the waist and made a perfectly delicious swishing sound each time she stepped. Gold silk chiffon draped around the hem and at her sleeves. The gold-stitched embroidery gave the dress the slightest shimmer in the light.
“I wanted to save the dress for something special,” Hattie said, watching as Eleanor pinned a final curl.
“You should wear my locket.” Eleanor stepped toward her trunk.
Hattie stopped her by grasping her hand. “You wear it. This dress is already fancier than most. I needn’t stand out any more than I already do.”
Regina snickered. “I suppose you will catch Mr. Ellison’s heart. One week will be a record.”
“That’s not at all what I’m trying to…” Hattie folded her arms. Was she trying to catch his heart? Maybe she wanted him to care for her like she did for him. At least then he might forgive her. She cleared her throat. “You’re one to talk, Regina. I hear you have three suitors hoping to dance with you tonight.”
“I don’t care for any of them.” Regina slumped on her bed, leaning back on her freshly pinned curls. Tears pooled in her eyes.
Reminders of the past often came like that—sudden, unexpected, and horribly painful. Hattie shook her head. “Regina, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”
She wiped at her eyes. “I know. You needn’t worry about me. I shall dance and smile tonight, even if it kills me.”
“At least you get to go to the dance,” Nora called from across the room. “But I do suppose someone needed to stay behind to work.”
Hattie knew little of Regina’s past—where she came from or why she chose the Brody Hotel. Only one piece of information seemed important, and that was Will. Her fiancé had died of a sudden illness.
“I am sorry you have to stay, Nora.” Eleanor asked, reaching into her trunk. She turned back to Hattie and Regina. “A bit of perfume?”
Hattie bit her lip and nodded. “Yes. Regina, shall we all walk downstairs together?”
“Course. Why wouldn’t we?” Regina sat up in bed, wiping the last of her tears. “A new year and a new future. January is supposed to be a time of hope, am I right?”
Eleanor took both of the other girls’ hands and pulled them out the door and down the stairs. Lightness, or at least the appearance of it (Regina was skilled at pretending), settled between them, and laughter rung out by the time they reached the lobby.
Their laughter came to a sudden stop. A tall and elegant man stood at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at them. Hattie had to catch her breath.
“Miss Carlson,” Mr. Ellison said when she reached the final step. His eyes glazed over her appearance, and a blush overtook him. He offered his arm. “I had a carriage hired.”
A sudden bout of nervousness encompassed her. She could not meet his gaze. She wanted to, but her heart burned in anticipation and fear. She placed a gloved hand on his arm, following him down to the foyer.
The front door cracked open, and Mr. Brody entered, bringing with him a whipping wind.
“Mr. Ellison, Miss Carlson,” Mr. Brody said, tipping his hat. He carried a small bouquet of evergreens and hollies. “It’s the most I could conjure at this time of year.”
Hattie smiled. His kindness should not have surprised her. He had, after all, released the entire staff, except for Miranda and Nora, to attend the dance. Such an act was significant, signifying Mr. Brody’s care for his those he employed.
She shivered and took her shawl from her other arm. Her sleeves were much too large to fit into her coat, so the cashmere would have to do in the winter chill.
“Allow me,” Mr. Ellison said, wrapping the garment around her. His hands lingered near hers, and his lips trembled. “You look beautiful. That is—you always do. But, tonight…”
His fumbling for words brought a smile to her cheeks. He seemed almost as nervous as she felt. “Thank you. Shall we?”
They climbed into the carriage. Darkness settled upon them, and conversation came easily, as it always did. The ten-minute commute to the Hall ended in the middle of a dispute about which sweet was superior—bread pudding or apple pie.
“I tell you, my cook makes the best bread pudding. I will have her make you one, and then you will be convinced,” Mr. Ellison said. He opened the carriage door and climbed down. “Will you agree to try it with an open mind?”
Hattie laughed. Bread pudding had the ability to animate his features like she had never seen. “And when will this take place? After you have returned to San Francisco? Mr. Brody tells me you leave in the morning.”
He lifted her from the carriage and set her on the pavement. “About that, I planned on telling you.”
“That was always the plan, was it not? After you found what you were looking for, you would return home…Did you find what you were looking for?” She wanted so much to tell him the truth right then and leave for San Francisco with him, but her mouth clamped shut, and the aching in her throat pulsed once more.
His brows knit together. “Did I find what I was looking for?” His eyes, near gray in the glow of lanterns, met hers with an intensity that unraveled any composure she had left. “That is a difficult question to answer. Perhaps I found a bit of it, and more of what I was not looking for.”
She fixed on his expression—the way his lips pinched together but the dimples near his cheek still manifested, his gentle gaze and the freckle beneath his right eye. Hattie blinked and looked away.
“We should get out of this cold,” he said, leading her into the brick building. “Much better,” he said when they entered.
There were two large fireplaces, one on each side. Orange flames danced, and an older boy stood at the side of each, waiting to stock the fire at the slightest hint of wavering. The warmth was sudden, and walking into the room brought a wave of comfort.
“Yes, much.” Hattie took off her shawl and handed it to the woman at the front desk.
Light reflected across the wood floor. Topeka had been a small town until the railroad, but now it had grown into something more—a city with enough industry and people to stand on its own. Agricultural pursuits and civil liberties were its backbone.
“I’ve read about this place, Constitution Hall is it? Where the abolitionists met to discuss the antislavery movement?” Mr. Ellison looked around the room.
Hattie smiled. Couples danced to the eight-piece orchestra’s music. The event was quaint in comparison to other parties Hattie had attended, but this one felt more special, more significant. “Yes. An odd place for a dance, don’t you think?”
He held out his hand. “This will do if you will dance with me, Miss Carlson.”
She slipped her hand in his and inhaled. His nearness felt so familiar, so comfortable, yet alarming and unknown at the same time. When she met his gaze, her knees went weak. The moment to tell him the truth had come again, and Hattie could not let it pass. With each moment that passed, the dread of telling him the truth only grew.
“Mr. Ellison,” she said, shaking her head. “There is something I have been meaning to speak with you about. You remember that day when you surmised I came from a family of high society?”
Mr. Ellison laughed. He placed his hand on her back and lead her into the waltz. “You choose to tell me now, when we are dancing?”
Hattie wanted to return his laughter with her own and forget all about telling him. But a weight hung on her heart, and she longed even more to be free of the burden. “I suppose a dance might be a strange time. But supposing what I tell you is bad, your manners dictate you finish the dance, finish hearing me out, correct?”
He smiled, and the corner of his lashes tangled together. “Is that why
you’ve agreed to come with me tonight—so that you may corner me into hearing a horrendous speech?”
She smiled, but her heart thudded to a stop. “Not at all, but I must tell you before another moment passes. I am not who you believe me to be.”
“No. I won’t hear it, Miss Carlson.”
The sound of Miss Carlson stung her ears. “But—”
“But nothing. Over the last week, I have come to know you. No detail of upbringing or birthplace could dissuade me of your character. In fact, I have found myself fearing my departure, for the possibility of losing your friendship.”
Hattie’s throat closed in. His kindness and generosity made telling him more difficult. “I have not been honest with you.”
Mr. Ellison’s smile went flat, and his eyes bore into hers. “Nor I with you. And if you are determined to ruin this dance with confessions, I must make my own.” His eyes closed for a moment, and he swallowed. “You might not remember our first meeting as I do. I spoke of a woman that I was searching for—A Miss—”
“Montgomery.” A sudden tear pooled in her left eye. “I remember.”
“Well, you see. I did not tell you why I was looking for her. I should have, and I would have, had I not felt so curious about you, Miss Carlson. You see, I am not a free man.”
Tears now slid down both cheeks. No, no, no. Tears would be her undoing. Hattie pulled from his embrace. “I need just a moment, Mr. Ellison. Please forgive me.”
She was stopped by a gentle tug of her hand. She turned to see his hand wrapped around hers. The gesture caused her tears to multiply.
“Please, don’t cry.” He pulled her closer. “I should have told you sooner. My heart was promised long ago, when I was still a child—and not by me. My father, you see, chose my future wife for me. I have been brought up with the knowledge that I would one day wed a Miss Montgomery.”
Hattie’s chest shook with restrained sobs. Perhaps questions would silence her tears. “And you agreed to your father’s plan?”
Mr. Ellison sighed. “I do not wish to marry her, if that is what you are asking, but my honor and my responsibility dictate I marry her. I would not have abandoned her—that is, I planned to go through with my father’s wishes, if only for her sake. But then she took off to some hidden place, all because she was so opposed to marrying me.”
“You cannot believe that. Surely she was repulsed by the betrothal in general. No one wishes to have their husband plucked for them.” Hattie’s breathing returned to normal, and her tears subsided. “I would not wish it.”
“No.” His hands fell to her waist, and he stepped closer. “Nor would I.”
Hattie’s heart spurred into a second race, clamoring and sputtering out of rhythm. “Then will you choose your own wife?”
He dipped his chin. “I plan on it. A single word releasing me, and I will be free to court the woman of my choosing.”
“Then you have one in mind?” Hattie met his glance.
His hand lifted to her cheek, and he dropped his lips to hers.
Charlie’s head spun. His lips pressed against hers stirred myriad sensations. His hands instinctively pulled Miss Carlson closer, despite his better judgment, and his lips continued to explore hers with growing intensity.
Her hands pressed against his chest with surprising strength.
“Miss Carlson.” He stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. He had not meant to kiss her or hold her or confess his feelings so immediately. But he did not regret doing so, at least not as far as he was concerned. He searched her face. “Have I done something wrong?”
The music ended, and her face twisted in seeming pain. “You must not call me that.”
“Would you rather I call you Adele?” He had long wished to call her by her first name.
Her eyes pooled with fresh tears. “No.”
The dance floor was now empty as couple filed back for new partners or punch. Charlie took her by the arm and led her to the side. No one else needed to endure such heartbreaking tears.
“Mr. Ellison?” a loud voice boomed.
Charlie turned with a start. The man from the mercantile stood a few feet away. “George, I have been meaning to pay you a visit. I planned on stopping by before my train tomorrow,” Charlie said, still clutching Miss Carlson by the elbow.
“No need. The bill has been paid in full.”
Charlie frowned. He had only made the order yesterday, and Mr. Brody had agreed to let Charlie pay. “May I ask who paid?”
George winked. “Mr. Brown says its classified, but I caught sight of the ledger. The money came from an account in Philadelphia with the name Montgomery. The money was wired this morning.”
Miss Carlson’s entire body went rigid.
“Montgomery?” His throat dropped to his stomach. That was impossible. How on earth had Mr. Montgomery sent the money? Charlie had only glossed over his injury, and he did not recall mentioning the lost brooch. “Are you sure?”
George grinned. One of his front teeth was missing. “Sure as day. Whoever Montgomery is, he just saved you a whole lot of money.”
Charlie massaged his temples. No, he had not written about the brooch—he was sure of it. He let out an exasperated sigh and turned to Miss Carlson. “Pardon me, I just…”
Guilt stared back at him.
Charlie shook his head. Surely Miss Carlson had not paid the bill. Why was she staring at him like that? Why did her tears serve as a confession, and her pursed lips as an apology? But then his glance fell to her chin, and then her dress.
That gown. He had seen one like that before. He reached into his suit pocket, searching for the profile of Miss Montgomery. He had nearly forgotten about the photograph. “It cannot be,” he said to himself, holding the picture to the light.
Miss Carlson retreated from his grasp, backing to an empty wall. “I tried to tell you so many times…”
A gust of wind rolled through the front door, and a large and imposing man stood in the door frame. He wore a newly pressed suit and wore an assortment of gold jewelry. His auburn hair matched Miss Carlson. His deep voice thudded through the room, silencing all conversation. “Pardon me. My name is Theodore Montgomery. I am looking for my daughter, Miss Hattie Montgomery.”
A soft sob carried across the room, and Charlie’s eyes alternated from Miss Carlson to the man at the door. Surely not. Charlie’s head spun for the second time that evening, but this time, no enjoyable sensation accompanied his disorientation. His palms grew sweaty, and Charlie struggled to maintain his balance.
Miss Carlson—the woman that had served him at the Brody Hotel, the woman that had sat at his bedside and shared comfortable conversation, the woman he had fallen in love with and just kissed—could not possibly be his intended.
No amount of coincidence could explain the chances. Charlie could not believe that Miss Carlson was, in fact, his betrothed, Miss Montgomery.
“Hattie, is that you?” Mr. Montgomery asked, stepping into the room.
Her eyes were glued to the floor, and tears continued to slide down her cheek. She bit her lip and nodded. “Yes, Father.”
The man’s shoulders caved forward, and he stammered forward. “My girl. At last, I have found you. I have sent men to search for you in all directions. If it were not for Lilly Ackerman and Mr. Ellison, I might still be looking for you. Come, let me see you.”
She fell into her father’s arms, and he led her out the door.
Charlie’s knees buckled, and he moved to a chair. He studied the picture in his hand. How had he forgotten the profile of Miss Montgomery? The profile of his fiancé was that of no other than Miss Adele Carlson.
Chapter 10
The hotel lobby was empty and darkened. Everyone, except for a nurse and Rose, had attended the party. Rose and the nurse were tucked away in the family’s wing, and so the entrance of the hotel felt cold, lifeless—much like Hattie felt.
She wished she could run away, hide, and never be seen again. But that was the way wit
h children, and Hattie had already learned that running away did not erase difficulties; on the contrary, running away only compounded them. Like her advanced arithmetic class at school had taught her, compounding often resulted in exponential growth—and her life had grown exponentially harder by her decision to flee.
Her father grunted and pulled the double doors shut against the howling wind.
Hattie pulled the edges of her shawl tighter. Her tears had dried. After entering the carriage with her father, a change had taken place. An ache, stronger than tears and sobs, had cracked against her chest. In place of tears came a dry solemnness. In place of cries, came silent resignation.
“You cannot know the fright you caused,” her father said, turning to meet her glance.
His eyes were black in the light, but his voice was even, calculated. Hattie knew; he was attempting to stay calm, maybe even gentle.
She took three steps to the desk and lit a lantern. “If we must discuss this now, we should do so by light and at a table. Will you take some tea?”
His lips pursed, and he surveyed her for a long moment. “Yes, I would like that.”
“Come,” Hattie, said, gesturing toward the dining room. “You may have your pick of tables, though I prefer the one by the back window. You can see the light of trains and stars.”
Her father followed her, and, as large as he was, his footsteps were like those of a child in freshly fallen snow—indistinguishable in the clatter of the wind against the shutters.
Hattie seated him and moved to the kitchen. As the water heated, Hattie took time to collect her thoughts. There was no room for excuses nor lengthy explanations. Running from her father had been wrong—no matter the reason. After all, Mr. Montgomery was not a mean or violent man. Strictness, exactness, and presence were quite another thing. Difficult, or even imposing, but not inherently mean.
The kettle hissed against the stove, and Hattie moved it off the flame. She had felt like that kettle—bottled up and boiling, with nowhere to release her worries. But now, sufficient time had passed, and so much of her previous worries seemed lukewarm.
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