“You shouldn’t swear so often. I won’t tolerate it around the children.”
He sat up a little straighter. “What children?”
“Ours. Aren’t they on your list of things we have to discuss?”
“Putting it on there now.”
“Really, Remington, you should find someone to help you.”
He fell silent as he gave it due consideration, then he slid down in the bench seat again and tipped his hat forward. “What do you think about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler?”
“I think she would be an excellent choice.” Phoebe was smiling to herself as she turned to face the window. Her stomach quieted. Her satisfied smile stayed exactly as it was.
• • •
The Boxwood Hotel was modeled after the Hotel de Paris over in Clear Creek County and prided itself on being able to offer amenities rarely available to the transient populations of mining communities. The hotel’s restaurant boasted fine china for dining, spotless linen tablecloths, and silverware so highly polished one’s reflection was visible in the soupspoons. Guests spending the night slept on thick mattresses in solid cherry wood beds. Sheets were changed daily, and the washstands were topped with granite and boasted hot and cold taps. The Boxwood had three suites, each with a claw-footed tub and a water closet, that were often reserved for the discerning gambler who made his living at the card table and tended to stay in Liberty Junction for weeks at a time.
Phoebe and Remington registered separately. He took a room on the third floor. Phoebe was given one of the available suites on the second. They each had a bag, which they were made to surrender to the boy eagerly waiting to show them to their rooms. It was to this young man—who could have not been more than twelve and introduced himself as Handy “I can get you anything” McKenzie—that they asked for information about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler.
Not surprisingly, Handy embodied his moniker, and theylearned that not only was Mrs. Jacob C. still in residence, but that she was in the dining room at that very minute overseeing the placement of flowers and candlesticks on the tables.
“And really,” said Phoebe in an aside to Remington, “why would she be doing anything else?”
Remington hung outside Phoebe’s door while Handy showed off the room and the amenities, and then he followed the boy up another flight of stairs to his room. Handy, both clever and observant, pointed Remington to a door at the end of the hall and explained there was another, seldom used, stairwell for moving between floors without notice. Remington did not thank Handy for this information or even acknowledge that he’d heard it, but he did share it later with Phoebe, who very prettily feigned shock and alarm.
• • •
Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler was no longer in the elegant dining room when Remington and Phoebe went looking for her. They found her holding court at one of the tables in the large gaming room. She was not only dealing, but she also had more chips in front of her than any of the four men at her table.
“I stand corrected,” said Phoebe. “Why would she be doing anything else?”
Remington’s laughter turned heads, Mrs. Tyler’s among them. She saw them before she recognized them, and when full awareness came to her, she quickly finished the deal and folded, and then she was on her feet hurrying toward them.
She folded Phoebe in a fierce embrace. “Oh, my dear, how lovely it is to see you.” And then, before Phoebe could greet her in turn, Mrs. Tyler took her by the shoulders, held her at arm’s length, and gave her a thorough looking over. Her features softened and her eyes expressed apprehension. “The child?”
“My lumpy child?” Phoebe asked. “You are so good to inquire, but I think you suspected something was not quite right. I did not set out to deceive you. The pregnancy wassupposed to offer protection for a woman traveling alone. We all witnessed the failure of that plan.”
Remington reintroduced himself, although it was not necessary according to Mrs. Tyler. She remembered him very well, and how could she not, she asked, when he was so kind to little Madeleine Bancroft and so attentive to the child’s mother and herself. And then, she announced in an aside to Phoebe, there was the undeniable fact that he was as tempting as sin.
“Come,” she said, looping an arm under one of Phoebe’s. “We’ll go to the dining room. They are setting it up for dinner, which will not be for another hour or so. We can talk. You must tell me everything that has happened since we parted.”
Phoebe hesitated, pointing to the table that Mrs. Tyler had vacated. “Your game?”
“That?” She waved aside Phoebe’s concern. “They were humoring me. My son denies it, but I think he pays them to play with me and let me win just often enough to keep it interesting for me and not break his bank. His motive is pure. For as long as the game lasts, I don’t have my fingers in his business.”
They took a table in one of the dining room cozy alcoves. Although neither Remington nor Phoebe asked for privacy to be a consideration, they were pleased that their table was set away from others by the nook and the tall potted greenery better suited to a hothouse.
Remington sat back while Phoebe and Mrs. Tyler, who now insisted on being addressed exclusively as Amanda, exchanged pleasantries, finished each other’s sentences, and shared questions in equal number and provided answers in excruciating detail.
Remington knew when it was finally his turn to speak because they swiveled slightly in their chairs and regarded him expectantly. He said, “I believe your ring has been found.”
Mrs. Tyler immediately grasped her ring finger, twisting it as though she could feel phantom pressure of the missing piece. “Oh, my. Can it be true?”
“We won’t know until you identify it for us, and no, we don’t have it here, but you should be able to see it tomorrow.” He explained how the discovery had come to pass and how the ring would be available for her viewing. “We have your description of the ring, and Phoebe is here to provide confirmation.”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. So this woman, the one who will be wearing it, or at least carrying it, she’s a... a...” She leaned in and mouthed the words. “A bride of the multitude?”
Remington blinked at the expression. “Um, yes. She is that.”
