Watching Eagles Soar

by Margaret Coel

  The finest of the Old Guard—the Sacred 36, they called themselves—ruled Denver society, and never mind that J.J., sitting on a lake of gold, could buy and sell most of them. Never mind that he had purchased other gold and silver mines across Colorado and Arizona, Nevada and California, and enough real estate, including hotels, to assemble his own town. Never mind all of that. Molly and J. J. Brown were considered newcomers, interlopers sniffing outside the golden fence that surrounded the Sacred 36.

  Except that tonight, the Sacred 36 was coming to them.

  Molly slipped free of J.J.’s hand steering her left toward the bronze elevators and moved straight ahead into the spacious lobby filled with men in black tuxedos and women in shimmering gowns, strolling the Turkish carpets and reclining in plush chairs arranged around potted artificial trees. The domed ceiling soared overhead, six stories high. Suspended from the ceiling was a crystal chandelier that, Molly guessed, would fill most of the two-room shack in Leadville. Light from the chandelier danced and gleamed in the rows of brass balconies overlooking the lobby.

  The muted conversations and the rustling of taffeta gowns seemed to fade into the paneled walls as Molly led J.J. across the far end of the lobby to the winding stairway. She gave a little nod to some of the guests as she passed. Louise Hill—Mrs. Crawford Hill, ruler of the Sacred 36—was surrounded by a knot of other society women, all of them leaning toward Louise, gulping in her every word. She wore a lavender dress that trailed over the carpet, her chestnut-brown hair piled high and fastened with diamond pins that flitted like fireflies when she moved her head.

  Molly could feel the eyes boring into the back of her fox cape as she and J.J. started up the stairs, J.J.’s hand firm on the small of her back. Oh, they were a fine-looking couple, she knew. J.J., tall and broad-shouldered, with red hair oil-slicked into place, every inch the gentleman in his cashmere top coat and tailored black tuxedo, and the confidence about him of a man who had made his own fortune. J.J. had never been a common miner. He was a mining engineer, and when nobody believed that the mountains around Leadville—the silver city—would disgorge anything other than silver or lead, J.J. had believed otherwise. He had recognized the signs that gold could also be found, and he figured out how to get to it.

  Molly glanced over one shoulder and gave him a smile. She looked her best, she knew. The blue lace dress complemented her blue eyes and her own red hair was swept up and wound even higher than Louise Hill’s. She had worn the aquamarine necklace that J.J. had given her their first Christmas in Denver. Oh, how she had screamed with delight when she opened the red velvet box and saw the enormous blue gems winking in their gold setting. That evening she and J.J. and the children had taken a sleigh ride through the streets of Capitol Hill, laughing at the snow that blew in their faces and exclaiming at the fine mansions, light blazing in the windows, that loomed around them. She had worn the aquamarine necklace.

  At the top of the stairway, Molly linked her arm in J.J.’s and slowed their pace as they strolled along the brass balcony to give everyone in the lobby below a clear view of their progress toward the ballroom. Not until she and J.J. had inspected the ballroom and the dinner table settings and greeted the guests of honor would the maître d’ invite the other guests to ascend the stairs. She and J.J. were the hosts, and just as she had expected, no one in the Sacred 36 had turned down the invitation from the J. J. Browns to dine with Prince Alexander Orlovsky and his daughter, Princess Katerina, of St. Petersburg, with the royal blood of tzars coursing in their veins.

  “His friends call him Sasha,” Alice Beltran had written on the ivory sheet with the golden crown of the Plaza Hotel engraved at the top. Such a lovely woman, Alice, the kind Molly had dreamed of befriending even when she lived in Leadville, and she and Alice had gravitated toward each other that weekend last fall when they had each settled their children into the boarding school in Connecticut. Alice was living at the Plaza while her husband, George, made arrangements for their residence in St. Petersburg, where he was about to take up the duties of Ambassador to Russia.

  “Sasha has spent such a grand time in New York,” Alice had written. “As you know, Molly, royalty must associate with the best people. For that reason, my dear friend, I entrust the prince and his lovely daughter to you and J.J. for their stay in Denver. I know you will introduce them to the right sort. You can reach the prince at the Palmer House in Chicago until next week when he and Princess Katerina will embark by train to Denver.”

  Molly had fled down the second-floor corridor of the mansion and flung open the paneled door to J.J.’s study. “Royalty is coming to Denver!” she announced, waving the note in the air.

  J.J. had lifted his head from the pile of papers he was hunched over at the rolltop desk. “Royalty?” he said, blinking up at her. “We don’t know any royalty.”

  “Oh, but we will.” Molly crossed the study and let the note drop on top of the papers. “Alice Beltran, wife of our Ambassador to Russia—remember, I told you about her?—has entrusted a Russian prince and his daughter to us. It is our duty to see that they meet the right people.”

  “Hold on just one minute, Mol.” J.J. pushed his chair back and stared up at her with that supercilious grin that meant he was enjoying himself. “The right people haven’t exactly taken us to their hearts,” he said, amusement leaking out of his voice. The fact was that J.J. didn’t care a fig about the right people and the Sacred 36, which he called a bunch of self-appointed old biddies and their trained-pony husbands. J.J. had his mines, an expanding business empire, and a thousand employees, more than enough to keep him occupied without any concern for the Sacred 36.

  “But that’s the point.” Molly heard the exasperation in her voice. “This is our chance to be accepted. We must give a dinner at the Brown Palace. There must be an orchestra and dancing. What a stroke of luck! No one in society will turn down the opportunity to meet Russian royalty!” She had whirled about the study, letting the skirt of her morning dress swing out in a circle as if it were the blue lace dress that she already knew she would wear to the gala event. “They arrive next week,” she said, gripping the top of J.J.’s chair to stop the room from spinning. “So little time to plan a grand evening.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage.” J.J. pedaled his chair back to the desk and waved a hand over the papers in the sign that she knew well. She could do whatever she wished. Back in Leadville, after he had discovered more gold than they could ever spend, he had told her, “Enjoy yourself, Mol, and don’t forget the name of the bank.”

  Molly flung herself into the plans. It was like preparing for a military campaign, she thought, an assault on the Sacred 36. Nothing could be left to chance, nothing left undone. She sent a telegram to Prince Orlovsky telling him of the gala event she and J.J. would host, and received a reply that same evening. The prince and princess would be honored to be their guests. She ordered engraved invitations with golden ribbons tied about the envelopes and had them hand-delivered to the mansions of Capitol Hill. She spent hours on the arrangements at the Brown Palace, selecting the menu of ducks’ eggs, quail and roasted venison, parsleyed potatoes and squash, hothouse tomatoes and chocolate tarts accompanied by Champagne and the best French wines. She herself selected the cream-colored Irish linen tablecloths, the embroidered napkins, and the centerpieces of lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums, all coordinated with the candles that would flicker about the ballroom.

  The arrangements in hand, she sent a handwritten note to Polly Pry, editor of the Tattler, Denver’s gossip sheet, announcing that Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Brown would host a gala dinner at the Brown Palace Hotel to introduce Prince Orlovsky and his daughter, Princess Katerina, of St. Petersburg, Russia, to the finest of Denver society.

  She waited four days for the responses. They arrived almost at the same time, and she had understood. The initial victory in her campaign to storm the gates of Denver society was hers. The ruler of the Sacred 36 had given
the approval that sent her entire battalion into retreat. Louise Hill could not resist a Russian prince and princess.

  Just as they reached the entrance to the ballroom, Molly spotted a tall, thin-looking man at the far end of the corridor, hovering near the stairs to the third floor. He was dressed in black, with a pale, gaunt face and a short black beard that emphasized the tight line of his mouth. “Who could that be?” she said.

  “A hotel guest, Mol,” J.J. said, but she noticed that he had barely glanced down the corridor.

  “I wonder why he looks familiar,” Molly went on. “He doesn’t seem to belong here.”

  “Some might have said the same about us not so long ago.” J.J. squeezed her hand and steered her toward the double walnut doors that swung open before them. They stepped past a pair of doormen into a ballroom that took her breath away. Silver and china settings gleaming, ivory cloths draping the tables and bunching about the parquet floor, flower centerpieces perfuming the air, and soft candlelight suffusing everything. The ceiling floated two stories overhead with crystal chandeliers that dangled on brass chains. A brass balcony encircled the ballroom, like the balconies above the lobby. Burgundy velvet draperies had been pulled back, and the lights of Denver shone like diamonds in the dark windows. Over in the far corner, the orchestra was tuning up, violins and violas screeching softly.

  “A fine job you’ve done, Mol.” J.J.’s voice was close to her ear. “Rivals anything in St. Petersburg, I’d say.”

  Molly tried for her best smile, but she still felt the sting from Louise Hill’s remark in the Tattler not long after the Browns had moved to Denver. A remark aimed at her, Molly knew, like the first fusillade in a battle. “Two things mark the finest people,” Louise had stated. “They have money and they know how to use it.” Well, this evening, Louise Hill would see for herself that the J. J. Browns knew how to use their money.

  “Where are they?” Molly said, glancing about the room. The prince and princess were to arrive on the afternoon train, but what if there had been a delay? And all of the Sacred 36 waiting in the lobby? She could feel her heart begin to sink.

  “Now, Mol. You shouldn’t be worrying,” J.J. said.

  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Brown!” The maître d’ in a white jacket with a red carnation in the lapel broke from a group of waiters and hurried over. “May I take your wraps?” he said. Molly allowed the fox cape to drop into his arms, then waited while J.J. shrugged out of the top coat. After handing the wraps to a doorman, the maître d’ said, “The prince has asked that I show you into the anteroom. Please follow me.”

  “Thank you,” J.J. said, and Molly felt her knees go weak with relief. She was grateful for J.J.’s hand on her arm, steering her across the ballroom in the direction of the man in the white jacket.

  They entered a large sitting room, with damask chairs, sofas, and marble lamp tables arranged around Turkish carpets. Light glowed through the silk lampshades. Seated on a red sofa was a thin-looking man with silver hair and a matching goatee, dressed in dark trousers and a gray jacket buttoned up to the black cravat at his neck. Beside him was a young woman in a white dress studded with beads that reflected the color of the sofa. She had black hair, pinned back into rolls, with tiny ringlets that framed her oval-shaped face and emphasized her long, graceful neck. Suspended from the gold chain at her neck was a large black gemstone that glinted in the lamplight.

  “Our charming hosts have arrived, Kitty.” The man lifted himself to a height of six feet or more and came forward, one hand outstretched.

  Molly started to curtsy. “Your Highness,” she murmured as the prince started pumping J.J.’s hand.

  “Prince Orlovsky,” he said, “but you must call me Sasha. And you must be J. J. Brown, while this lovely woman”—he turned toward Molly, who was frozen in a half curtsy—“must be your wife. May I call you Molly?” He dropped J.J.’s hand and leaned toward her. His eyes were the light blue of a mountain lake in the morning. “We are grateful to you for taking such poor pilgrims as ourselves under your wing and arranging this magnificent evening with the finest of Denver society. May I present my daughter, Princess Katerina,” he said, sweeping one hand toward the young woman.

  “Your Highness.” Molly sank into the curtsy that she had practiced, following the instructions in the book she had read on the proper etiquette for greeting royalty.

  The princess remained posed on the sofa in a half turn that showed off the black gem at her throat. She gave a slight smile and lowered her eyes in what struck Molly as an attempt to appear more modest and younger than she most certainly was. The pale powder on her face barely covered the blemishes or the fine lines cut into her forehead.

  Molly turned back to the prince, who, despite the silver hair, hardly seemed old enough to be the father of a woman at least thirty years old, three years older than Molly herself. An image of her own pa, John Tobin, gray-haired and bent, flitted before her eyes, but surely there could be no comparison. Pa had spent his youth and strength at hard manual labor, hardly the life of this Russian prince.

  “Everything is prepared, Your Highness,” she said. “The guests are assembled in the lobby waiting to be summoned.” She hoped she hadn’t betrayed the delight she felt at having kept the Sacred 36 waiting.

  “Then we must proceed.” Prince Orlovsky stepped backward and held out his hand to the princess, who lifted herself from the sofa. “Allow us to follow you,” he said, shoulders straight and head high, as if he were about to set off in a military parade.

  Molly felt J.J. tuck her hand under his arm as they made their way into the ballroom. A long red Turkish carpet had been unrolled just inside the double doors to mark the reception area. J.J. led her to the far end, and the prince and his daughter assumed places next to them. Molly could hear the buzz of conversations on the other side of the doors, the faint shuffling of footsteps. She had to swallow back the laughter threatening to erupt in her throat. All the beautiful people of Denver who had looked the other way whenever their carriages passed on the avenues were about to step through the doors and come face-to-face with Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Brown. And she, Molly Brown from Hannibal, Missouri, lately of Leadville, would have the honor of presenting each guest to a Russian prince and princess.

  The instant J.J. nodded to the doormen, the double doors opened, and the guests pressed forward, Louise Hill in the lead, followed by her husband, a slight-looking man, stoop-shouldered inside the black tuxedo jacket, black hair combed over the bald top of his head and a black handlebar mustache drooping around his mouth.

  Louise set a white-gloved hand inside J.J.’s. “So delightful to see you,” she said. Retrieving her hand, she glided toward Molly, leaving Crawford to shake hands with J.J. and slap him on the back.

  “Good show, old man,” Crawford said, and Molly could hear in his tone the mixture of admiration and contempt that men whose fathers had made great fortunes, but were incapable of such feats themselves, reserved for a man like J.J.

  “Such a lovely party, Molly dear,” Louise was saying, as if they were the oldest of friends. Her gaze drifted upward to Prince Orlovsky. “You must present me to your guests.”

  “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Crawford Hill,” Molly said, waving her own gloved hand toward the royal guests. She held her head high, allowing Louise a full view of the aquamarine necklace and savoring the sense of accomplishment that poured over her. “Prince Alexander Orlovsky and his daughter, Princess Katerina, of St. Petersburg.”

  “A delight, Your Highnesses,” Louise said, bowing the pile of stiffened chestnut hair toward the prince’s chest and swooping into an unsteady curtsy. “Such an honor to welcome you and your lovely daughter to Denver.” Her gaze swooped upward again, fastening on the black diamond shimmering in the hollow of Princess Katerina’s throat. “My, what a beautiful gem,” she said, as if the words had burst forth, breaking the boundary of propriety, before she could stop herself. The fain
test trace of a blush blossomed in her cheeks. She turned back to the prince. “I hope you and your lovely daughter will be our guests during your stay in Denver,” she said.

  “It would be our pleasure.” The prince nodded toward his daughter, who gave him a fixed smile before turning the same smile on Louise. “You must speak with Mrs. Brown,” the prince went on. “She has graciously agreed to oversee our social engagements in your fine city.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” The smile on Louise’s face was etched in ice as she moved along the Turkish carpet and waited while Crawford pumped the prince’s hand and bowed to the princess. Then Louise lifted a glass of Champagne from the tray that one of the waiters held and promenaded across the ballroom floor toward the tables, Crawford hovering behind her.

  Other familiar faces were coming along the reception line now, all the lovely people who dined and danced at the Crawford Hills’ and were on the invitation list every year for the Christmas ball that the Hills hosted at the Denver Country Club. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Tammen, Mr. and Mrs. Henry McCallister, Mr. and Mrs. Claude Boettcher. The women lovely in silks and organzas and jewels, the men puffed up, shoulders back in the attempt, Molly thought, to appear as royal as the guests beside her. “May I present . . .” she said, over and over, not missing a beat. She had memorized the names of the Sacred 36, and soon, she was certain, her own name, along with J.J.’s, would be added to the list. The Sacred 38. Except that it would mean nothing to J.J. She tried not to laugh at the thought that most likely she would have to remind him from time to time that they were on the list.