by Annie Boone
16
The air had turned crisp with cold as December approached. Hazel, comfortable in her fur-lined muff and warm, fur-lined coat, knew that Harley had insisted that she order the garments for her comfort, but also so that she could not fail to impress the gentlemen who had come to the hotel for another meeting.
Their wives greeted Hazel like old friends, exclaiming over her hat, her coat, her dress. “My dear Mrs. Wyatt,” said Mrs. Barry, “it is plain that Colorado suits you. Mr. Wyatt, you must be very pleased with your wife. She is lovely.”
Harley, who was engaged in conversation with the men, looked over at the ladies. “Yes,” he said, before continuing to address himself to the men.
Mrs. Barry shrugged. “Men and business,” she said. “Nothing must intrude upon it. I wonder that your husband is so intent upon a theatre, Mrs. Wyatt. Is he fond of attending?”
Hazel didn’t know if Harley had ever been to a play in his life. There were many things that she did not know, but she could not admit to her ignorance. “He wishes the town to grow,” she replied circumspectly. “In order for Newton to compete with the likes of San Francisco,” she smiled at Mrs. Paul, “and even New Orleans.” She inclined her head toward Mrs. Barry, “we must offer entertainment on a far grander scale than we are now able to do. If the town can attract authentic talent from New York and London, Colorado will benefit. We need people to move here.”
“I understand that the state has a dreadful shortage of women,” Mrs. Paul commented. “I have even heard that men advertise for wives to come here. Mail-order brides, they are called. Women, for I am not sure they can be called ladies, actually travel from all parts of the country to marry men they have never met. I cannot conceive of such a thing, can you?”
Instinctively, Hazel knew that Harley would not want these women or their husbands to know that he had advertised for a mail-order bride or that she had been one. “I think,” she said, choosing her words with deliberation, “that many women come here to marry because it is the only way that females may find opportunities denied to them. I have spoken with women— ladies, I should say, for I can vouch for their virtue— who came here to marry and there is no shame in it. Back East, many marriages are arranged and although the gentlemen the ladies marry are not strangers, the courtship is very circumscribed. There are things that ladies of what we regard as good breeding do not know and would not know to ask. Here in Colorado, women can speak up.”
She did not realize that the men, their conversation finished, were listening to her speak.
“Well put, Mrs. Wyatt,” said Mr. Paul. “The West is creating a new kind of woman. The gentler sex is treasured here more than anyplace in the East, or even, dare I say it, in the world, because they are so rare and we poor, besotted men are humbled by their presence. I predict, further, that the day will come when women in Colorado share the right to vote with men!”
“Oh, Mr. Paul,” Mrs. Barry spoke, “I hardly think that likely.”
“Wyoming Territory has already granted women the vote,” Harley said.
Hazel looked at her husband with surprise. He did not sound as if the news of women’s suffrage in Wyoming Territory was something of which he disapproved.
“Yes, but a territory,” said Mr. Barry. “It’s a very different matter for a state.”
“As my wife has pointed out,” Harley said, “women who come to Colorado do so because they seek opportunity. They cannot go into the mines or operate a cattle ranch, but they can marry and by doing so, they are doing something of such intrinsic value that we must respect their efforts.”
“Mr. Wyatt,” said Mrs. Paul, “you are quite a radical.”
“No,” Harley said. “But I am wise enough to recognize my own wife’s wisdom and I ought not to belittle her sex.”
Harley’s words remained in Hazel’s mind throughout the lunch, even while she discussed her favorite plays with the ladies, and then when the women and men joined again, he entered the conversation that was brought up about the theatre itself.
“Will your local clergy oppose the theatre?” Mr. Paul wanted to know.
“I have spoken to Reverend Mains on the matter, and so long as there are no plays performed on the Sabbath, he is not opposed. He assumes that the subject matter of the plays will be uplifting and appropriate. And,” Harley continued with a slight smile on his face, “he hopes that the ladies will not be scantily dressed.”
The gentlemen chuckled. “I think we may assure him on those particular items,” Mr. Barry said. “While I admit that the theatre isn’t so constrained in San Francisco or New Orleans as it is likely to be, in its genesis, here in Newton, I think that theatre goers will become more sophisticated with the passage of time.”
“Oh, Mr. Wyatt, I nearly forgot,” said Mrs. Paul, changing the subject completely. “Mr. Paul and I were in San Francisco in October and we were so charmed to meet your sister, Mrs. Stapleton. We were boarding the train, and who should I see, but a lovely lady who looks very much like you. It was very bold of me, but I stopped her right where she was and asked her if she knew Mr. Harley Wyatt. She disclosed that she is your twin sister.”
“Yes,” Harley said. “Violetta is my sister.”
“Such a pretty name. She was traveling to meet her husband, she said.”
“No doubt. She is married to a major in the U.S. Army.”
“So brave of her to travel alone.”
“Violetta is indeed brave, but she would not have traveled alone. She would have been accompanied by one of her husband’s aides.”
“How very extraordinary.”
“Not at all,” Harley said. “Violetta serves as a sort of assistant to her husband and often travels as far as Washington D.C. on his behalf.”
“Truly? That is remarkable.”
“Violetta is a remarkable woman.”
There was an undertone in the conversation that Hazel could not identify, although she was aware of it. Unsure of quite how to deflect the topic to something less problematic, Hazel said, “I am eager to meet my sister-in-law. We are going to visit her in California next year. Perhaps we will be able to call upon you while we are there.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Mrs. Paul said, her attention diverted from the subject of Harley’s sister to the more inviting prospect of a visit from someone she knew.
The luncheon concluded successfully and the investors made plans to return in the spring, unless, Mr. Paul said with a twinkle, they would be able to entertain the Wyatts in California before then.
Bundled in her warm outerwear, Hazel still felt the chill of the day as she and Harley rode home in the open wagon. It was one thing she did miss, she realized; riding in a carriage, or even a hired cab was much more comfortable in cold weather. It was not even very cold yet, but the open air conveyed the chill of the season about to begin.
“Thank you,” Harley said after they had ridden for awhile.
Hazel was puzzled. She had done nothing to earn his gratitude. “What are you thanking me for?” she asked.
“For managing the conversation so adroitly. I see what you meant when you said, before the first luncheon, that women perceive things that men do not.”
“Oh,” she said. “It was nothing.”
“You did not tell her that I had advertised for a mail-order bride and you answered.”
“No. I did not think it something you would wish to have strangers know.”
“You are perceptive. I do not. Although California is part of the West, San Francisco isn’t as provincial as Newton. They would not have understood that in order for our state to grow, we must bring women here.”
“Yes, I see. Harley, your sister… I did not know her name,” she said awkwardly, feeling him stiffen as she sat next to her. “I believe there is a painting of your sister somewhere, but I have not seen it.”
“It is not on display,” he said.
“Why not?”
“There is no reason for it to be. In fact, w
hen we visit Violetta next year, I shall bring it to her to display in her own home.”
“I should like to see the painting. I cannot imagine a woman looking like you.”
“We are identical twins, Violetta and I, allowing for the differences in gender,” he said. “There is no reason to see a painting.”
“Is there a reason not to see it?” she asked quietly.
But he did not answer. At first, she thought that he was framing his response. It was not unusual for Harley to take his time in putting his words together. But when they continued to ride and the ranch came into sight, she realized that he did not intend to answer.
“Harley—"
“The painting is of no significance, Hazel,” he said sharply.
“The fact that you hide it and that you speak so churlishly to me tell me that it is of significance,” she retorted. “Not so long ago, you spoke with sincerity of the role that women will play in Colorado’s future. Did you mean nothing of what you said and now you would forbid me to even think of a subject which you do not wish to discuss?”
Harley was taken aback by her forceful tone. She was, herself, astonished at her boldness.
“My sister,” Harley said when he brought Juno to a stop before they reached the stables. “Violetta is a most unusual woman. She is more than Major Stapleton’s wife, she is his emissary to Washington. It is unusual for a military wife to be afforded so much responsibility but Violetta can handle the duty better than many men could. She does not travel alone, it would be neither safe nor seemly. A military aide accompanies her. But such traveling can be subject to unkind and unfounded gossip. I wished to nip it in the bud. I have thanked you for doing so by mentioning that we plan to visit next year.”
“Will I see the painting then?”
“The painting, I have told you, is of no significance.”
“Why is there no painting of you?”
“Why should there be?”
“You and your sister are twins; it stands to reason that you would have been painted together.”
“In Boston, perhaps. As I have told you numerous times, this isn’t Boston. In Colorado, we do things differently. There is no painting of me.”
“But there is a painting of your father, and your mother,” she said.
“Painted at different times by different artists,” he said quickly.
That did not seem to matter as far as Hazel could tell. The Ellis daughters had been painted together by one artist, but the portraits of her parents were from an earlier time.
She made no reply. But as she went into the ranch, she thought again that there were secrets at the ranch which would have to be revealed. If her parents came to visit or to stay, how would they know what topics to avoid because the concerned matters that Harley was not prepared to discuss? Mother and Father would never probe into a family’s private matter, but that was when they were aware of issues which were not to be brought up. They would know nothing about Oakley because Hazel could tell them nothing. And now there was a painting that could not be viewed.
Hazel was glad, when she entered the house, that the lamps had been lighted, even though it was still daylight. Although lamplight cast shadows, it had the benefit of yielding light as well.
17
Hazel and Clara were in the parlor, practicing the songs that would be sung at the Christmas performance in the mining camp.
Clara insisted that the operatic tunes she loved would be perfectly suited to the audience. Hazel gently pressed for carols and folk tunes to be included as well. “It will mean more to them,” she said, “if they know the words to the songs they are hearing.”
“Music,” Clara said firmly, “is a language that needs no words.”
“Then why have lyrics at all? Clara, can we not learn a few songs that the miners will know from their own countries? It will not be such a chore, we learned Italian songs and Spanish songs when we were in finishing school.”
“If we sing songs in their languages,” Clara said, “they might sing along.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“It will ruin the quality of the performance.”
“I thought the purpose of this performance was to show them the story of the birth of Christ. It sounds as if it is an audition for a recital.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clara snapped, straightening the sheet music on the piano. “This is a lovely song and they shall certainly perceive its reverence, even if they don’t understand the words. Mary has just been told—”
The door opened. Hazel heard Harley’s tread upon the floor and then he appeared in the parlor entrance.
“I had business in town,” he said. “I stopped for the mail. There’s a letter from Boston.”
“Mother and Father!” Clara said. “Oh, Hazel!”
Her sister had already taken the letter from Harley’s hand and opened the envelope.
Dear Hazel, she read, recognizing Mother’s elegant script,
It was with great joy that your Father and I read your gracious invitation, extending your hospitality to us for the Christmas season. We were touched beyond measure at the kindness of you and your husband.
“Are they coming?” Clara asked impatiently.
Even Harley, although he said nothing, waited as if he wanted to know as well.
“I don’t know. Let me read,” Hazel said to her sister.
I am feeling much better these days, and having your father so constant at my side has been, I am sure, the cure to my malaise. He leaves his lodgings after lunch and comes over to see me. We go for a walk every day, even now that it has turned cold. I do not know if it is as cold where you are as it is in Boston, but when our walk has finished, we are quite eager to return to the warmth of the fire inside.
I have spoken to the doctors about your invitation, and they can see no reason why I should not be able to travel West, even though it is very far. Your husband is very generous to pay our way, and we do not wish to be a burden to him.
The doctor says she can travel,” Hazel said aloud before returning to read the letter.
“I wonder if they have received my letter yet,” Clara queried. “I am sure that I was very persuasive in asking them to come.”
Leaving Boston for the frontier is a daunting prospect, I confess. I was a more adventurous young woman when I was a bride, coming to the United States from England. I am not so adventurous now.
“I don’t know. She says she isn’t as adventurous now as she was when she was younger.”
“She must come!” Clara said with urgency. “They must come to Colorado.”
But I miss my daughters—
“She misses us!”
“Then she will come,” Clara sounded positive.
And I confess that the prospect of spending the holidays without seeing the dear faces of my darling girls is a very bleak one. Your father wishes to come; he says he will be ruled by my decision, and I would not disappoint him as I know how much he misses the three of you.
And of course, when I told him that you have a piano, he said that we must come! So, my darling Hazel, I am jubilant to tell you that the train will bring us to Colorado for Christmas!
“They are coming!” Hazel exclaimed.
Clara clapped her hands. “Mother and Father for Christmas!”
“But remember, not a word of this to Minnie,” Hazel cautioned. “It’s a surprise.”
“Are they coming to stay?” Harley asked.
“She doesn’t say,” Hazel realized as she scanned the letter searching for some evidence that the journey West was for more than just Christmas.
“It doesn’t matter,” Clara said. “We shall make them so happy that they will not want to leave.”
“They could not simply come for a visit and leave everything behind,” Hazel said realistically. “If they plan to leave Boston, they must pack up all they have.”
Clara did not respond, but she knew better than anyone how little their parents had now to pack. M
ost of the family’s possessions had been sold because there was not room for them in their rented rooms. It would not be so hard for them to leave, she thought.
“Which rooms would you have for them?” Harley asked. “Jane will need to prepare the rooms for your parents.”
“If they could have the bedroom that faces the east,” Hazel said, “they could enjoy the sunshine. It is much sunnier here, even in winter, than it is in Boston.”
“They can occupy those rooms in that section of the house,” Harley said. “I’ll see that the furniture suits their needs. It’s time I went through all the furniture in the ranch anyway. We’ve more than we need. If you need anything,” he said to Clara, “merely let your sister know and I’ll have the men bring it to your house.”
Having delivered the letter, Harley nodded to Hazel and Clara and left the parlor.
“Why would he think that we need furniture?” Clara asked. “We have what we need.”
Hazel realized that Clara didn’t realize that all the furniture in the house that Peter had built for her was borrowed from Harley or, in the case of their bed, from Gavin. Pete had not told her, probably because he hadn’t thought to, and Minnie and Hazel had deliberately said nothing because it would be humiliating for Clara to realize that the very chairs that she sat on came from someone else.
“Oh, Harley doesn’t want anything to go to waste,” Hazel said glibly. “He would rather that it be used if it’s needed.”
“We have all we need, and I don’t think that Minnie could fit anything more, although perhaps that little guest bedroom of theirs could use a bed, and perhaps—”
