Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04) (21 page)
Harmony, sitting across from Inez and listening with anxious eyes, laid a hand on Jonathan’s sleeve. “Perhaps,” she said sweetly, “this is not conversation for the dinner table.”
“Oh, sorry, my dear, of course,” said Jonathan hastily.
“Actually,” said Inez, “I find the conversation fascinating.” She turned to the doctor. “I would be curious to know, since you are obviously a man eminent in the field,” she could have sworn his chest beneath the carpet of beard puffed like a pigeon, “just how is one to tell the truth from the lies?”
He smoothed the beard down over his dinner jacket and said, “An excellent question. The simple answer is, ‘Find a reputable physician and accept his guidance in the matter.’ Aside from that, I would add that nostrums, in particular, can be dangerous. I had heard of one containing a large proportion of kerosene and a smaller proportion of turpentine, and a small amount of aromatic oil. It would make a better furniture polish than a remedy.”
“So, you are saying that nostrums, tonics,” Inez cast a glance at Nurse Crowson, who was off to one side of the room arranging her array of small bottles, “are useless?”
“Not at all, not at all. Excellent progress is being made with the use of injections of medications, most primarily mercury salts, Lugol’s Solution, and carbolic acid. Why, Dr. Prochazka’s work is an excellent example of current day thinking. He has combined the healthful mineral waters of the springs here in Manitou with various elements to produce what I believe is a tonic of unparalleled medicinal virtues. Dr. Prochazka is a visionary, a scientist. Consider the success of his prescriptions, his medicines, his regimens, and the work he is doing on phthsis. It is absolutely extraordinary. Look to the numbers, dear lady, look to the cures! I myself have made the study of tuberculosis my life’s work. I have examined the results here at the Mountain Springs House and am completely committed to Dr. Prochazka’s methods.”
After copious amounts of coffee to offset the heavy food and conversation, Inez rose with the rest of the party and said her goodnight to the physician. As she started toward the door, Aunt Agnes caught up with her and said,
sotto voce
, “Inez. I understand you were pawing through stable debris this afternoon. Perhaps this is an activity in which ladies indulge in Leadville, but I assure you, it does not reflect well on you or us here in Manitou. Please be mindful that some of these guests are of the first water. Any idiosyncrasy could find its way into the general milieu, and who knows how far it could travel.”
“Aunt Agnes, I believe the event you speak of has been misconstrued. I merely went to the livery to see if something I had dropped in the stagecoach had turned up. That is all.”
For all the good her explanation did, Inez might have whistled into the wind. Agnes merely plunged on. “Where were you this afternoon? You all came back from your walk, and you disappeared. I was rounding up players for my
tableaux vivants
for tomorrow evening. I had thought you would be perfect for a particular part I had in mind, but it’s too late now. Too bad, for it would have been an excellent opportunity for you to redeem yourself.”
They were well out the dining room now. Some of the diners drifted toward the porch, while others moved to the stairs or the music room. As the music room entrance loomed before them, Agnes’ grip on Inez’s elbow became more vise-like and she inquired, in a louder, honeyed voice, “You
will
be joining us for the concert, will you not, dear niece?”
Inez took hold of Agnes’ hand and removed it from her arm. “Of course, dear aunt. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But first, I have business at the front desk. I shall be there presently.”
Inez moved to the reception desk, resisting the urge to rub her aching elbow. Mr. Lewis was behind the counter. While he retrieved a room key for a nanny and her fussy charge, Inez stared at the two bucks mounted on the back wall, either side of a wall clock. She counted twelve points on the one to the left; thirteen on the one to the right. The clock ticked. The baby whimpered in the nanny’s arms. The taxidermied deer stared back at Inez, glassy-eyed.
She tapped idly on the counter with the folded paper she had labored over before dinner, and considered what she was about to set into motion. Like the mechanism of gears and springs in the wall clock, once the telegram was out of her hands, she would have no choice but to move forward until events wound down to their conclusion, whatever that may be.
The nanny sent on her way, Lewis finally directed his attention to Inez. She asked, “Is it possible to send a telegram tonight to Leadville?”
“Why, of course, madam. We have blanks here. Would you like to fill one out now?”
“Please.”
He pulled out a blank form and handed it to her, pushing the pen and ink bottle toward her. She unfolded the paper that held her carefully crafted words and copied them onto the form. After waving the form in the air to dry the ink, she handed it to Lewis.
“I’ll see to this personally.” Lewis took the paper from her with a small bow.
It could not have played out better if she’d planned it. “Thank you
so
much,” she gushed. “I would hate to miss the concert.” She then added, as if in afterthought, “Would you please cast an eye over the message and make certain it’s readable?”
Lewis stopped in the act of folding the form and said, “Why of course.” His gaze lowered to the paper.
She knew all the words there by heart, having chosen them carefully, deliberately. They unrolled in her mind as she watched him scan the message:
Dearest Husband,
Make haste to the Mountain Springs House soonest. The weather is perfect, the investment opportunities unparalleled. I eagerly await your arrival.
Fondest regards, Your Loving Wife
She was pleased to see his eyebrows rise fractionally and a shadow of a smile tug at one corner of his mouth. “All perfectly legible. You have lovely penmanship, Mrs. Stannert.” He folded the form, tucked it into his coat jacket and turned to an idle doorman, motioning him to stand behind the counter. “I shall take this to the Manitou House myself, where they have a telegraph office, and have it sent
immédiatement.
” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I am being forward, but is Mr. Stannert looking for business opportunities in Manitou?”
She beamed, having no need to invent her delight with his question. “Indeed he is, Mr. Lewis. Mr. Stannert has been keen on this region for a while now. He asked me to let him know if I thought it worth his while to explore the possibilities here.” She batted her eyes. “I’m honored that he would trust me with such a weighty task. I suppose I flatter myself that he values my feminine opinion in such things.”
She detected a new spark of interest in Lewis’ eyes. Encouraged, she added, “I immediately saw what an absolutely first-class establishment you have here in the Mountain Springs House. I have also been hearing wonderful things about Dr. Prochazka and his clinic. I would not be fulfilling my duty as a good helpmeet if I did not encourage him to come as soon as possible.”
Lewis was nodding solemnly, head moving up and down in rhythm to the tick-tick-tick of the small pendulum in the wall clock behind him. “You are a most astute woman, Mrs. Stannert. Thank you so much for your kind words. We shall be very happy to show Mr. Stannert around and answer any and all questions he may have. I, too, believe the Mountain Springs House has a bright, bright future.”
Inez beamed some more and fluttered her fan to relieve the warmth rising to her cheeks.
Mr. Lewis has taken the bait—hook, line, and sinker. Mark will be able to reel him in without trouble, and we shall see if he has any secrets worth knowing.
She just hoped that Mark would recognize and remember their old code, from years past. Words ending with “–est” indicated a situation existed that had the opportunity for financial gain, if they played their cards right. Repeated three times meant that the opportunity required moving in the highest circles of society—In essence, “Bring your best clothes and manners.” Remarks about the weather provided the time frame and urgency. “Perfect weather” indicated that the opportunity existed
now
, and there was no time to waste. She just hoped that he did not take “dearest husband,” “fondest regards” and “loving wife” at face value.
If he does, I’ll straighten him out once he arrives.
The music had already begun. Indeed, while standing at the reception desk, Inez had been partly aware of an enthusiastic rendition of the overture to Herold’s
Zampa
swelling from the music room. After concluding her business with Lewis, she hurried into the room. She surveyed the backs of the audience for Mrs. Pace. The young widow sat at the far end of the last row, accompanied by an open chair. Behind her, Mrs. Crowson stood attentively, hands folded on top of an invalid chair holding a young woman, wraithlike in her thinness and wrapped in a heavy shawl. Inez wondered briefly at the absence of Mr. Travers. Inez spotted Susan Carothers, dressed in a rose-colored summer gown she’d not seen before, sitting next to Robert Calder in the front row. Inez suppressed a smile as their heads leaned together over a shared program.
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.