Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04)

by Ann Parker

  She became aware that Aunt Agnes on the other side of the room was leaning forward in her seat, trying to catch Inez’s attention. Turning away from her aunt, Inez picked up a concert program from the podium next to the door and sidled along the back wall toward Mrs. Pace and Nurse Crowson. The trio of musicians, bent over cello, violin and piano, entered the coda. Inez sidled faster. She edged into the chair by the widow just at the final triumphant notes. Applause followed, muted by evening gloves and sounding like bird wings in flight. The musicians shifted and exchanged quick words in hushed undertones. The audience leaned forward as one, as if in anticipation.

  The small noises of a summer’s evening in the country stole in through the French doors opened to the front porch: crickets, frogs, the whisper of a breeze through foliage. Inside, women’s fans made a soft shushing as their owners took advantage of the sudden stir of fresh air, redolent with the smell of roses.

  Inez nodded at Mrs. Pace, who turned a pale face toward her, black ribbon wound through her smooth blonde French twist. Inez glanced down at the program. The evening’s musical offerings included Goldmark’s “Serenade” from “Rustic Wedding Symphony,” Wagner’s “Tannhauser March,” and an unfamiliar piece composed by the violinist. Standard musical fare for such a venue, she thought, then brightened at the finale: Schubert’s “Serenade,” one of her favorites.

  She flicked open her fan and allowed it to waft desultorily to the sliding melody of Goldmark while she pondered what she was going to say to Mrs. Pace. She decided that it was best, in the public venue, to simply keep her company and make small talk.

  At a break between numbers, Inez leaned toward the widow and asked, “Are you a musician, Mrs. Pace?”

  “Not really, Mrs. Stannert.” She plucked at her skirt, the color of sorrow, then said, “I know that some would consider it improper for me to be here. Particularly so soon after.”

  There was no need for her to say after what.

  She continued. “But my rooms are so confining, and I find music soothing. At this time, so far from home, I need comfort wherever I can find it.”

  Inez nodded sympathetically. The musicians began again, and one number flowed into the next. It wasn’t until just before the finale that there was another appreciable pause.

  As the audience shifted, throats cleared, and the pianist pulled out sheet music, there was sudden movement from the front row. Robert Calder approached the musicians, spoke to the pianist, who turned and held a whispered conversation with his compatriots. They all bowed briefly toward Calder, who settled himself to one side of the piano, hands clasped in a military style behind him. The musicians took their positions.

  Mrs. Pace raised her black fan and murmured behind it to Inez. “This happened at the last concert.”

  With the first notes, Calder belted out in a strong and energetic tenor, “Leise flehen meine Lieder, Durch die Nacht zu dir.”

  Inwardly, Inez winced. Technically, the vocal performance was flawless, but Calder’s voice was so…enormous. Enthusiasm aside, it carried no subtle emotions, no overtones, simply hit the notes directly and decisively as a gandy dancer would drive a railroad spike with a maul. She did notice, however, that his gaze, when not directed over the audience’s heads, returned again and again to Susan.

  At the end of the performance, Inez joined the polite applause. Behind her, she heard a dismissive masculine snort. She twisted around to find Dr. Prochazka, slouched against the wall with a pained expression. His evening jacket was rumpled and dusty, as if he had picked it up off the floor and hurriedly donned it minutes ago. Amid the rustling of the audience and rising voices, Inez asked, “Dr. Prochazka, you did not enjoy the performance? Are you perchance a music critic as well as a physician?”

  She meant it as a barely concealed jibe. A little parry and thrust in response to the morning’s meeting, which still stung her memory.

  But instead, he seemed to take her words at face value. He flicked a bit of lint from the lapel of his jacket and said, “I know enough to know that one should not perform a piece when one does not know what one sings. Or plays.”

  Despite her own misgivings, Inez found herself coming to Calder’s defense. “I thought he sang proficiently. And certainly with a great deal of bravura.”

  The tall physician looked down his nose at her. His expression was civil, as befit the venue, but Inez detected disdain trying hard to shove the polite façade aside. “Mrs.…Stannert. Yes? I have your name correct?”

  She nodded.

  He continued, “Sprechen sie Deutsch, German?”

  “Do I speak German? No.” Inez’s language proficiencies extended to the French and Latin forced into her by a long-ago tutor, a smattering of Louisiana Creole from Abe, and a bit of Spanish from wanderings through Texas with Mark and Abe.

  “Neither does Herr Calder. Of that I am certain,” said Prochazka. “In Schubert’s Ständchen, the singer exhorts, pleads with his lover to make him happy. It is hope in the face of hopelessness. Mr. Calder knows none of this. He sings as if calling to his sheep, lost on the far side of a hill.”

  Inez couldn’t, in honesty, argue. It was a perfect description of Calder’s rendition.

  Prochazka continued. “As for the musicians, they were, perhaps, carried away with Mr. Calder’s eagerness. But there are so many subtleties to the Ständchen they did not even try to catch, such as the rise and fall of the opening line through the tonic minor chord. The yearning leaps of the central phrase to the minor sixth of the dominant. The supple turns of the closing line around the tonic.”

  Inez was impressed with his sudden virtuosity. “You play the piano, then?”

  “Nein.”

  “There you are. And keeping company with the very man I was looking for.” Agnes’ voice rang in Inez’s ear. “You are coming to the ladies’ parlor, are you not, dear niece? It is a chance to discuss the evening’s performance away from the gentlemen, who, if truth be told, are usually somnolent by the time it is all done, and dying for their cigars and brandy.”

  She spoke to Inez but stared at Dr. Prochazka, as if to trap him in place with her gaze. “I shall be there shortly myself and expect to see you. But first, I must have a few words with the good doctor about tomorrow night’s festivities.”

  Prochazka frowned. “What is this about?”

  “I need you for a very important, shall I say, pivotal part in my tableaux vivants tomorrow.” Aunt Agnes waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing elaborate, not like my arrangements in New York. But, when out in the wilds, one must make do with what one has.” She laid a hand upon his arm, drawing him away from Inez. “As the physician of this resort, it is important that you have a primary role in our little event.”

  Inez turned to comment on Aunt Agnes’ powerful powers of persuasion to Mrs. Pace, but the young widow had slipped away, leaving only a faint, lingering scent of lavender behind.

  ***

  Inez caught up with Susan in the reception area of the hotel. The area was clogged with guests. Some retreated up the grand staircase to their rooms, many women moved down the corridor toward the ladies’ parlor, while the men retreated toward the gentlemen’s smoking room or to the outside porch. Through the open front doors, the night appeared black as pitch. Once again, Inez was struck by the difference between Leadville, where gas lights illuminated the business district and round-the-clock entertainments on State Street and Harrison Avenue lent their own flickering lights to the crowded boardwalks. Here in Manitou, one could step down the porch stairs, walk a few steps, and be swallowed into nothingness.

  Inez suppressed a shudder and turned to Susan, whose arm was linked through Robert Calder’s. Inez noted a particularly rosy glow to Susan’s cheeks and an unusually bright sparkle in her eye. Susan, practical, level-headed Susan, could she be smitten and so quickly?

  “Wasn’t that a lovely concert, Inez?” Susan gushed. “Doesn’t Robert…Mr. Calder…have a wonderful voice? He told me he offers to sing at every concert a
nd everyone looks forward to it.”

  She gazed up at Calder as she said this. His eyes fixed upon her with admiration clearly stamped across his face. Inez realized that the attraction was, indeed, mutual. An unexpected wave of protectiveness rose in Inez, making her almost want to step between them and halt things lest her friend be hurt.

  Susan is an adult, not a child. Granted, she is not savvy in the ways of the world…but still…how is one to learn about love and infatuation if one does not experience it in all its ups and downs? What matters if she has a bit of a summer romance here, in Manitou, where few know her and, even if they disapprove, what of it? Besides, Calder is only here for a while, looking into the death of his brother.

  Susan turned back to Inez. “Mr. Calder is going to meet me and Mrs. Galbreaith at the Garden of the Gods tomorrow. Mrs. Galbreaith and I are going to take some stereoscopic images; the landscape is perfect for the technique, and she knows the best places and the best times of day. Mr. Calder had already planned to be in the Garden painting, fancy that!”

  “Tomorrow appears to be a popular day in the Garden,” said Inez. “My sister has arranged for a family outing there as well, so we shall look for you.”

  “It is,” Calder said, “a very large area. The chances of ‘running into each other’ are not high. However, we shall be taking a noon meal at the Gateway, if you would care to join us.”

  “I shall let her know,” said Inez, making mental note of the ‘us’ designation. She turned to Susan. “How are accommodations at Mrs. Galbreaith’s?”

  “Very nice. Her boarding house is just across the valley and up toward the Ute Iron spring. Mr. Calder is going to walk me back this evening.” Her cheeks flamed brighter.

  Inez said her farewell to the couple, then turned to gaze at the broad staircase, with Hermes waiting at the top. She was contemplating sneaking upstairs, pleading tiredness in the morning for her nonappearance in the women’s parlor, when Aunt Agnes emerged from the music room, looking like the cat that caught the mouse.

  “I’m so glad you waited for me, dear niece. Now that I am through with Dr. Prochazka, we can walk into the drawing room together.” She took Inez’s arm with an iron grip, and leaned on her with a sigh. “I am not as spry as I used to be. More’s the pity. The greater pity is that I must do these tableaux vivants with so few people.”

  “I don’t suppose you had to put yourself through the bother if you didn’t want to,” said Inez. “There is plenty of entertainment. Our hosts seem intent on keeping everyone busy.”

  Agnes waved this away with an irritated flip of her fan. “Everyone is always galumphing about, up this canyon or that. Going off to see the waterfalls or the rocks. Rocks, I ask you, what is so special about rocks? Give me the British Museum, the Metropolitan, or the Parthenon in Greece. How strange that with all there is to see elsewhere in the world so many people from the Eastern seaboard and abroad would be here. Yet they all disappear during the day, leaving me limited resources to draw on for my visions. But an artist must persevere through all the travails and tribulations. Wait until tomorrow night, when you see what I have managed to accomplish.”

  They turned and entered the women’s parlor, and Inez almost beat a hasty retreat, hit with claustrophobic panic.

  It had been a long time since she’d been closeted with so many ladies in so small a room. In the music room, she hadn’t registered the number of women, dotted as they were amongst the gentlemen. But here, they filled the space with their rich, rustling fabrics, the high registers of their voices, the whisk of fans and the slight, musky feminine smell.

  Agnes drummed her fingers on Inez’s arm. “See the woman with red hair standing by the fire screen, in the lime and violet poplin? That is Mrs. Banscombe. Absolutely disfigured with summer freckles, poor dear, that’s what comes of being out in this wretched sun. Honey mixed with lukewarm water works wonders to fade them.”

  Inez looked with surprise at Aunt Agnes’ blemish-free face. Agnes raised one well-shaped eyebrow. “You don’t remember, silly girl? You were all a-freckle in the summers. We could never get you to wear a bonnet out of doors. I tried every concoction under the sun to repair your complexion, without much success. Perhaps that’s why you are so dark now.” Her gaze swept past Inez. “Ah! There is your sister. We should urge her to retire so she doesn’t overdo.”

  Agnes steamed ahead like an ocean liner toward Harmony, bringing Inez with her.

  Harmony looked up. The blush Inez had noted in her face early that day had faded. Her thin hands were clasped in her lap.

  “My dear, I’ve brought your sister to you,” said Agnes to Harmony, as if she had caught Inez in the act of skulking away. “I do believe you may have had a surfeit of the outdoors today.” Agnes cast a suspicious eye over her. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am fine, Aunt Agnes. I’m just resting a bit before heading upstairs.” Harmony looked past them. “Nurse Crowson’s arrived with the evening’s draughts and her famous mint tea. I suppose Mr. Epperley will be along shortly with the mineral water. We shall be able to drink to each other’s health before retiring.”

  Inez turned to see Nurse Crowson at the parlor entrance with her basket in hand. Inez fancied she could almost hear the light tinkling of glass bottles, knocking gently against each other. A dining room waiter followed the nurse, rolling a tea cart, its little brass wheels squeaking. The cart was laden with tea cups, tea caddy, and several tea pots. Inez’s throat began to close as the scent of mint assaulted her. Epperley brought up the rear bearing a large tray of cut crystal glasses holding the odious springs water.

  Inez also spied Mrs. Pace, sitting in a chair almost behind the door. She excused herself and made her way through the mash of feminine forms to Mrs. Pace, just as Nurse Crowson handed her a small tonic bottle and moved away.

  “How many doses does your bottle hold?” Inez asked without preamble.

  Mrs. Pace looked up in surprise. Her hand opened.

  Inez saw that the container was much smaller than the one she had found in the stagecoach.

  “This is one night’s worth. Not,” Mrs. Pace added in an undertone, “that I will take it. I will empty it out the window as soon as I return to my room.”

  “I was more interested in the one your husband drank from in the stagecoach. It was larger, was it not?”

  “It held a day and night’s worth.” Her voice faltered. “I should have taken the cursed bottle away from him. Knocked it out of his hand…”

  “No thank you. You may return it to the dispensary.” Harmony’s words rose above the general babble of women’s voices.

  The chatter in the room died to a few surprised whispers. Everyone turned to look at Harmony.

  Nurse Crowson stood by Inez’s sister, the nearby light from the table lamp glinting off the dark brown glass of a small tonic bottle she held by the neck. Harmony sat, ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, making no attempt to take the bottle.

  “You can tell Dr. Prochazka that fresh air and exercise are the only tonics I need.” Inez was shocked by Harmony’s adamant tone, more reminiscent of Aunt Agnes or her father than her little sister.

  “I will not be needing this restorative.” The way she said it made it sound as if she were referring to a pile of fresh horse dung.

  Aunt Agnes tapped Harmony on the arm with her closed fan and hissed, loud enough for all to hear, “Please, Harmony, don’t make a scene.”

  Nurse Crowson’s mild-mannered expression didn’t change. The only signs that she had heard was a slight tremor in her hand, causing the light to shiver on the glass, and a vertical frown line marring her smooth forehead. She finally said soothingly, “Mrs. DuChamps, it is encouraging that you feel so invigorated. But, if I may speak from my position as one allied with the medical profession, how could you possibly know what it is that led to your recovery? I recall when you first came here, you could hardly walk the length of the veranda without needing to sit and rest. It’s wonderful to see how y
our stay at the Mountain Springs House has brought your strength back. But speaking as one who has seen this tale played out a hundred-fold here at this house, how can you,” the word curdled with a barely discernible twist of scorn, “be the authority on what has made your recovery so complete? Have you any idea how fortunate we are at the Mountain Springs House to have Dr. Prochazka with us? The doctor, with his years of experience abroad, his skills, and his training, understands and knows the manifestations, the treatments, and the cures, for respiratory and pulmonary ailments. He knows best, absolutely. How sad it would be for you and your family, if by going against Dr. Prochazka’s prescriptions, you were to relapse into your former state or…” she held the bottle closer to Harmony, nearly under her nose, “Worse.”

  Harmony lifted a hand.

  Inez held her breath, willing her sister to not argue, to take the bottle and, like Mrs. Pace, dump it later in solitude.

  Harmony pushed the tonic away. “No, thank you,” she repeated.

  The scene froze, like one of Aunt Agnes’ beloved tableaux. Agnes sat next to Harmony, looking at her niece as if she had grown fangs and sprouted fur. The women nearby stared, fans opened flat against the bosoms of their gowns as if to ward off any evil that might creep within and weaken their lungs or beating hearts.

  Movements by the parlor door drew Inez’s gaze. Epperley must have withdrawn at the first sign of an altercation—Inez spotted the tray with mineral waters on an occasional table in the hall—and returned with Lewis. The two men stood at the threshold, shoulder to shoulder or rather shoulder to ear, for Epperley was by far the taller of the two. Epperley leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, a slightly bored expression as if he were watching a not particularly well performed amateur play. But Inez noticed that his crossed arms shielded hands knotted into angry fists. Lewis looked pale, as pale as a victim of the wasting disease. His fingers fluttered on the front of his waistcoat, helpless.