by Nan Ryan
Hank uttered an oath under his breath, feeling a sense of loss, then immediately laughed at himself for his foolishness. No need to hurry after her. Obviously, she would be staying at the Springs for the season. They were sure to cross paths at some point in time.
Claire, with Olivia in tow, was swept along with the crowd into the depot with its muted interior of black walnut. The two women fought their way through the crush of travelers and out the depot’s side doors.
Directly in front of the station was an open square adorned with splashing fountains and trees. And parked near the redbrick depot were landaus and phaetons and barouches. Hotel porters shouted and an omnibus driver was calling for passengers desiring transportation.
Claire stepped forward, raised a gloved hand, and called out to a hack driver. Minutes later she and Olivia were driven directly to the long-shuttered estate of Britain’s merry widow, the Duchess of Beaumont.
The impressive estate was secluded on a heavily timbered rise of land a quarter of a mile east of Saratoga. Claire and Olivia exchanged glances of awe when the carriage rolled up before the white stone mansion rising from the leafy forest and surrounded by landscaped gardens.
“I understand only a caretaker lives here full-time,” Claire said, alighting from the carriage, gazing at the mansion’s many windows, all of which had the shades securely drawn. “I imagine we have our work cut out for us.”
“We can handle it,” assured Olivia.
The hack driver left them standing outside the mansion, valises at their feet.
“Shall we go inside and find out what must be done?” asked Claire.
“After you,” said Olivia and lifted her valise.
Midway up the front walk, both abruptly stopped when the aged caretaker came out of the mansion’s front door. Thin, stooped, he looked as if a puff of wind would blow him down. And he was, they quickly learned, half blind and hard of hearing.
Blinking in the dappled sunlight and easing himself down the mansion’s veranda steps, he grimaced as though every bone in his body was aching.
“You must be Walker,” Claire said, smiling, and hurried to him, her hand thrust out.
The thirty-three-year-old Duchess of Beaumont had not been to Saratoga in years. And, like Claire, she was a tall, slender woman with pale golden hair. Squinting, the nearsighted caretaker saw Claire’s light hair and mistook her for the duchess.
“Your Grace,” he said and attempted a creaking bow.
“No, no, Walker. You see, the duchess has not yet—”
“Eh, Your Grace?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear. “Speak up, please.”
Claire gave Olivia a helpless look. Olivia stepped forward. Raising her voice, she attempted to set the old man straight. “Walker, the Duchess of Beaumont will not be arriving until later in the month. This is Claire Orwell and I am Olivia Sutton. The duchess sent us on ahead to—”
Hearing only a word here and there of what Olivia was saying, the caretaker listened, frowning as if in pain, and before she had finished speaking, he interrupted.
“Come along, Your Grace, you must get in out of the harsh sunlight lest you blister.”
Claire tried again, “No, Walker, you’ve misunderstood, I’m not the duchess. My friend, Olivia Sutton, and I have come to ready the house for…” She patiently explained that she and Olivia had been sent ahead to open and staff the house for the duchess’s impending arrival.
When finally she concluded, Claire gave him an expectant look, hopeful that he had understood.
He smiled, nodded, and said, “How many years since you were here last, Your Grace? Five? Ten?”
Claire started to speak, but Olivia touched her arm and stopped her. “Let it go for now,” she said, shrugging. “We’ll clear it up later.” To the old man she shouted, “Thank you, Walker. We can manage from here. You’re dismissed. Go take a nap. A nice, long nap.” She gave her cane to Claire, raised her hands, folded them against her cheek and closed her eyes for a second.
When she opened her eyes the old man turned to Claire, half bowed once again, and said, “If you need me, Your Grace, I’ll be in my quarters out back.”
Six
Once inside the mansion’s shadowy drawing room, Olivia and Claire exchanged looks of dismay. They had been told that an in-town service had an ongoing contract to clean the house thoroughly at least once every two weeks. The service had apparently been derelict in their duties. Sheets blanketed the fine furniture, but the heavy drapery was covered with dust and the entire place smelled musty.
It was obvious that no one had been there for weeks, maybe months. Olivia took off her hat and tossed it on a sheet-draped chair. She and Claire immediately went about yanking the curtains apart and throwing open the windows to admit the fresh mountain air.
“Not to worry,” Olivia assured Claire “We’ll have this place sparkling clean within forty-eight hours.”
Claire nodded and smiled. “And neither of us will so much as pick up a feather duster!”
“Let the servants handle it,” said Olivia in her best impersonation of a high-toned lady of leisure.
They laughed merrily.
When they’d sobered a bit, they explored the mansion, each deciding they’d choose a bedroom. Olivia picked one on the ground floor near the back of the house. They then ventured upstairs. At the top of the curving staircase they opened a set of tall white double doors into a large, opulent suite. A cozy sitting room with a white marble fireplace and covered sofas was open to the raised bedroom, which was reached by climbing three wide white marble steps.
Directly off the bedroom, tall glass-paned doors led onto a balcony overlooking lush gardens.
“The duchess’s suite,” Claire stated the obvious, stepping out onto the balcony, charmed by the total privacy the well-planned garden and tall sheltering trees afforded.
Olivia stepped up beside her. “But the duchess is not here.” She paused, waiting for Claire to respond. Claire remained silent. Olivia ventured, “The suite can be yours until she arrives.”
“Dare I?” Claire asked, eyebrows raised.
“Why not? Who’s to know?” Olivia turned away. “I’ll bring up your valises. Make yourself at home.”
“I believe I will,” Claire said, yanking the covering dust cloth from an upholstered chair, and running her hand over the plush white velvet.
Once their valises had been deposited in their respective rooms, Claire immediately sent Olivia forth to handle the hiring of a small staff of servants, as instructed.
And she set out to explore the picturesque resort.
The carriage moved slowly down traffic-choked, elm-shaded Broadway. Hank Cassidy, seated comfortably in the leather-cushioned back seat, nodded to the laughing, well-dressed people in horse-drawn vehicles parading down the avenue.
It was an afternoon ritual in Saratoga enjoyed by the summer set. They relished showing off their fine equipages. Surreys with fringe around the tops. Basket phaetons with high-stepping, bob-tailed hackneys. Heavy victorias with glittering silver monogrammed harnesses, two men in scarlet livery on their boxes, ladies behind with lacy parasols, sitting in richly upholstered seats.
Ah, it was great to be back in Saratoga.
Hank turned his attention to the pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks in front of the hotels. He paid little attention to the gentlemen in their tailored summer finery. His gaze naturally focused on the ladies in hats with parasols to match their dresses. Colorful dresses with all manner of feminine frills; pleats and ruffles and lace and ribbons and swelling puffed sleeves.
Hank was smiling with pleasure when suddenly he blinked and sat up straighter. A slender young woman stepped out of P. Durkee and Sons Stationers and Books and into the sunlight. Her pale hair blazed like spun gold and her face was as white and flawless as fine porcelain.
It was her!
The woman from the train depot—and she was every bit as breathtakingly beautiful as he’d thought when first he’d spot
ted her.
“Stop the carriage!” Hank called to the driver and didn’t wait for the man to obey.
He leaped down into the street and narrowly missed being hit by an oncoming four-in-hand. Cursing under his breath, looking anxiously for an opening in the traffic, Hank found himself wedged between the four-in-hand and a big landau filled with laughing people calling out to him.
By the time he managed to get around the landau to the safety of the sidewalk, the golden-haired goddess was gone. Disappointed, Hank looked up the street and down, then dashed into the stationers.
To the clerk behind the counter, he said, “A woman with gold hair was just in here. Do you know where she went? Who she was?”
The clerk shook his head. “She looked at the books, but purchased nothing and—”
“Any idea who she is?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Hank exhaled with frustration. “Which books? Were there any special ones that she—?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, there was a book that seemed to catch her fancy,” said the clerk, heading for a shelf near the back. He took down a handsome, leather-bound book, held it up, and announced, “This is it. The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope. It was published just last year and has sold quite well. The lady picked this book up, thumbed slowly though it, then placed it back on the shelf.”
“I’ll take it,” said Hank. “Gift wrap it.”
“Right away, sir,” said the clerk. “I hope you find her.”
“I will.”
The wrapped book under his arm, Hank exited the store. He stood outside for a long moment, carefully scanning both sides of the street.
But she was gone.
He returned to the carriage, jumped inside and settled in for the short ride to his hotel.
The carriage soon reached the five-story United States Hotel with its soaring pillars and Victorian scrollwork and wide, sweeping veranda. On that veranda stood a thousand white wicker rocking chairs, more than half of them filled with hotel guests watching the parade of people on Broadway on this sunny July afternoon.
Hank didn’t disembark in front of the hotel. His carriage drove on and once past the hotel, immediately turned into a side street. It then pulled over to the curb just outside the hotel’s private cottages. The cottages were suites of coveted rooms at the back where the giant hotel was U-shaped. Private verandas looked out on landscaped gardens and big trees and well-tended flower beds.
Such accommodation suited his desire for privacy. Unlike the hotel proper where it was necessary to go through the guest-filled lobby and then into an elevator to reach a room, he could enter the cottage through the outside entrance at any hour of the day or night and be seen by no one.
Hank bounded out of the carriage, stopped and stood for a minute speaking to the driver. He turned and hurried up the steps, unlocked the cottage door, and went inside. The scent of fresh-cut flowers greeted him as he stepped into the marble-floored foyer. He smiled when he saw the many vellum envelopes resting in a silver bowl on a small walnut table. He dropped the book he’d bought onto the table and scooped up the envelopes. He turned and walked into the parlor with its black walnut furniture, lush carpets and thick Brussels lace curtains over the tall windows.
On an end table by a big easy chair, a bottle of fine champagne was cooling in an ice-filled silver bucket along with a note of welcome from the hotel staff. Two sparkling crystal flutes stood beside the bucket. While the driver and a hotel porter unloaded his luggage, carrying the many valises into the master suite, Hank popped the champagne’s cork.
Foolishly wishing that the golden-haired angel was here to drink the bubbly with him, he filled both glasses and sank down into an easy chair to begin sifting through the invitations.
Some were for next week and beyond. Some for tomorrow night. Some for tonight. Hank tossed aside all but those requesting his presence for this evening. There were six. Three were for late-night gatherings. Three were for dinner. He considered the dinner invitations, shrugged wide shoulders, closed his eyes and chose one at random.
Horace and Lillian Titus.
Dinner at eight.
Claire was enchanted with Saratoga Springs.
The pristine mountain hamlet was like a fabled fairyland with its grand hotels, quaint shops, beautiful parks and mineral fountains and handsomely dressed visitors.
She strolled leisurely up Broadway passing the Grand Union Hotel, Congress Inn and the Clarendon, each unique and magnificent and unlike anything she had seen back in London. As she approached another impressive building, the huge brick-and-stone United States Hotel, she glanced down the narrow street bordering its side.
And so it was that she was looking directly at a carriage when a tall, lean man bounded out of the back seat. He stood for a second on the sidewalk, smiling and gesturing as he spoke to his driver. Claire’s eyes widened and her lips parted.
Midnight hair glistening in the sunshine, broad shoulders appealingly straining the fine linen of his sky-blue shirt, buff-hued trousers draped just so on his slim hips and long legs, he was, without doubt, the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on.
Unable to tear her gaze from the handsome stranger, Claire stood across the street and stared until he turned away, sprang agilely up a set of steps, unlocked a door and disappeared inside. Even then she continued to stay where she was, her rapt attention fixed on that door.
She wondered who he was and where he was from and if she would ever see him again. Her heart began to race. Of course she would see him again! He, like she, had come to Saratoga for the season. He was obviously a guest at the United States Hotel and she would very likely run into him there. All she had to do was go inside.
Beginning to smile with anticipation, Claire eagerly crossed the narrow street and hurried down the sidewalk until she reached the front of the hotel. She climbed the steps to the wide veranda where people were gathered to talk and laugh and enjoy refreshments served by uniformed waiters.
Claire crossed the veranda and went inside the vast, high-ceilinged lobby. Attempting to appear casual, she sauntered unhurriedly about, glancing at the milling guests, searching for the one who was sure to stand out from the crowd.
Nodding and smiling to people she’d never met, Claire would have, on any other occasion, noticed how incredibly friendly everyone seemed. But she was preoccupied. She was looking for the handsome, dark-haired man in the blue linen shirt.
After several fruitless minutes, Claire gave up the hunt. She was too late. He wouldn’t be coming to the lobby. He had obviously already checked in at the desk moments earlier and collected his key. No need to stay longer.
She made her unhurried way through the crowded lobby and out the tall doors onto the veranda. She was descending the front steps when a middle-aged, well-dressed woman came hurrying up the steps toward her.
Reaching her, the woman smiled and said, “Oh, Your Grace, we heard you were coming to Saratoga this summer. How thrilling to have the Duchess of Beaumont here for the season!” When Claire gave the woman a questioning look, she said, “Don’t you remember me? Lillian. Mrs. Lillian Titus. How wonderful to see you after all these years! My, my, you are lovelier than ever.”
Taken aback, Claire, when she was finally able to get a word in, said, “No, no. I’m afraid you…you’ve made a…you see, I’m not…I…” Claire stopped speaking. She paused for only a second, then said, “Why, yes, it has been quite a long time.”
“It must be at least seven or eight years,” declared Lillian. “Now Horace and I are giving a dinner party this very evening. You simply must come. Everyone will be there. Our cottage at eight sharp. Say you’ll join us, please, Your Grace.”
Claire smiled. “I’d be honored.”
Seven
Then and there the usually level-headed, rarely-take-a-chance Claire Orwell decided that for once in her life she would toss caution to the wind. Until just before Charmaine Beaumont arrived in Sarat
oga, she would be the Duchess of Beaumont! For a few golden days and nights, she would live the life of a wealthy, daring duchess amidst the Gilded Age glamour of Saratoga Springs.
Claire wasn’t worried that she’d be out of her element. She knew how the wealthy lived, how they behaved. Her dear deceased mother, before she was married, had for a short time been lady-in-waiting to the Queen, her title Woman of the Bedchamber. Her mother had treasured the invaluable experience and had shared many fond recollections.
Claire could hold her own around this wealthy crowd, could convince them that she was the duchess. And she intended to do just that.
Beginning this very evening she’d hobnob with America’s rich and powerful. She would drink chilled champagne and laugh merrily and flirt with the well-heeled gentlemen and dance until dawn and have not a care in the world.
Her cheeks flushed, Claire hurried back to the secluded estate to tell Olivia of her scheme.
The older woman met Claire at the front door and began, “I made great progress in town, Claire. By tomorrow morning we’ll have—”
Claire waved a silencing hand and interrupted, “Your news about the staff can wait, Olivia. Come out onto the veranda and sit down, please. I’ve something to tell you and it can’t wait another minute.”
Curious, Olivia stepped outside. She obediently took the rocking chair Claire indicated. When she was seated, Claire, continuing to stand, told of her planned deception. Surprised, but fully approving of such a lark, Olivia listened as Claire talked excitedly of her intentions.
“I honestly believe that we can fool them,” Claire stated emphatically. “The duchess has not been to the Springs in seven or eight years. Many of the people who are here this summer have never even met her. The others have had plenty of time to forget exactly how she looks.”
“And she is tall and slender like you and has pale blond hair,” Olivia offered, nodding.
“Exactly. It should be relatively easy to convince everyone that I am indeed the Duchess of Beaumont. I ran into a middle-aged woman—a Mrs. Lillian Titus—at the United States Hotel this afternoon. She mistook me for the duchess and invited me to a dinner party at her home this evening. Said she’d send a carriage round to collect me. That’s what gave me the idea for this fling of fancy.”
