by Nan Ryan
Good. Maybe it could burn her right out of his heart.
He lifted the glass again and drank it all down, then poured himself another. And another.
Hank frowned when he realized the bottle was empty. He turned it up and shook it, but nothing came out. He dropped the empty bottle to the carpeted floor, rose from the easy chair, and went directly to the row of bells. He rang the one which would bring a valet round to the cottage.
Thirty-Seven
“Yes sir?” the hotel employee, umbrella raised, asked when a brooding, scowling Hank answered his knock.
“Whiskey,” Hank said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Bring me one, no make that two bottles of bourbon. Your finest Kentucky bourbon.” The young man stood there and stared. That irritated Hank. “What the hell are you waiting for? I need a drink, man.”
“Well, sir, I’m not sure we have any bourbon in the hotel kitchen. I’ll have to go to the bar and—”
“I don’t care if you have to go to Kentucky,” Hank said, in no mood to quibble. “Bring me some bourbon.”
“Yes, sir, right away.”
The valet hurried away. He was out of breath when he reached the hotel bar, collapsed his umbrella, crossed the darkly paneled room, and anxiously motioned to the barkeep. Cupping a hand to the bartender’s ear, he whispered that a clearly unhappy Hank Cassidy was drinking alone in his cottage.
“You mean the duchess is not with him tonight?” asked Wallace.
“No, she’s not,” said the valet. “And, furthermore, one of the porters saw Cassidy driving the duchess out toward her estate more than an hour ago. Then he came right back to the hotel. Alone.”
The bartender’s bushy eyebrows rose and he grinned. “She probably tired of him and sent him packing.”
“Wonder who she’ll choose next?”
While the two men quietly discussed Hank and the duchess, Caroline Whit and Parker Lawson came into the paneled room and walked directly up to the bar. Neither noticed the barkeep loading down the young hotel valet with two bottles of bourbon.
When the bartender stepped up before them, greeted them warmly, and asked what they would like to drink, Parker Lawson said, “We’re just here for a quick nightcap, Wallace. Cognac for the lady and me.”
“Cognac it is,” said Wallace and smiled and nodded to Caroline.
She smiled back, then said to Parker, “I imagine Wallace hears all the hotel gossip.”
Parker shrugged. “Perhaps. But I’m sure he’s gallant enough to keep it to himself.”
In seconds Wallace was back. He placed two snifters of the amber brandy before them and said, “You folks having a lovely evening despite the rain?”
“Yes, we are, thanks,” Parker replied.
“Mmmm, so-so,” Caroline corrected, lifting her snifter.
Parker joined her, raising his own and drinking thirstily. In minutes the snifters were empty and Wallace poured each another.
And another.
At 2:00 a.m., Caroline Whit and Parker Lawson were still holding the fort in the United States Hotel bar. Parker was drunk. Very drunk. His elbow resting on the mahogany bar, chin in his hand, he was silent, moody, reflective.
Caroline was tipsy, but as lively as ever. Bored with Parker’s company, but not ready to call it an evening, she looked around for someone with whom she could have more fun than the glum Parker.
She saw no one of interest. Motioning Wallace to again fill her snifter, she leaned across the bar when he came forward, smiled seductively at him, and said, “Is it true what they say about bartenders, Wallace?”
“What do they say, Mrs. Whit?”
“That you hear all the interesting gossip.” Wallace’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. Caroline pressed him. Leaning more fully onto the bar, making sure her ample cleavage was appealingly displayed for Wallace’s benefit, she whispered, “It’s been such a dull, dull evening for me. Could you share some little tidbit? Something you heard here tonight.”
“Oh, ma’am, I couldn’t do that,” Wallace stated emphatically. “I could lose my job if I—”
“Why, Wallace, I’d never tell a soul. Not a single soul.” Wallace nervously looked from her to Parker. Caroline waved away his concern. “He’s too drunk to worry about. Now tell me, what have you seen or heard that I might find interesting?”
Wallace glanced warily around the near empty bar, cleared his throat, and motioned her closer. He put his lips near Caroline’s ear and whispered, “You’ll never guess who’s drinking alone in his cottage.”
Caroline’s eyes widened and her lips fell open when the barkeep revealed that a hotel valet had been summoned to Hank Cassidy’s cottage this very midnight to bring Hank two bottles of bourbon. The valet said Cassidy was all alone; the duchess was not with him. And, he said Cassidy looked very unhappy.
“Furthermore,” he said, “…wait…wait, Mrs. Whit. Where are you going?”
Drink in hand, Hank continued to restlessly pace the darkened cottage. He was drunk and intending to get drunker. His white shirt had dried, but it was wrinkled and open down his dark chest. The shirt’s long tails were half in, half out of his rumpled dark trousers. His hair was badly mussed and falling into his eyes. He’d kicked his shoes off an hour ago.
Hank walked out onto the balcony, mindless of the continuing rain.
He was angry.
Angry with himself for being a fool. He had fallen in love with a woman who didn’t know the meaning of the word. He had no one to blame but himself. He had known from the start that the frivolous Duchess of Beaumont looked upon having an affair in much the same way as a man. A pleasant diversion. A summertime liaison to be forgotten with the first falling of autumn leaves.
Damn her. Damn himself.
His stomach clenching, teeth gritted, Hank turned his stubbly whiskered face up to the rain and closed his eyes. He saw again the duchess’s beautiful face when she’d looked him straight in the eyes and coolly said, “I do not love you, Hank. I’m very sorry.”
Hank went back inside. He lifted a tail of his shirt and wiped the rain from his wetly clumped eyelashes. He poured another shot of whiskey and again sat down in the easy chair. He was lifting the glass to his lips when he heard a soft knock on the cottage door.
His heart stopped beating. He lowered the glass and placed it on the end table. He turned his head to listen. He wasn’t sure. Had he really heard a knock or was it his imagination?
It came again.
Hank couldn’t breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed so that he couldn’t move.
It was her! It was the duchess. She had come to him. She did love him. Loved him just as he loved her!
His heart now pounding, Hank jumped up and rushed across the room. Smiling, he yanked the door open, saying, “Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart, I’m…I…” His smile froze, fled. “What do you want, Caroline?” he asked curtly.
“To keep you company, Hank,” Caroline said, quickly stepping forward to throw her arms around him. “You’re lonely and so am I. Let me come inside. Let’s drink together, have some fun.”
Annoyed, Hank peeled her arms from around his waist and set her back. “You’re drunk, Caroline.”
“You are, too, but I don’t care,” Caroline said. “We’ll be drunk together.”
“It’s late, Caroline. Time you were in bed.”
“Time I was in your bed,” she said. “The duchess is no longer there. I know she’s not. She’s left you, admit it. She’s left you just like I knew she would. You don’t need her, Hank. I can make you forget her.”
“Good night, Caroline,” Hank said tiredly. He gently pushed her back and closed the door.
Thirty-Eight
At daybreak the summer sun surely rose, but it did not shine through the dense cloud cover. The skies over Saratoga were a leaden gray and a chill wind had risen to drive the falling rain. Great drops forcefully pelted the estate’s leaded glass windows while the wind sighed mournfully around the eves of the
mansion.
“You sure you wouldn’t like to spend a few days with me?” asked Charmaine Beaumont.
Claire and Olivia were packed and ready to leave for the train depot. They were in the wide downstairs foyer, saying goodbye.
“You’re very kind, Your Grace,” Claire said. “But no, we really must be going.”
“Where will you go? What will you do?” asked the concerned duchess.
Claire shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps we can find employment in New York City. Then in time, home to England I suppose.”
“I could use a secretary,” said the duchess. She looked from Claire to Olivia, “And a head housekeeper and then if—”
“You’re kind, but no, we’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough.”
Claire was smiling, determined to present a brave front. But the world was dark and rainy and her heart was heavy. She felt as though the sun would never shine for her again.
The perceptive duchess read her troubled thoughts despite Claire’s courageous smile. Charmaine exchanged worried glances with Olivia. Both had tried to convince Claire that it wouldn’t matter to Hank that she wasn’t the Duchess of Beaumont.
But she had refused to listen.
Now the hour of departure was at hand. The driver brought around the covered carriage. The three women stepped out onto the veranda, Claire and Olivia dressed for travel, the duchess still in her flowing negligee.
The duchess took Claire’s hand in both of her own and said, “You’ll be making the mistake of your life if you leave without seeing Hank.”
“That mistake has already been made, Your Grace,” Claire said.
The duchess shook her head, then hugged Claire and Olivia in turn. Each thanked her again for her kindness.
“You’re both welcome here anytime you wish to come,” the duchess said. Then she laughed when she added, “whether I am in residence or not.”
The driver came up onto the veranda and opened a huge black umbrella. Claire and Olivia ducked under it. He held it over their heads and ushered them down the steps to the waiting carriage. When they were settled inside, he returned to the veranda to collect their luggage.
The duchess grabbed his arm and said, “Once you’ve dropped them off at the depot, come straight back here and wait for me!”
As soon as the carriage rolled away, Charmaine Beaumont turned and hurried back inside to get dressed. She was not one to meddle, but this situation called for intervention.
The duchess was dressed and pacing the rain-spattered veranda when the carriage returned.
“The cottages at the United States Hotel,” she said to the driver. “This is an emergency, so lay the whip to the horses.”
Taking her at her word, the driver immediately put the matched bays into a fast gallop. The duchess held on for dear life as the covered carriage bumped and swayed and raced down Broadway in the falling rain.
In minutes she reached her destination and was anxiously pounding on Hank’s cottage door.
The door swung open and a haggard, hungover Hank blinked in confusion when he saw the duchess’s parlor maid standing before him. “What the…?”
“Don’t talk, just listen,” Charmaine Beaumont said and pushed him back inside.
Claire and Olivia had arrived at the bustling train depot. Directly in front of the station the open square with its splashing fountains and big shade trees was deserted on this rainy morning. But pulling up to the red depot were landaus, phaetons and barouches, all discharging passengers.
Claire and Olivia, parasols raised, hurried inside. Despite the early hour, the little redbrick building with its elaborate iron trimmings and black-walnut interior was crowded with passengers and friends and family who had come to see them off.
At Olivia’s insistence, Claire waited while Olivia made her way to the window to purchase their train tickets. Jostled about, bumped by eager travelers, Claire smiled wistfully as she looked around.
Everything was just as it had been on that lovely afternoon when she and Olivia had arrived in Saratoga. The same well-dressed travelers. The same laughing and calling to each other. The same excitement in the air.
But then it had all been ahead of them then.
Now it was all behind them.
“Come,” said Olivia, after making her way back through the crowd. “I bought the tickets, they’re in my reticule. Let’s get on board.”
Claire nodded, took Olivia’s hand and led the way out the door onto the crowded platform. The wind-driven rain immediately pelted their faces despite their raised umbrellas. They had no choice but to stand in the deluge. There were passengers ahead of them.
While they waited, Olivia smiled mysteriously, reached into her reticule and withdrew a stack of losing pari-mutuel tickets.
She held them up for Claire to see, laughed cheerlessly, and said, “Looks like we finished out of the money this time.”
“Oh, didn’t we?” Claire replied and managed a smile.
Olivia opened her hand and tossed the losing tickets up. They swirled about in the wind and rain before falling into a rivulet of water coursing along beside the tracks.
Olivia and Claire exchanged looks and stepped up onto the train, collapsing their umbrellas. They moved down the aisle until they found their seats. Dusting raindrops off their shoulders, they sat down. Claire chose the seat by the window. Olivia took the one on the aisle.
Minutes ticked away while other passengers claimed their seats and settled in for the ride down to New York City.
Soon the conductor passed through the cars collecting tickets and the wheels began to turn on the track. The morning train slowly chugged out the station.
Her forehead resting against the rain-streaked train window, eyes swollen from crying, Claire suddenly thought she heard Hank calling her name.
She lifted her head, listened, and immediately scolded herself for being absurd. She sighed wearily, leaned her forehead back against the window and closed her scratchy eyes.
She heard it again.
Claire sat up straight. Eyes round, she turned to Olivia. “Did you hear…?”
“Yes!” Olivia said. “Yes, I did. Open the window. Open the window!”
Her heart racing with hope, Claire anxiously raised the window and poked her head out into the falling rain.
“Hank!” she cried when she saw him running alongside the train.
“Sweetheart!” he shouted. “Wait! Don’t go! Don’t leave me! I love you!”
“Oh, Hank,” she called to him, leaning fully out the window now, frantically reaching out to him.
Unable to catch up and grasp her hand, Hank kept running faster as the train quickly picked up speed. “I love you, Claire Orwell!” he shouted, long legs taking great strides, arms pumping. “Not the Duchess of Beaumont. You. Only you. Marry me, Claire!”
By now they had attracted everyone’s attention. All those on the train and the ones behind at the depot saw a handsome, but haggard man racing frantically after the moving train. His hair was disheveled and wet from the rain and he was badly in need of a shave, dark whiskers covering the lower half of his face. His shirt was open down his rain-slick chest and billowing out behind him as he ran.
The unkempt man was desperately trying to reach the outstretched hand of a pretty, well-dressed young woman who was leaning out of the train window. The rain was peppering her face, saturating her upswept blond hair and spattering the shoulders of her blue cotton traveling suit.
And she was calling his name. “Hank! Hank!”
While people whistled and applauded and rooted for Hank to catch up, Olivia had grabbed her cane and gone hurrying through the cars to find the conductor.
“You must stop this train immediately,” she told the startled man, grabbing him by the sleeve. “It’s a matter of life and death!”
In minutes the train wheels ground to a screeching halt and an eager Claire drew her head back inside, jumped up from her seat, and rushed down the aisle to th
e train steps. She squealed as she leaped into the waiting arms of a badly winded Hank.
Happily he swung her around and said, “Honey, I know everything and it doesn’t matter. I love you. Nobody else, just you!”
“Oh, Hank, I love you too and I’m so sorry—”
“Listen to me, sweetheart,” he interrupted, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to get air into his starving lungs, “you may not be a duchess, but you’re a queen to me and you can rule me for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, Hank, my love,” she murmured and tightened her arms around his neck.
Both were laughing as Hank slowly lowered Claire to her feet beside the tracks. They stood there gazing at each other, so in love they were totally mindless of the wind and the rain.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Kiss her!” someone yelled from the back of the coach and others quickly took up the chant. “Kiss her, kiss her!”
Hank grinned, finally realizing that they were not alone. He didn’t care.
Neither did she.
While everyone on the train whistled and applauded, Hank lowered his head and kissed Claire. They kissed and held each other tight. It was a long, sweet caress of a man and a woman who were deeply in love and happy as they’ve never been before in their lives.
While Hank and Claire kissed, the rain magically stopped. The dark clouds rolled away.
And a radiant summer sun shone down from the bright blue sky.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-6390-4
DUCHESS FOR A DAY
Copyright © 2005 by Nan Ryan.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
