CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Dr. Creighton finished measuring the elixir. He tightened the lid, put a label on the small bottle, and walked back to the counter at the front of the drugstore. For a few hours every afternoon, while he wasn’t busy with patients at the sanitarium, he dispensed remedies from this tiny shop on Manitou Avenue.
Fred Parker stood by the front window, staring into the street. Red mud filled the street in heavy clumps and mounds, churned up by the many horses and carriages. He turned, and Dr. Creighton noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the twitch at the corners of his mouth. His eyes jumped uneasily around the room.
“Fred? Are you all right?” Dr. Creighton took the gold coin that Fred held out to him, payment for the elixir. “You seem a little jumpy.” Dr. Creighton stopped. He’d never seen Fred act like this before. He looked guilty, like he’d just robbed a bank.
Fred glanced back at the street. He turned back toward the doctor, leaned slightly to look behind the doc into the shelves at the back. He leaned one hand on the counter, his eyes coming up to Dr. Creighton. “Couple of us boys is getting together this evenin’.” He smiled, a slick, oily smile. He glanced behind the doctor again, turned his body to look at the door. “Gonna clean up the neighborhood a little.”
“What do you mean?”
Fred stroked his mustache. “You know that priest? Father Morier?” Fred drew the syllables out in a false attempt at the proper French pronunciation.
Dr. Creighton nodded.
Fred looked behind the doctor again, searching the shadows for spies. “Rotten bastard! Word is he’s been touching the kids. Little kids. Same age as my Sallie.” Fred shook his head. “Goddamned rotten bastard!”
Dr. Creighton let out a slow leak of air. “Fred, are you . . . are you certain? This is a very serious accusation. Are you absolutely sure?” Dr. Creighton remembered the French maid that he had been called to look in on a few weeks ago. She was young, but certainly not a child. He’d gone back to check on her a few days later, and Julien had informed him that the maid and his mother had gone back to France. Probably best, given her condition, the doctor had thought at the time.
Fred leaned forward again. “You know that little Tyler girl? Ain’t but seven year old? Her mama said she cried and carried on like she’d been kilt! And once she told her mama, then the lid came off.” Fred puffed. “Then other kids started talking. Makes me sick, that piece of French scum.”
“Fred, even if this is true . . . shouldn’t you let the law handle it? He’s a priest. He deserves the chance to defend himself.” Dr. Creighton fought the anger, the nausea that rushed over him. He thought of his own little girl. She was nine.
“The law?” Fred exploded. “Let the law handle it? And drag those kids through the courts? A trial? Let everyone in town see who they are? Make ’em get up in front of people, and have to tell their story? Are you crazy?”
Dr. Creighton swallowed.
“Seems to me them kids been through enough. Rotten goddamned son of a bitch.”
Fred stopped, turned slowly toward the doctor. “You ain’t . . . you ain’t a friend a his, is ya?”
Dr. Creighton pulled his shoulders up. “What are you saying, Fred Parker?”
They met each other’s eyes.
They stared at each other for several moments. Dr. Creighton lowered his gaze to the countertop. He quieted his breath. He looked back at Fred. “I just think maybe you ought to let the law handle it.”
Fred spat in the direction of the spittoon in the corner. “Well . . . I guess I ain’t asked what you thought.” He turned and left, letting the door slam behind him. The bell on the handle jangled.
Basil Creighton stood still, staring out at Manitou Avenue. Pockets of snow lay heaped at the sides of the street, only churned into mud where the horses had done their work. Basil stared at the mud. He never had liked the father. He’d always found him arrogant, a little too full of his own importance. And that thing with the maid—that had made him want to choke the priest.
He gulped. His Adam’s apple strained against his shirt collar. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to help that sorry excuse for a man and even sorrier excuse for a priest—a man of God. But it didn’t matter what the man had done; he still had the right to a trial. He still had the right to face his accusers, to have his day in court.
Basil moved to the front door, pulled his key out of his pocket, and locked the bolt. He turned the sign in the window to “Closed.” He stared out into the street. It was growing quiet; only a few people stirred in the late winter afternoon.
He turned and hurried out the back of the shop. He carried his bag, pulled the collar of his coat up against the chill of the wind blowing off the mountain. He hurried up the steep grade of Ruxton Avenue.
Light shone from inside the houses. They looked warm and safe, protected from the weather, safe from harm. Basil looked around, wondering how many of these homes were actually secure. If this horrible rumor was true, how many homes had been violated? How many children had that man touched? His stomach churned. He thought about going home, abandoning this fool’s errand and walking the block and a half to his own wife and children, probably this moment sitting down to dinner.
But the thought of sitting in his own home, warm in front of the fire, his daughters relaxed and comfortable in the room around him, while somewhere in the streets, the priest was being beaten to death, or shot, or maybe hung . . . Basil rushed past the turnoff to his own home and continued up the hill on Ruxton Avenue.
He stopped at number sixteen, climbed the steps to the porch, and banged on the front door. It was the dinner hour, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no time to waste.
Angus Gillis answered the door, a white napkin stuck in his shirt collar. Angus reached for it and pulled it away. “Basil! Good to see you. Come in, come in.” Basil stepped inside, shook the thick hand that Angus offered. “Have you eaten?”
Basil looked up at Angus Gillis, glad he’d chosen to come here. The builder was as open and honest and straightforward as any man in this town. Basil admired his clear thinking, his even temper, the way he had handled the situation with the priest over his unpaid debts on the castle. Somehow, even through all that, Angus had managed to stay friends with Morier.
Basil glanced toward the dining room, where Mrs. Gillis and their daughter, Lenore, sat waiting. He turned and looked Angus in the eye. “Thanks for offering, Angus, but I’m short on time. Can we speak privately?”
Angus nodded, and leaned into the dining room to address his wife and daughter. “You two go ahead. I’ll finish a little later.” He led Basil into the parlor and closed the sliding pocket door behind him. A few minutes later, the door rolled open and both men moved swiftly. Angus reached for his coat and hat from the hat tree in the hallway. Mrs. Gillis stood, staring at her husband.
Angus paused for a moment at the door to the dining room. He looked at his wife and dropped his voice. “There’s a lynch mob, going after Father Morier.”
Her hand rose to her throat, a napkin clutched tightly in her fist. “Be careful, Mr. Gillis,” she whispered. “He is not worth your life.”
He nodded to her and clamped his hat on his head. The two men left, the door shutting with a sharp thud behind them.
“You go down to the town clock,” Angus murmured. “See if you can find out where they are. Slow them down, if you can.” Dr. Creighton nodded, and started down the hill he’d just come up.
Angus went behind his house and hitched the horses to his buggy. He threw a couple of wool blankets into the back, a buffalo robe on top. He climbed up in the seat and clucked to the horses. They turned to the right, up Ruxton Avenue, toward the castle.
Julien heard the pounding on the door, but he was slow in responding, as if waking from a dream. His shirt was untucked, wrinkled, and messy. He noticed the bottle of brandy in his hand and moved to put it on the table. He raised a hand to his face. His beard had grown shaggy and unkempt. His eyes stung; he could smell the odor on his clothes and body and breath. He waited, but the pounding on the front door was loud and insistent, and he forced himself down the stairs.
“Why, Angus. What a pleasant surprise,” Julien began, his words slurred and sloppy.
Angus stepped abruptly through the door and closed it behind them. Julien stepped back in surprise. “Get your coat, Father. There’s no time to waste.”
“What in the world? What are . . .” Julien shook his head, trying to clear it. “What are you talking about?”
“Father? Now. Get your coat. There’s a lynch mob, down the hill. They want your hide, and they’ll be here soon. You need to get out of here. There’s no time to lose.”
Julien’s eyes darted from Angus’s face to the floor to the stairs leading up to the parlor. His throat worked in a series of gulps. He stared at his home around him.
“Father? Get your coat.”
Julien raised his eyes to Angus Gillis. He turned, let his eyes glide over the golden wood on the stairs, the wallpaper from Paris. He looked at the fire in the parlor, the huge wall of carefully cut stone surrounding it. Light danced on the ceiling and the molding, shipped from a cabinetmaker in New York, that surrounded the room. He moved slowly, as if it were too much to ask. Too much to be borne. How could he leave this castle? The one he had designed, the one Angus and his brother had built?
His hand moved to the side of his head. All that time, all those years, at the parish in New Mexico, waiting, hoping, for a chance to go somewhere where he would feel at home, where the people would appreciate him. Somewhere where his every move wasn’t shadowed by the stares of the dark-eyed people who so obviously disliked him, somewhere where there were more Europeans, more of the wealthy, privileged set that he felt so at home with.
Julien let his eyes travel over every corner, every plant. He could see the painting his mother had shipped from Beaulieu, the still life that had hung at the castle in France since long before Julien was born.
Angus reached for his elbow, held it firmly in his large hand. “We have to go.”
Julien nodded. He took his coat from the hook, pulled it over his arms and shoulders. He reached for his hat, clamped it on his head. He glanced up the stairs, one last time, and then let Angus guide him out the front door. Julien climbed into the back of the buggy and curled up on the floor. Angus covered him with blankets, the buffalo robe on top.
Julien felt the buggy dip as Angus climbed up on the seat. He heard the crack of the whip, the sharp clop-clop of the horses’ hooves on the pavement. He felt the steep pitch of the hill as the buggy started down. Under the covers, in the dark, he followed every turn and twist of the road: left onto Ruxton Avenue, the curve of the street where Angus’s own house stood, the right turn onto Manitou Avenue at the bottom of the hill.
He heard their voices, rising in volume as the buggy drew close to the group of men waiting by the town clock. The buggy stopped.
“Evenin’, Angus.” Julien recognized the timbre of the voice. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before, what face it might belong to.
“Evenin’, boys.” Angus’s voice was friendly and even, completely calm. “Having a party?”
Stanley Reed laughed. “Guess you could say that, huh, boys?” Julien could hear the laughter of several men.
Reed turned back toward Angus. “More like housecleaning, actually.”
“That so?” Julien was impressed by how normal Angus made his voice sound.
“Certain French priest has made a little mess around here,” Reed continued. “Want to join us?”
“I would. I would, indeed. No room for that kind of thing around here.”
Julien’s heart pounded. The sound was deafening, like the ocean in a storm. He wondered how the men outside the buggy could keep from hearing it. For a moment, Julien wondered if Angus was going to turn him over to the men.
“But I’m afraid I can’t—not this evening anyway,” Angus said. “Got an appointment in Colorado Springs. We’re looking at house plans. But I wish you boys success. Any man that would do something like . . . like what I’ve heard. Well, he doesn’t deserve to live, far as I’m concerned. A man of the cloth, at that!” Julien held his breath. The tension was strong enough to sober him completely. He could feel the quiet in the men outside the wagon; he could feel the way Angus held his breath, as if uncertain whether they would let him go. Julien heard the rattle of a harness, heard Angus cluck to the horses, and they lurched forward. The wheels on the buggy creaked and moaned.
The voices grew quieter as the buggy moved away from them. Julien let out a long sigh.
Angus didn’t say another word the rest of the drive. The buggy pitched and rocked and swayed with the dips in the road, the turns they made. The five miles lengthened, and to Julien, crouched in the back, it felt like fifty. Despite the pile of blankets, he found his body shaking, whether from fear or cold, he could not tell. He didn’t feel safe, had no idea where Angus might be taking him. Maybe Angus was driving him into the mountains, in the darkness, ready to dispatch the priest by himself. Maybe that group of men had already gone to the castle, already thrown open the door, searched the premises. Perhaps, at this very moment, they were racing after the buggy.
The buggy stopped moving. Angus stayed still on his seat. “You can get up now, Father,” he whispered.
Julien pushed the heavy robes aside and sat up. He was cramped and stiff. The cold had seeped in under the blankets and locked in his joints. He looked at the tall, dark brick building beside them. They were at St. Mary’s Church, on Bijou Street in Colorado Springs.
Angus climbed down from his seat. He sighed, stretched his back and shoulders. He did not look at Julien. He moved to the door of the rectory and pounded.
They waited several moments. Angus pounded again. The housekeeper for Father Byrne pulled the door open and stared into the dark. It was long past time for visitors, and she was in her housecoat and slippers. Her hair hung in a long gray braid down the side of her neck. She looked at Father Morier, dusty and wrinkled, brushing at his clothes, and she stepped aside to let the two men pass.
Father Byrne appeared at the top of the stairs, also in housecoat and slippers. He had obviously been sleeping. His face was creased from the pillowcase. His silky white hair, thin and sparse, stood at odd angles. He put his glasses on his nose, peered down the stairs at the two men below. “Why, Father Morier! Mr. Gillis! This is unexpected!”
He started down the stairs. “Come in, come in.” He waved his hand, indicated the parlor to their left. The fire from earlier in the evening glowed with red coals.
Angus twisted his hat in his hands. “I’m afraid I’ve brought you nothing but trouble,” he began, his eyes flicking over to Morier beside him.
“Oh?” Father Byrne’s eyes were large and gray, almost pop-eyed behind his glasses.
“I’ve brought Morier to you for hiding. There’s a lynch mob after him. We barely made it out of Manitou.” Angus’s voice was gruff and deep.
Father Byrne examined the two men. Julien kept his eyes pinned on the rug beneath them, leaves of ivy trailing and twisting on the deep-green background.
“And just why would they want to lynch the good father?”
Julien shrugged but did not meet the eyes of the older priest. “I have no idea,” he began. His eyes skipped and flittered from the floor to the chairs to the window.
Angus interrupted. “They say he’s molesting kids.”
Father Byrne stared at Morier.
Angus turned to Julien, his eyes running up and down the small-statured man. “I don’t know if it’s true or not. But I heard some things myself, even before tonight.” Angus pushed a heavy breath into the room. “I don’t know if I done the right thing, really. Bringing him here. Maybe I should have just let them—”
He stopped, and Julien shuddered.
“But no matter what a man has done, I guess I never believed that turning him over to vigilantes is the right way to handle a problem.” He looked off into the darkened corner of the room. “Myself . . . I’d like to see him go to trial. Face his accusers.”
He looked back at Julien again. Julien could not meet his gaze.
Father Byrne clapped a hand on Angus’s shoulder. “You’ve done the right thing, Mr. Gillis. We can’t allow anyone to take the law into his own hands.”
Angus nodded.
“I’ll take care of things. I believe there is a train, for the east, first thing tomorrow morning. Perhaps Father Morier should be on it.”
Angus caught Julien’s eye.
Without a word, he turned and walked to the door, pulling it closed behind him.
EPILOGUE
Over a hundred years have passed since Julien first built the castle, over a hundred years since Adrienne arrived from France in the guise of a servant. It’s been over a hundred years since the night she picked up the knife and did what she felt she had to do. But the two who perpetrated the events, who instigated the torture, are no longer stuck. They are completely removed from the horror that took place inside these walls, completely oblivious to how their actions have continued to affect Adrienne, to hold her prisoner.
For over a hundred years, she has paced these halls, climbed these stairs, stared out these same windows. She watched as the world changed around her. She watched as the town of Manitou Springs grew, as houses crowded around the castle, as the very fabric of life has been rewoven by technology and industry. She watched while the Manitou Springs Historical Society took over the castle and worked to restore it to its original form. She watches the visitors come and go; sometimes she eavesdrops on their conversations, smiling at the all-too-frequent question “Is there a ghost in the castle?”
Yes, there is, and she’s made her presence known in dozens of harmless ways. The preservation architect from Denver, who came down to begin the process of restoration, was convinced there was a ghost present. He spent hours in the castle, tearing at false walls and boarded-over fireplaces, trying to get down to what the castle had been like originally. He pored over plans, read everything he could find that had been written about the building when Julien was there.
Adrienne did what she could to get his attention. He’d unlock a door, gather up his papers, and before he could get inside, she would close and lock it again. Sometimes he would close a door, turn the key in the lock, and start toward his car. Adrienne would push it open and watch the expression on his face as he turned to see it swing inward. She moved his papers. He was so certain of a presence that he mentioned the “ghost” in his preservation report.
And she’s made her presence known to the ladies who work there, with a variety of benign parlor tricks. She moved the crocheted antimacassars, right after the cleaning lady had finished placing them on the sofa. The woman turned her back for a moment, and suddenly they were on the chair. Adrienne sat in the rocking chair and rocked, making the chair creak and moan, watching as the woman’s face filled with fright. She moved dolls and dishes in the gift shop, sometimes to the opposite side of the room. She removed the coffee from the coffeemaker one morning when someone had started a pot for a meeting. The woman returned a few minutes later to find nothing but pale gray water coming out of the spout. Once, she even whispered “Happy birthday” to a woman working alone on the fourth floor. She loved to watch their reactions. She loved watching as they shook off their shivers.
But after one hundred years, none of that is even remotely satisfying. They might acknowledge the presence of a ghost. They have even named her Henrietta, a name that makes her shudder with its reminders of the life she led inside these walls. Once in a while a child, or some particularly sensitive person, walks through the door, sensing her presence. When that happens, Adrienne follows him or her from room to room, whispering to them, sometimes lightly touching a shoulder or a strand of hair. She loves it when someone can actually feel her presence—when someone almost stops and waits for her to say something.
It is not enough. It is not enough to spend eternity playing parlor tricks, all the while drowning in loneliness, just as she had in her physical life. Even after all this time has passed, she is still capsizing in the negative emotions that come charging up over her at the oddest times, like a storm at sea. She walks through the parlor, past the big fireplace, and stops suddenly, remembering those evenings by the fire, Marie pouring the wine and watching Adrienne’s every move. She walks into the kitchen and is suddenly hit with the feeling of looking at the breakfast tray that the nuns sent down and feeling, once again, like she’s going to retch. Some man with dark hair and a dark beard will visit the castle with his wife and family, and Adrienne finds herself gritting her teeth, the feeling of hatred so strong she’s surprised that the living don’t sense it. Once, she passed a woman on the stairs, a woman with graying curls and a grim expression, and for a moment Adrienne thought about shoving her, watching her tumble and roll down the staircase, as if she were the cause of Adrienne’s distress. As if she were the one who had kept Adrienne a prisoner here, all these years after the real culprits had left.
That is one thing she has discovered in the past hundred years: the emotion, the energy of anger and revulsion and shame and horror has not gone away. Adrienne’s actions on that long-ago evening allowed her to escape their physical presence, the physical torture that she endured at their hands. But the mental agony, the emotional suffering, has continued, as if it has an energy all its own, unrelated to whether or not there is a physical presence to claim it.
She stands at the window on the stairs, staring out at the night, as she has for hours now. There is a sliver of moon in the dark sky; Venus tags along like a puppy, twinkling with a joy promised to those who can get out, who can manage to leave it all behind. She knows now that it is not Julien or Marie who is keeping her a prisoner of this never-ending torment. There is no punishment that has been meted out by some great power, forcing her to stay locked inside these walls, reliving the same drama over and over again. The only thing keeping her here is herself, the energy of her own thoughts and emotions, her own inability to let go.
For years, she stood at this window and asked why. She wondered what she had done to deserve this treatment, what was wrong with her, what was it that had set off the whole chain of events. For a while, she believed that if she only understood why, then she would be able to escape.
She has quit asking why; she has quit seeking the answer. Even if she knew the answer, it would not free her from this prison. For years, she had believed that if they were caught, if they were punished for what they had done, that would be enough. That would make her feel better, would bring her a sense of justice and closure and allow her to let it all go.
She spent ages waiting for that to happen, for some Old Testament god to seek them out and make them pay. But that was long, long ago; too many years have passed for such a possibility. Julien and Marie are long dead; there will be no punishment; there will be no justice.
Adrienne swallowed. Below her, the blue house was dark. She could picture that little girl with the bike snug in her bed, completely unaware of the torture that went on in this castle all those years ago. Completely unaware of the steps Adrienne took to solve her problem. Completely unaware of all the awful events that took place behind these walls, just a few steps away.
Adrienne did not believe that she could ever forgive Julien and Marie for what they had done to her. She could never condone their actions, could never erase the pain they had caused. Forgiveness, the way she understood it, was not possible. But the way she had hung on, all these years, to her anger, to her need to blame them, her need for revenge, had not done anything to hurt Julien or Marie. It was she who continued to suffer, over a hundred years later. It was she who was still trapped here, still unable to find peace.
The thought occurred to her: What if I just let go? Not forgiveness, exactly, but just release. What if she unchained herself from all the pain, the anger, the shame, the sadness, all of it. Just put it down, like a heavy suitcase that she had been carting around for far too long. For the first time in over a century, Adrienne thought that perhaps she was ready, willing even, to detach. Forget about being able to forgive. Forget everything. Just let it go. For the first time, she wanted to let it go. She was willing to let it go.
She raised her hand to the lace curtain, her vision clear now as she studied the way the moonlight poured across the roof of the blue house. She watched the shadows of the trees spilling across the walls, watched as leaf shadows danced and flickered. Moonlight, pale and weak, came through the lace curtain in front of her, and her gaze was drawn to the soft shadows playing on her own hand. She watched, fascinated, as the shadows continued to sway and dance, only now on the curtain itself. She watched as her hand began to fade and disappear, like morning fog when the sun comes out.
AFTERWORD
This story is a work of fiction but was inspired by the real people, and some of the real events, connected with Miramont Castle, in Manitou Springs, Colorado.
Sometime in the early months of 1900, Father Jean Baptiste Francolon and his mother, Marie Plagne Francolon, left Miramont Castle under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind furniture, works of art, and family heirlooms, including the four-poster bed that had belonged to the empress Josephine Bonaparte. They also left many unpaid debts. The Gillis brothers did file a lawsuit against Father Francolon for nonpayment on the castle; they contacted his bishop first, reticent to sue the man they had worked so closely with.
Marie Francolon died in France a few months later.
Jean Baptiste Francolon died in New York in 1922. He was never given another parish after being relieved of his duties in Manitou Springs.
Francolon was born in France in 1854, the grandson of the Comte de Challembelles. His father, who worked in the diplomatic corps of the French government, died when Jean was just thirteen years old. Francolon studied at the university in Paris and prepared to go into diplomacy as well.
Just before he was to finish, he showed a sudden change of heart and entered the theological seminary in Clermont, France. Archbishop Lamy had also attended the seminary at Clermont and returned often to recruit priests for his large diocese in the New Mexico Territory. Jean Baptiste Francolon was one of those recruits. He was ordained in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in 1878, and served as secretary and then chancellor to the archbishop. He was given his own parish in 1881, at Santa Cruz de la Ca?ada, twenty-five miles north of Santa Fe. The parish covered over seventy square miles and included three Indian pueblos.
The journals of Adolph Bandelier, a Swiss anthropologist who spent many years in the New Mexico Territory, record that Father Francolon was poisoned at the chalice in 1885. He never fully recovered his health. Francolon was transferred to Manitou Springs, Colorado, to the Chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, in 1892.
Francolon never revealed to anyone in Manitou that he had been poisoned. The story he told was that he had been sent to South America on a secret mission for the French government in 1885–86 and it was there that his health was compromised.
The stories of the George Washington ball were well documented in Colorado newspapers of the time, and were well attended by the elite of Denver and Colorado Springs society.
Francolon was proud of having helped bring the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad into Espa?ola, New Mexico, close to his parish. A spur of the D&RG, called the Chili Line, did exist between Antonito, Colorado, and Espa?ola. Francolon also boasted of his friendship with General William Palmer, who was instrumental in the building of the Denver and Rio Grande. There is some question as to the business practices of the railroad company in dealing with the acquisition of lands for the railroad from native peoples.
Francolon donated his original residence on the hill behind the castle, a wooden structure called Montcalme, to the Sisters of Mercy. They operated a sanitarium for tuberculosis patients in that structure. He also arranged with the sisters to have them provide meals for himself and his mother.
The Sisters of Mercy, in a history written by Kathleen O’Brien, RSM, entitled Journeys: A Pre-Amalgamation History of the Sisters of Mercy, Omaha Province, document the rumors of pedophilia about Francolon. The Sisters also share the story, through oral tradition, of Francolon having cursed the mother superior when she confronted him about the allegations of pedophilia. Whether he cursed her or not cannot be verified. On August 29, 1901, Mother Mary John Baptist Meyers was killed in a train accident as she traveled from Denver to Durango, slightly more than a year after the alleged curse.
The Sisters also share, in this same document, the story of Francolon’s being whisked away to St. Mary’s Church, under cover of darkness, with a vigilante committee on his heels.
Stories of the ghost were documented in the preservation report of the preservation consultant, Philip Lawrence Hannum, who helped restore the castle to its original form. Other members of the Manitou Historical Society, and some who have worked at the castle, have also reported mysterious occurrences, which they attribute to the ghost. They call her Henrietta.
The rest of the story is fiction.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Copp, Shirley. Miramont Castle: A Brief History. Manitou Springs, Colo: Manitou Springs Historical Society, 1985.
Hanks, Nancy, PhD. Lamy’s Legion: The Individual Histories of Secular Clergy Serving in the Archdiocese of Santa Fe from 1850 to 1912. HRM Books, Santa Fe, c. 2000.
Hannum Preservation Report. Philip Lawrence Hannum.
Horgan, Paul. Lamy of Santa Fe, a biography. Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, New York, 1975.
Kessell, John L. The Missions of New Mexico Since 1776. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1980.
Lange, Charles H. and Carroll L Riley, eds and anns. 1966. The Southwestern Journals of Adolph F. Bandelier, 1880-1882. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.
Mensing, Marcia. Miramont Castle: The First Hundred Years. Manitou Springs Historical Society, Manitou Springs, Colorado, 1995.
O’Brien, Kathleen, R.S.M. Journeys: A Pre-Amalgamation History of the Sisters of Mercy, Omaha Province. Omaha, Nebraska.
Tenhaeff, W.H.C. Telepathy and Clairvoyance. Charles C. Thomas Publisher, Springfield, IL, 1972; translation of Dutch edition 1965 by W. de Haan, N.V. Zeist.
Salpointe, Rev. Jean-Baptiste. 1967. Soldiers of the Cross: Notes on the Ecclesiastical History of New Mexico, Arizona and Colorado. Albuquerque, Calvin Horn.
Sipe, A.W. Richard. Sex, Priests, & Power: Anatomy of a Crisis, Brunner Mazel Publishers, New York, 1995.
The Denver Republican, February 23, 1897.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people were helpful as I struggled to learn about the lives of those who were involved in the castle and to weave those facts into the narrative. I would like to thank Linda Pineda at Miramont Castle, Marcia Muensing, the staff of the Pioneer Museum in Colorado Springs, Melissa Salazar of the New Mexico State Archives, Sister Mary Lavey, and Maria Mondragon-Valdez. Several early readers of all or part of the manuscript were also very helpful, including Jodine Ryan, Alberta Bouyer, Jennie Shortridge, Barb Kolupke, and Misa Lobato. My agent, Alison Fargis, has been wonderful every step of the way, as well as my editors, Danielle Marshall and Charlotte Herscher. I am deeply appreciative.