Parlor Games A Novel

ACQUISITIONS OLD AND NEW



FROM LONDON TO ARKANSAS—SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER 1901



I so loved my well-appointed first-class cabin on the SS Majestic, the leisure of afternoons lolling in a deck chair, the beauty of sunsets at sea. In fact, I enjoyed everything about that crossing: my newfound sense of freedom; the utter relaxation of life without appointments; the companionable dinners. And after sacrificing so many youthful years to country life and reaching the age of thirty-two, I was pleased to find that men still flocked to me.

I never imagined, however, that my convivial chats with one particular American businessman would pay high dividends. Near journey’s end, Mr. Harry Drummer, an athletic but balding widower on holiday with his son, began to seek me out for late-afternoon cocktails. He jested he was “not only vice president, but finances pooh-bah” at Churchill Downs.

“Ah, Mrs. de Vries, there you are,” he said upon finding me chatting in the saloon with Daisy and Dicky. The aura of cigar smoke floated about him. “May I join you?”

Mr. Drummer hailed from Kentucky, just like my old friend Sue Marie, and I took some comfort in his long-voweled Kentucky drawl. I introduced him to Daisy and her brother, who drifted off to freshen up before dinner.

Mr. Drummer guided me to a seat by a porthole and ordered drinks for us. “What’ll you do when we land?”

I twisted my wedding ring to center its diamond on my finger. “My family is expecting me in Michigan. But I might stop a night in New York.”

“Well, I guess Robert and I’ll do about the same. Duty calls in Louisville.”

I gazed out the porthole. The seas surged with choppiness, the worst of our ten days at sea. Although I’d escaped a bad case of seasickness, the ship’s pitching did gurgle my stomach. “Goodness,” I said, “this roughness is a bit unnerving.”

“Swivel around here,” he said, rising to help me rearrange my chair and, in the process, suggestively clasping my shoulder. “It’ll help if you look at the horizon.”

I allowed—but did not yield to—his touch. “I wonder how long these unruly seas will last.”

He settled in his seat again. “The captain says just another day.”

I took a few deep breaths. “Yes, that’s better.”

Mr. Drummer braced his forearms on the table and leaned toward me. “Say, weren’t you talking about making an investment?”

“Yes, if I can find a worthy speculation.”

He lowered his voice. “Churchill Downs is planning to build a racetrack outside Hot Springs.”

“How far along are you with the plans?”

“Oh, it’s all on paper now, but we’re about to buy some property near Lawrence station. Place should be booming once we break ground.”

I grinned. “To say nothing of when you open the track.”

“Horse racing is lucrative.” Mr. Drummer swung his head in a loop. “Yes, it is.”

“Have you broken the news yet?”

“No, it’s strictly on the hush. If you’d care to join me for dinner, I can fill you in on the details.”

Our drinks arrived, and I swooped mine up and tipped it against his. “To shrewd investing.”



In early October, our ship steamed into New York, where I found the newspapers plastered with reports of McKinley’s assassination and Czolgosz’s trial and impending execution. The mood in the city was so somber I was loath to loiter even a day. I packed a suitcase and sent my wardrobe trunk ahead to Menominee with word that I would soon follow. Daisy, Dicky, and I took the train to Hot Springs and checked into the Arlington Hotel. That day and evening, we saw the sights in downtown Hot Springs, which was booming with rowdy visitors and gambling games—not that I had any interest in gambling myself. Before Dicky could search out the local ruffians, as was his wont, I sent him off to track down a horse and carriage for us to rent, and on the second day he drove the three of us to Lawrence station.

We arrived in the afternoon, parched from the journey, and toured all the dusty roads around the train station looking for a place to stay. But we found little by way of accommodations: a hotel with a sagging porch and a boardinghouse. So I ordered Dicky to drive us back to the station.

I thumped on the carriage compartment to signal Dicky to pull over.

When he jumped down, I opened the door and said, “Go in that tavern and ask if there are any nice hotels in the area. And please bring us some water.”

After a few minutes, Dicky emerged with glasses of water for Daisy and me, which we straightaway gulped down. He leaned against the carriage door, his hand braced on the door and a foot propped on the step.

“There’s a place several miles down the road,” he said. “Potash Sulphur Hotel.”

Dicky used the tavern keeper’s directions to drive us there. The eighty-four-room resort featured grounds with an archery range, badminton nets, and two bathhouses for taking the waters. The property sat atop a knoll, and behind it golden grasses rippled down to a river. Trees nestled along the river’s curves; their leaves had changed to oranges and browns but still clung to the boughs. The picturesque scene nearly tempted me to take off my shoes, skip down the hill, and dabble in the cool river waters.

We checked in, intending to relax for a few days before continuing our journey. I carried my suitcase down the long second-floor hall to my room. The construction seemed solid enough; I discerned only minimal creaking of the floorboards. But the paint on the hallway walls peeled away at the seams, and the doorknob to my room jiggled in its socket before catching. Blue-and-green floral wallpaper decorated the walls of the thirty-square-foot room, though the sun had faded the parts washed by window light. Acrid scents of perspiration and stale kerosene hung in the air. I brushed my hand over the liquid-and-cigarette-stained veneer on the bird’s-eye-maple dresser and inspected a lantern of about 1870s vintage stowed on a corner shelf. The bed, though covered with a clean, hoop-patterned quilt, squeaked when I sat on it. Upon turning in for the night, I couldn’t help but roll into the bed’s slumping middle; many bodies had obviously occupied its recess. I cracked my window to freshen the room, and the babbling river and rustling leaves lulled me into a dreamy slumber.

Daisy, Dicky, and I met in the breakfast room the next morning and seated ourselves on chairs smoothed down in their leg channels. I asked Daisy and Dicky to report on their rooms, which sounded as sorry as mine.

Studying the frayed edges of our beige tablecloth, I said, “This place could use a serious sprucing up.”

We sat near a wide window at the rear of the dining area. Dicky eyed the weathered window casing. “Maybe a good gutting.”

“At the least, new wallpaper and furniture,” said Daisy.

As we finished our flat cakes and ham, the owner’s wife, white-haired Mrs. Honeyman, came around to greet us.

“I just want to welcome you folks to our little piece of paradise.” Her cheeks plumped into cheery mounds as she spoke, and she clasped her hands over her round, aproned belly.

I reached out to shake her hand. “I’m Mrs. May de Vries. These are my traveling companions, Belle and Richard Emmett.”

Daisy and Dicky greeted her with nods and smiles.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.

I looked into her baby-blue eyes. “You have a lovely property here.”

“Well, thank you. We’ve been cherishin’ it for thirty-eight years now.”

“I’m surprised to see so few guests.”

“Oh, in its heyday people came from all over. But now it’s mostly regulars.”

“Is that likely to change in the near future?”

“No reason it should.”

“That adds to its appeal,” I said, glancing out the wide window overlooking the resort’s rolling property. “It’s very peaceful.”

With a “You folks enjoy your stay, now,” she sauntered off, swaying back and forth on her bowed legs.

I sipped my coffee and meditated on the view of rusty leaves glistening in the sun.

As Mrs. Honeyman sidled up to a table a few down from ours, Daisy whispered, “They don’t know about the racetrack.”

I replaced my coffee cup. “That appears to be the case.”

“How do you want to handle it?”

“You and Dicky go into Hot Springs and track down some information about property sales, especially places comparable to this one. That’ll help me determine a fair offering price.”

Dicky pulled up out of his slump. “Might take some time to find some sales.”

“Stay overnight in Hot Springs if you’d like.” I calculated—two rooms and four meals for two, but not enough to tempt Dicky to drink intemperately—reached into my coin purse, and handed Daisy a twenty-dollar bill. “For your expenses.”

Daisy tucked the money into her skirt pocket. “We’d better get going.”

Daisy and Dicky dropped their napkins on the table and rose.

I caught Daisy’s eye. “And for goodness’ sake, be discreet.”

“You might have noticed: I’m actually quite good at that,” said Daisy, scraping her chair back into place and marching out with Dicky.



After Daisy and Dicky returned, I pored over the newspaper listings and property-sale records they’d retrieved, calculating what I considered a more-than-reasonable offer for the hotel.

I’d not yet met Mr. Honeyman, though I’d observed him speaking with his wife earlier in the day. His body type contrasted so sharply with his wife’s that they looked quite comical together. She was about five four, roly-poly, and stood at a backward slant, with her weight centered on her heels. But he reached a good five ten, with twiggy arms, lanky legs, and a stooped torso. Perhaps they’d made a more handsome couple in their younger years.

I strolled to the lobby that evening and found the owner working at his desk behind the counter. “Good evening, Mr. Honeyman. I’m one of your guests, May de Vries.”

His putty-gray mustache wriggled about his lean face as he settled a chew into his cheek. “Yes, the wife tells me she met you at breakfast. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy you and Mrs. Honeyman coffee tomorrow. Might you have time to discuss a business matter with me?”

He scrunched up one side of his face. “You mean your bill?”

“Heavens, no. My and my companions’ rooms are all paid up.”

He frowned as if he couldn’t imagine what other business there might be.

I looked around the lobby. “You have a lovely hotel here. I must say, we are very much enjoying our stay.”

He nodded and ventured a smile. “Well, I suppose we can meet you around ten.”

The next morning, I showed up in the breakfast room a bit before the appointed hour, dressed in my most conservative day outfit, a pastel-peach dress with a white lace collar. Mr. and Mrs. Honeyman emerged from the kitchen promptly at ten and sauntered over to the corner table I’d selected. Mrs. Honeyman carried a tray with silver coffee service and fine china cups, which was probably a personal set. I’d not seen anything like it at the breakfast offering.

I rose to greet them. “Mr. and Mrs. Honeyman, I’m so pleased you could join me.”

“Why, sure, honey,” said the missus as she placed the tray on a nearby table and set out our coffee service.

I insisted on pouring the coffee, and we chatted for a bit about how they kept up the hotel and its grounds. Mr. Honeyman explained that they themselves took on kitchen duty, but they hired two groundskeepers and two maids to do the heavy work. “The wife and I are getting on in years. Can’t do as much as we used to.”

I lifted the pot and freshened our coffee. “Have you ever thought about selling?”

Mr. Honeyman cocked his head. “I don’t reckon we could afford to do that.”

“Are you carrying a contract?”

“No, we paid that off years ago.”

“What if I offered you fifty-two thousand dollars?” I knew this to be a generous offer, considering that the hotel hardly ever filled up and sorely needed repair and renovation.

Mrs. Honeyman’s eyes popped to alert, and Mr. Honeyman glanced at her and lifted his palm, obviously warning her to keep quiet. He planted his other hand on the table edge and straightened his arm, pulling his torso upright. “Now, we’ll have to think on this, Mrs. de Vries. Not something we really planned on doing.”

“Of course, by all means. And please don’t forget to put this coffee on my bill.”

The Honeymans did think on it. They proposed a price of fifty-six thousand, and we met in the middle, at fifty-four thousand, which I believe satisfied all three of us.



Mr. Honeyman and I recorded the sale the next day in Hot Springs, and I arranged to transfer funds for the first installment from my New York bank. We agreed that the remainder would be disbursed upon the closing of the sale. When I informed Daisy that we could be on our way, she invited me to her room “to discuss a private matter” with her and Dicky.

They offered me the wooden chair in Daisy’s room, and I sat and braced myself against its back. “Now, what’s this all about?”

Daisy, who sat beside Dicky on the bed, glanced at him and gave me one of her I’m-perfectly-serious looks. “You’re going to Menominee next, aren’t you?”

“Yes. You know you’re welcome to come along.”

“Dicky and I want to visit our mother. Didn’t really have time to do that on the way in.”

Was this what they were fussing about? I flapped my hand at them. “Oh, heavens. Of course you can do that. I’d never stop you from seeing your mother.”

“Dicky and I will require sixty dollars for our fare and expenses.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“That’s not all,” said Daisy. She crossed her legs and straightened her spine. “I stopped sending money to Mother after you emptied that first fund from Rudolph.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. You know that forced me to stretch the new account.”

“If I’d kept sending her money all this time, it’d amount to one thousand fifty dollars.”

“That sounds about right.”

“You said you’d make up the money for Mother if I helped you come into some funds.”

“And I will keep my word. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant than you, Daisy.”

Daisy nodded to Dicky and turned to me. “Dicky has something to show you.”

Dicky levered himself up off the bed and pulled out the bottom drawer of Daisy’s dresser. He extracted a soft cloth pouch and handed it to me.

The black pouch weighed heavily in my hand, as if the contents were concentrated—like gold or lead.

Daisy grinned at me. “Go ahead, open it.”

I loosened the slip string on the pouch and poured the contents into my palm.

“My yellow-diamond necklace. Dear God, I’ve got my necklace back.” I bounded to my feet and hugged Daisy, Dicky, and Daisy again, all the time shedding tears of joy.





THE BONDS OF FAMILY AND FRIENDS



TO MENOMINEE—OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 1901



The next day, I bade Daisy and Dicky good-bye. They caught the morning train to the East Coast, and I left in the late afternoon, bound for Michigan.

As my train chugged out of Lawrence station, I squeezed by the other passengers navigating the car’s narrow corridor. My sleep compartment, which was barely wide enough to turn around in, featured a neatly made-up bed, an overhead storage rack, and, on the opposite side, a counter with an inset wash basin and two wide but shallow drawers. I deposited my suitcase on the bed, unlatched it, and dug out my yellow-diamond necklace. Bracing myself against the counter, I stood before the mirror and fastened it on. Such a beautiful piece, I thought; I’ll never tire of gazing at it.

I’d shaken a finger at Dicky during our private meeting, “So you’re the one who nabbed my necklace.”

His expression brightened with one of his rare smiles.

“As I was leaving the ball?” I asked.

He nodded. “A little trick I learned on the streets of New York.”

And then Daisy took my hand. “So you mustn’t ever show it in public, either in England or anywhere else.”

But I could wear it in the privacy of my own quarters and, in some distant future (after everyone had forgotten it was a stolen item, with the insurance money already disbursed), once again dazzle admirers with it.



I was traveling on my own for the first time in nearly a decade, with nary a soul to answer to. It was exhilarating. My first full afternoon on the train, I circulated about the lounge car, where I met several august gentlemen. No sooner had I accepted Mr. Ramsey’s invitation to dinner than Mr. Weber joined us and asked if we had dinner plans. Turning to Mr. Ramsey, I said, “Why not make it a party?” Mr. McFarland came along soon thereafter, and the three gentlemen escorted me to dinner. I asked to be seated at a table that could accommodate one more person, just in case someone else happened along. Mr. Ramsey ordered a bottle of claret and told the waiter not to rush us.

Mr. McFarland, a wiry young man with a red beard that tangled at its fringes, said, “Mrs. de Vries, I understand I should be addressing you as Baroness.”

“Technically, yes,” I said. “But we’re not at a royal ceremony, are we?”

The hollow-cheeked Mr. Ramsey sat up straight, adjusting the collar of his starched white shirt. “At least tell us how you came to marry a baron.”

“It’s a long story. We married at his home in Holland. My goodness, it’ll be nine years next month.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” said the solid Mr. Weber, “how did you meet a baron?”

“Gentlemen, I’m just a simple girl from Michigan—a modern Cinderella, you might say.”

Mr. Weber thumped one of his sausage-fingered hands on the table. “Ach, I don’t believe it.”

“Honestly, I grew up in a log cabin in Muskegon. I can tell you all about it.”

“Please do,” said Mr. McFarland, with a sweep of his arm.

“My father owned a tavern. I had an older brother, Paul, who walked me to and from school every day. One day, when Paul took sick, I stopped at my father’s tavern instead of going straight home. A fiddler stood on a table in the corner, sawing away at that fiddle and making everyone merry. When I walked in, the men lined up to dance with me. Mind you, I was only seven, but my father had taught me how to dance. I reeled from one man to the next and had such a wonderful time I arrived home very late for dinner.”

“What a naughty Cinderella,” said Mr. Weber.

“My mother was furious, hollering at me for worrying her to death. ‘But, Maman,’ I said, ‘I had to help Louise with school lessons.’ ‘I don’t care what Louise wanted,’ she said. ‘Please,’ I begged, ‘please forgive me.’ She said, ‘When flowers turn blue. Now off to bed. There’ll be no dinner for you tonight, or tomorrow, either.’ Once the house quieted, I scrambled out my bedroom window with a candle lantern. I found a thicket of wintergreens and feasted on their tender new leaves. Then I picked some tiny forest-floor blossoms, arranged the miniature bouquet in an inkwell, and left it on the kitchen table with a note apologizing to Maman. By morning, the blooms had turned indigo blue.”

“And did you have dinner the next night?”

“My favorite—perch and potatoes.”

The men lit into laughter, and the woman at the next table—a solid-framed woman in a stylish wool suit—guffawed.

Once her laughter subsided, I turned to her. “Would you care to join us?”

“You bet I would,” she said, striding over to our table and sticking out her hand. “I’m Frank Shaver. From Chicago.”

It turned out that Frank, who I guessed to be roughly my age, was quite a storyteller herself. The men she’d attended law school with had dished out a lot of guff, and she regaled us with some of her comebacks: “Better watch out, buster, we might meet across the aisle in some big case”; “Is that the best insult you can muster?”; and “You think a woman’ll be out of place in a courtroom? Well, at least my voice carries, which is more than I can say for that banjo twang of yours.”

Frank and I took to each other like old school chums. When she announced she needed to retrieve her bag for the next stop, I said, “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see Frank off.”

As Frank and I sidled along through the cars, I asked where she was from.

“Grew up in Pittsburgh. My parents still live there. But the place is too stodgy for me.”

“But Chicago, you couldn’t call it stodgy.”

“Oh, no. Sometimes the excitement’s not the right kind, but it keeps the law and lawyers busy.” Frank opened the door to the next car and guided me through, as amiable as a gentleman showing a friend around. “How long are you in the States for?”

“I hope to stay awhile,” I said. “Catch up with my family in Menominee and see to some business.”

“I love the U.P. Get up there every summer to fish.”

“Really? Well, you’ll have to stop in Menominee and visit.”

“I’ll take that as an invitation.”

“What kind of law do you practice?”

“Wills, contracts for small businesses, property sales. Just two of us in the office, so we end up doing a little of everything.”

We flattened against the windows to let a party of four pass.

“Really? I just bought a resort hotel in Arkansas. I could use some legal advice.”

“I can help with property contract matters, as long as they’re not particular to Arkansas law.” Frank yanked her suitcase off the storage rack.

I asked, “Do you know Michigan law?”

“I sure do. Went to law school at University of Michigan.”

“I may need your counsel in the future.”

“I’d be glad to be of service.”

By the time the train pulled into Milwaukee, we had exchanged addresses and promised to write each other.



With my train scheduled to arrive in Menominee early in the morning, I rose at five to dress and pack. I’d set aside one special outfit for my arrival: a maroon dress with a multilayered skirt, puffed sleeves, lapels brocaded with black braids, and a narrow embroidered strip of white fabric binding the lapels—an altogether regal look.

The train pulled into a dark and drizzly Menominee shortly after six. I stepped down my compartment steps onto the familiar platform and took in the red station—more shrunken and dull-colored than my memory had painted it. A pine-scented breeze carried hints of burning wood. Plopping my traveling case on the platform, I hugged myself for warmth. I’d neglected to pack my pelisse, and fall had not lingered here: It was nearly cold enough for sleet. I lifted my face into the bracing mist and surveyed the jagged treetops silhouetted against dawn’s milky sky. A rush of memories—of rambling through Michigan’s pine-needled forests, running barefoot along its sparkling shores, and warming up on chill mornings before a blazing woodstove—flooded me with nostalgia.

“You there, May.”

I followed the voice—Maman’s—and she, Paul, and Gene hurried up to me, shuffling flat-footed on the platform’s rain-slicked slats.

I flung my arms around Maman. “It’s been too long.”

“By ten years,” she said, nearly hugging the breath out of me.

“And, Paul”—I turned to him—“missed you, big brother.”

He embraced me. “You, too, little sister.”

“And who do we have here?” Little Gene was not so little anymore. At twenty-four, he’d matured into a handsome young man, with a comely, chiseled face and lively ocean-blue eyes. I reached up to hug him. “My goodness, you must be six feet tall.”

“Six two, sister.” He lifted me up in his arms, swung me a quarter turn, and eased me down. Chuckling, he asked, “Or should I call you Baroness?”

I patted his cheek. “ ‘M’lady’ will do.”

Paul reached for my suitcase, and Gene, who was dressed quite fashionably in a wool jacket and plaid vest, offered his arm. I nestled my arm in his and squeezed up close to him.

Maman walked to my other side, took my hand, and led me down the platform. “You wouldn’t believe all the talk around town. Our very own baroness coming to visit.”

I believed it when we walked through the double-boxcar-sized train station, which was unaccountably crowded for such an early hour. All eyes turned on us. Some of the smattering of gentlemen fingered their hat brims as I passed, and the ladies either nodded or attempted modest curtsies. To be honest, although I knew Menominee had never before laid eyes on a baroness, all the attention surprised me.

Another surprise awaited me when we reached the house. The furniture did gleam from a fresh polishing, the carpets smelled fresh, and the kitchen counters sparkled, but the pantry contained fewer than twenty jars of put-up vegetables, mostly tomatoes, green beans, and beets.

While Maman prepared a breakfast of egg-battered bread, I asked, “Didn’t you do your usual canning this year?”

She kept her back to me. “Sure I did. We’ve just been eating more from the pantry this fall.”

“You been buying much from the butcher?”

“Not much. Hunting season opens week after next. Paul’ll get a deer.”

It pained me to think of it: While I had been living the rich life in London, Maman had been struggling to get by with her garden, a few laying hens, and paltry supplies of flour and sugar. Still, I didn’t want to fuss about it. I poured myself another cup of coffee. “Meantime, let’s go shopping and buy some fancy canned food. And stop by Daltry’s and get a roast for dinner.”

“That’d be nice,” said Maman, flipping the bread onto a platter and pretending at nonchalance.

Paul stomped into the kitchen. He’d changed out of his cotton shirt and black dress jacket into a dull-green flannel shirt. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “I’ll be going out on the lake after breakfast. We’ll have trout for dinner.”

“Mmm, fresh-caught fish,” I said, twisting around to smile at him. “I won’t turn that down.”

I could have predicted Paul’s resistance to my offer, stubborn and proud as he was. But fishing and hunting couldn’t stock the pantry or buy coal for the furnace.



It took me only one day to determine how to help my family—and at the same time handle the remodeling and management of the Potash Sulphur Hotel.

I found Gene lounging over the Menominee Herald in the parlor my second morning at home. “Gene, I need you to help me with an errand. Will you get the carriage ready?”

He flipped the newspaper to the next page. “I was going to meet some fellows this afternoon.”

I gripped the center of the paper and lowered it to catch his eye. “I have something to discuss with you.”

He uncrossed his legs and set the paper aside. “If you say so, m’lady.”

When we got to Shimek’s Furniture Store, I asked him, “If you were furnishing a hotel from scratch, what sort of things would you buy for it?”

Gene stroked his chin. “Aren’t you mysterious?”

Mr. Shimek swaggered up to us and asked if we needed help.

“Oh, no. This is just a scouting visit,” I said. As he rambled off, I turned to Gene. “Come, now, tell me how you’d go about it.”

“Do I have unlimited money?”

“No one has unlimited money.”

He headed down the store aisle, passing by the couches. “I’d do the rooms first. Figure out some kind of coordinating theme. Stylish but not too expensive.”

We stopped at the beds and dressers. Gene pointed to a bed with square, four-foot-high posts and a headboard edged with scrollwork. “Like that, tasteful but not too ornate. And that matching dresser over there.”

I nodded. “What else would you put in the rooms?”

“In the suites, a couch and maybe a secretary. In the regular rooms, a stuffed armchair, maybe two if there was room. And curtains and bedspreads to match the upholstery.”

“And the lobby?”

“I’d splurge there. Sprinkle it with a few comfortable sofas and lots of stuffed armchairs. And coffee tables and side tables for drinks and newspapers.”

“What about decorations—paintings, rugs, and such?”

“I’d put up paintings of the lakeshore and area lighthouses. Maybe a few deer racks. And acquire some quality carpets. Should plan on a lot of feet passing over those carpets.”

“Hmm,” I said, turning toward the door, “shall we discuss it over luncheon?”

Once on the sidewalk, Gene offered his arm, twisted his head toward my ear, and whispered, “But first I’d check the Sears and Roebuck Catalog. Likely to find better prices there than at Shimek’s.”

After we’d been seated at a corner table in the Erdlitz Hotel’s dining room, Gene flattened his forearms on the table. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

I revealed my recent Arkansas purchase and asked, “Can I hire you to remodel and manage the place?”

“Why, you little fox,” Gene said, leaning back and appraising me with crossed arms. “Why not ask Paul? He’s handier with tools.”

“Because I need someone who gets along well with people. Workers can always be hired.”

Gene chuckled. “I don’t know. Don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of work.”

“What kind of work are you cut out for?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet.”

A waiter headed in our direction. I put a hand up to warn him off a moment. “What about dentistry?”

“Who wants to muck about in people’s mouths all day?”

I drew my spine up straight and glared at him. I’d paid for his dentistry schooling and this was how he thanked me? “What have you done lately to help Maman put food on the table?”

“Now, that’s not fair.”

“Do you expect to live off my contributions all your life?”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll pay you well. And deposit a portion of your pay with Maman. You won’t even have to think about it.”

He nodded, knowing full well he had no choice. “All right, then.”

“Good, you’ll leave next week. The remodeling will take at least six months.”



Two weeks later, I received my first letter from Rudolph. While I’d been traveling, he’d had no mailing address for me, but I’d written him three times, informing him of my movements and the resort business.


November 8, 1901





My darling May,

How lonely the house is without you. I even miss Daisy’s cheerful face and Dicky’s way with the horse and carriage. That nice elderly couple who live next door have had me to dinner once or twice a week. (Remember the Allens? They helped us find the nearest grocer and the shortest route to the train station.)

Miriam is well, but Mother took a spill and broke her ankle. Of course, she is terribly aggravated over being in a wheeling chair. She cannot get around without Miriam or her maid, and you know how she hates depending on others. I will leave London sometime this month and spend Christmas and January with them, unless you can hurry back for Christmas. If so, I can wait for you and we can travel together.

It sounds like the hotel purchase was wise, that is, if it turns out as you hope. But do be careful about taking advice from strangers. From what little I know of America, not all its businessmen are above reproach. In any event, I expect you to not become encumbered with the hotel. If it truly is a good speculation you should be able to take your profit once word gets out about that racetrack.

Darling, I think of you constantly and miss you more than words can say. Please come home soon. I promise I’ll take you to the theater and opera, just as we did those summer months after we first met. We’ll have a grand time.

Write soon, and tell me of your plans, my dearest.





All my love,

Rudolph





GENE AND FRANK



CHICAGO AND PITTSBURGH—1902



I begged my husband’s indulgence—I couldn’t possibly be home for Christmas—and informed him I’d embarked on a thoroughgoing remodeling of the Arkansas resort, a project that sorely required my supervision. And since Rudolph was incapable of understanding the sort of financial woes burdening my family, I explained that the situation required delicate handling to avoid wounding anyone’s pride, at least not Maman’s and Paul’s.

As for Gene, it wasn’t his pride that concerned me but, rather, his ability to oversee the remodeling and effectively manage the business. Thus, I provided detailed instructions, required frequent reports from him, and meted out funds for the expenses in small lots.

Five months after Gene traveled to Arkansas and undertook the remodeling, a number of important decisions had cropped up, and I suggested we meet in person to discuss them. I chose Chicago, because Frank and I had been corresponding regularly and she’d invited me to visit. When I mentioned having my brother join us, she said she’d love to meet him.

Such delight I took in my return to Chicago, relishing the carriage ride from the train station through Chicago’s gleaming downtown: its upright citizens bustling about their business in springtime attire; buds plumping out on the trees; avenues lined with potted pansies and violets; and here and there a shiny new automobile zipping around the horse-drawn carriages. Not even the knowledge that Dougherty resided here dampened my spirits—after all, I was now a baroness living a respectable life.

Inviting though the evening’s sun-warmed streets and brick buildings were, Gene and I found ourselves exhausted from our travels and business discussions, so, our first night in town, we asked Frank to meet us for dinner in the hotel’s dining room.

“You couldn’t have picked a more modern hotel,” Frank said as the maître d’ escorted us to our table. (I’d insisted Frank take a room—at my expense, of course—at our hotel, the Auditorium Annex, so that we’d have more time to visit.) “It was built for the Columbian Exposition.”

Gene pushed Frank’s chair in for her and circled his glance around the high, gilded ceiling. “And to think May wants me to turn a broken-down Arkansas firetrap into this.”

Frank and Gene had a giggle at my expense.

“Only an approximation,” I said. “It’s a rather different clientele.”

Frank, who wore a long-sleeved, burgundy dress that showed off her buxom build, turned to Gene. “How do you find Arkansas?”

“Scorching hot already,” Gene said. He caught the eye of a nearby waiter before continuing. “Would you believe it?”

“I found it quite pleasant into fall,” I said.

Frank smiled at me. “I suppose it’s all part of the bargain—heat half the year and temperate weather the rest.”

“I’m sure Gene is grateful to be employed,” I said, mostly for his benefit. “After all, he could be fighting in the Philippines.”

Frank shook her head. “Roosevelt’s winding it down. Public’s turned sour on this war.”

“You know,” said Gene, “you can actually build down there in the winter. Can’t do that in Michigan. Or Illinois.”

Frank leaned toward me. “I’ve never been that far south.”

Just as I said, “You must visit,” Gene rushed in with, “Then come on down.”

Frank threw her head back and laughed. “Two invitations! How can I resist?”

“Sir?” said the waiter who glided up to our table.

“A bottle of your best champagne, please,” said Gene, once again proving his aptitude for spending my money.

“Now, tell me about this Arkansas purchase,” Frank said, putting on her business demeanor. “Everything in good legal order?”

Even though Frank had put the question to me, Gene responded, wagging his head in my direction: “Better ask the mastermind. And moneybags.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’ve got the title. And Gene’s managed to keep some rooms open. So the cash is flowing.”

“That must be demanding,” Frank said to Gene. “Tending to guests while you’re remodeling.”

Frank, who’d blustered about keeping men in their place at our first meeting, surprised me by fawning over Gene as she did.

Like a playful pup, Gene slapped his hands to the table. “How else can I find poker companions?”

We all had a wonderful time getting acquainted that evening. When talk turned to the hotel business, Frank freely shared her expertise in real estate, including sales strategies. But I hadn’t expected Gene to pour on the charm as if he were a gentleman gone courting. He’d turned into a real ladies’ man. And I had to admit: He was passably managing the hotel remodeling.

After dinner, we dropped Frank off at her room, and Gene walked me to mine.

“My, my,” I said, “aren’t you and Frank thick?”

“She’s one of a kind, that Frank. A woman you could take to the ballroom and gambling hall.”

“You’re not serious? She’s a good five years older than you.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Gene winked at me. “I like older women.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” I said, borrowing one of Maman’s favorite expressions, “though it might take an older woman to keep you in line.”

Regardless of what I thought, Gene and Frank obviously enjoyed each other’s company, bantering and baiting each other like brother and sister. But it was Frank and I who formed the strongest link of our triangle. We had a ripping good time: sharing tête-à-têtes on morning walks while Gene slept in; and shopping at The Fair and Carson & Pirie, where I found a silk nightgown, French-made shoes, and the most irresistible three-stone diamond ring.

At the end of our four-day visit, Frank told me: “By God, I can’t believe I allowed you to host me in the city I live in. There’s only one answer to that. You have to come to Pittsburgh and stay with my family. Absolutely no later than my next visit there.”

I reported to Rudolph that I’d befriended a capable woman attorney who advised me to complete the remodeling before putting it up for sale. Yes, I told him in response to his most recent letter, the racetrack was under construction, its site was near the hotel, and the track would open sometime in 1904 or 1905. But his impatience would not be assuaged.


August 2, 1902





My dear May,

Do you know that as of next month you will have been away a full year? I understand that your family needs you, but we can easily provide any assistance they need from a distance. You have installed your brother Gene at the hotel. I trust Paul, who is obviously more industrious, will soon find employment in Menominee. You have them on the right track now.

I must remind you that you have another family—me, Mother, and Miriam. You belong with your husband. I need you here to help me. Mother has recovered from her broken ankle, but she gets out very little now. I think she is afraid of another accident. That means her world is limited to visitors, and I fear that pettiness is taking over her outlook. You and your cheery disposition are exactly what this household needs. Not that I require you to stay here year-round. We still have the London home, and I know how you love it. I would never dream of depriving you of the joy that London society and its distractions provide.

Only I must insist that you make plans to return soon. A full year apart is intolerable. We are husband and wife. Please write soon, and tell me when you will return.





All my love,

Rudolph


I informed Rudolph that the remodeling was nearing completion and that I wouldn’t linger in the States any longer than necessary. However, I didn’t want to leave any loose ends. To nurture my blossoming friendship with Frank, I accepted her invitation to visit Pittsburgh in September. When Gene found out, he begged me to finagle an invitation for him as well. I objected on the grounds that he had work to do, but he promised that his assistant manager could handle the few remaining projects.

I broached the topic with Frank during a phone call to arrange the details. “Gene says he’s jealous of me getting to visit you.”

Without missing a beat, Frank replied, “Well, hell’s bells, tell him to come, too. There’s plenty of room at the house.”

“Plenty of room” proved to be an understatement. Frank’s parents lived in a spacious three-story stone home with the most lovely touches: stone columns supporting an iron fence that skirted the cobblestone street; a four-story turret with a tile dome and gargoyles circling its spiraling levels; and, behind the house, a cutting garden with the cutest stone cottage for potting and storage. A copper weathervane of Mercury topped the turret, and a trellis of jasmine lined the entry walk, with just enough bloom to sweetly scent the entranceway.

Gene and I arrived on the same train, and Frank toured us around the home and property, showing off a wood-framed sun porch decorated with wicker furnishings and African violets. We ended up in a large sitting room on the main floor, admiring a river-rock fireplace and the collection of Egyptian amulets and tomb figurines displayed on its mantel.

“You’ll meet the lord and lady at dinner,” said Frank. “Come, I’ll show you your bedrooms.”

We climbed a curving staircase to the second level, passing a sitting bench nestled into a window alcove. Frank motioned us to follow her down the second-floor hallway. She swung the second-to-the-last door open. “Here’s your room, Gene.”

I peeked in. Gene’s room sported masculine décor—solid burgundy wallpaper, paintings of fox hunts, and a tall case holding old rifles.

“Why, Frank,” said Gene, sidling up to her, “you know me too well.”

I had to chuckle. Gene was no sportsman. He only hunted when Paul insisted on it, and all he knew about guns was that the barrel required pointing.

We left Gene, and Frank showed me to the room at the end of the hall, which was decorated in the style of an English country estate, with an antique wall clock, a poster bed covered with embroidered pillows, and paintings of an English-style garden and outdoor tea service. “It’s a lovely room,” I said, kissing Frank on the cheek. “So welcoming and comfortable.”

Over dinner, we had the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Shaver.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Frank.” Mrs. Shaver looked to me, then Gene, her sky-blue eyes sparkling against her delicate complexion and the snow-white hair she’d swooped into a chignon.

“And I must thank you,” said Gene, between spoonfuls of clam chowder, “for welcoming us to your lovely home.”

Mr. Shaver, from whom Frank had apparently inherited her sturdy frame, turned to me. “I understand you and the Baron are in property investment.”

“I wouldn’t consider it an ongoing venture. We own residences in Holland and London. I’ll soon be selling the Arkansas hotel.”

“Yes, well, that sounds like a worthwhile investment.”

“And I understand that you, sir, helped design the Westinghouse air brake?”

“Yes, Mr. Westinghouse is a wonderful man to work for. He’s built a sound company.”

Gene pitched his frame toward Mr. Shaver. “Do you still have occasion to work with Mr. Westinghouse, sir?”

“Oh, yes, the man works longer hours than most anybody else. That’s why I have such confidence in the company’s stock.”

The maid swept in and scooped up our soup bowls.

“Some say Roosevelt’s overreaching on the Panama Canal rights.” The way Gene hunched over and gazed at Mr. Shaver, one might have thought him a petitioner for a post. “What do you think, sir?”

“Oh, without question, moving forward on the canal will be a boon to U.S. business.”



As we neared the end of our scheduled one-week visit with Frank and her family, I overheard Gene remark to Frank, “Perhaps next week we can tour Fort Pitt.” As soon as Gene retreated to his bedroom to dress for dinner, I knocked on his door.

“Yes, come in,” said Gene, as casual and relaxed as a seaside vacationer.

I let myself in and closed and leaned against the door. “What’s this I hear about you and Frank going on an outing next week?”

Gene undid the top button of his shirt and circled a finger around the collar to loosen it. “I’m thinking of staying on a little longer.”

“And why haven’t you mentioned this to me?”

“Frank’s my friend, too.”

“You’ve got work to do in Arkansas.”

“Another week or two won’t matter,” said Gene, sitting down on his bed and crossing one leg over the other.

“We need to finish the remodeling. Rudolph expects me home as soon as possible.”

“It’s practically done. William’s got it all in hand.”

“Still, I’d prefer that you return with me. We have matters to wrap up.”

“Such as?”

“The installation of those lamps for the lobby, and the last of the bills for the workers and materials.”

“William can handle all that.”

“And the general management? I don’t expect the property to sell tomorrow.”

“All right, all right. If you let me have one more week of vacation, I’ll work every day until it’s sold.”



I returned to Arkansas by myself and spent the next three weeks overseeing the completion of the remodeling in anticipation of putting the hotel up for sale. Thank goodness, William proved to be a competent assistant, for Gene’s stay in Pittsburgh stretched on and on—to a full month. But I could hardly be annoyed with him when he wrote to tell me he’d asked Frank to marry him and she’d accepted. In fact, I was overjoyed: I heartily congratulated him and told Frank it pleased me in the utmost to welcome her to the family. Perhaps their marriage would provide the security Gene—and the whole family—so sorely needed.