Well, so she’d told him. And so if he ever clapped eyes on Miz Hannah Roberts again, he wouldn’t be surprised to see her mopping the floor or taking out the trash, Lottie thought with bitter triumph.
“Oh,thatdark-haired woman? The old widow? My teacher?” she’d answered, when she finally had to admit she knew who he was talking about when he’d finally got around to what was really on his mind. Lottie might not know very much, but that left all the more room for what she did know, which was how to know when other people were doing what she did best: lying. Or as she now could put it: acting.
He’d been interested in Hannah Roberts, astonishingly enough. But after she’d done telling him about the man-hating, highfalutin, bad-tempered witch that was Miz Roberts, Lottie doubted he’d ever ask about her again, much less try to see her. Of course, it hadn’t helped Lottie personally, either. She knew men didn’t like women bad-mouthing other women, and she’d gone at some length about Hannah Roberts. But since he hadn’t wanted her before she had, she doubted he would after, and if she couldn’t profit from him, she’d be double damned if any other woman would. Especially Hannah Roberts, who seemed to be correcting her every other minute, whether she opened her mouth or not, and who always made her feel like less than she wanted to be. She would learn from Hannah because she had to, and someday she’d be able to pass as a lady. But it wasn’t in Lottie’s nature to ever look back. And Hannah Roberts was a constant reminder of how far she’d already come, as well as how far she had yet to go.
“I dunno why I can’t!” she shouted now, in the midst of this miserable morning, because Hannah’s last correction was the last straw, even though it was her first of the day. “?‘Cuz enyone knows the English doan tawk like us!”
“They ‘doan tawk’ like pushcart peddlers either,” Kyle said, neatly interrupting the argument as he strode onto the stage and stared down his long nose at Lottie.
“You are the impoverished mama of Little Lord Fauntleroy here,” he said, looking down fondly at Polly, who looked at her feet and pretended not to be enjoying herself hugely at Lottie’s expense. “How can we explain to the audience why our little lord speaks like a little English angel if his mama speaks like a big New York fishwife?”
“It sez,” Lottie raged, putting her feet apart and narrowing her eyes as she raised her voice, “that hiz momma is forced to woik to support ‘em both. An’ she’s American, ain’t she?”
“American is not synonymous with ‘ignorant.’ Or ‘illiterate.’ Who, do you think, taught the little lord to speak—the angels? No, you have to speak sweetly, softly, and correctly. Come, come, Lottie, Hannah’s right. You know damned well that the little lord’s young, beautiful mama wouldn’t screech: ‘No yer doant, yer lordship, you mebbe his grandfodder, but yer not takin’ my little baby away.’ Would she now? I do approve of her vehemence at that point, though,” he added thoughtfully. “It’s very effective. Keep it in. Umm, the anger, that is,” he added, to erase Lottie’s look of incomprehension.
“Fine! I believe I was just carried away by the drahma of the moment,” Lottie enunciated carefully, knowing when she’d lost, and deciding to make the most of the meager compliment he’d thrown her amid all the insults.
“Good, good,” Kyle said. “Throwing oneself into the part is very good indeed, so long as one never forgets who one is supposed to be at the moment of being thrown. Now!” he exclaimed, addressing the others, “if we can get the diction right and the parts down cold, we may be able to do the ‘Little Lord,’ as soon as next month—in Leadville. Yes, my chicks, Leadville. What a dull name for a roaring town! The precious ores and coins that flow from that blessed place…” he sighed, “with so many lonely homesick miners there, the ‘Little Lord’ ought to have them sobbing in the aisles.”
“And do we play Tabor’s Opera House there?” Frank asked quietly.
“Ah, um,” Kyle said, and then raised his head and stared at his suddenly silent and attentive audience-composed of everyone in his troupe within earshot.
“No,” he admitted at last.
“That does it!” one of the male singers cried in outrage. “I’m out. And off. Home. New York City here I come. Hildy?” he shouted to his girlfriend in the women’s chorus, who was standing, watching Kyle with a fervent expression of hope.
“Not the Tabor in Leadville, no,” Kyle said, as though he hadn’t heard the outburst. Hildy sighed and turned away to join her outraged boyfriend. But she paused as Kyle spoke again.
“No, we’ll be playing The Golden Nugget, which is directly—directly,” Kyle said with emphasis, “across the street from the grand old Tabor. So you see it’s a good location, on the best street, better than any house we’ve played yet, in fact. I’ve got us a decent hotel and expect at least a good week’s run there. And then, I promise,—and you may look at my schedule if you doubt me—” he said, looking fixedly at Hildy, and then so accusingly at her choleric boyfriend that he had to glance away from that dark and knowing stare, “good bookings all the way to our triumphal opening in Aspen.
“Yes!” Kyle said thrillingly, his eyes alight with excitement. “Aspen. A fine big town—nine million dollars of silver mined a year there! Twelve thousand exquisitely rich souls living there. And it just so happens that our opening will coincide with the opening of the newest, grandest hotel in the Rockies: the Jerome. Electric lights, stained glass, indoor plumbing, and chefs from France. Everyone will be there for it. Everyone. Not only the new wealthy West, but the old wealthy East: financiers, society—moguls of every stripe: beef barons from Chicago, railroad barons from New York, even real barons from Europe. Everyone’s arriving for the grand opening on Thanksgiving Day. It will be written up in all the papers. Well, after all,” he said with a secretive smile, “the Jerome will fill an aching need— there has to be somewhere fit for the big names to stay when they go to the Wheeler Opera House—which just happens to have opened only last spring, and which happens to be not a block away from it.
“I’ll not lie to you,” Kyle said suddenly, harshly, “not all of our venues will be pleasant until then…Lucrative, yes. But pleasant…? Still, I promise you this,” he said with passion, “if you play well and hard for me, I will even now, right this moment, with however many witnesses you wish looking on, go to the telegraph office and book us all rooms at the Jerome, for that grand opening. I have a connection, you see,” he said almost shyly.
Five of them were immediately deputized to accompany him to the telegraph office—the number the company decided was too many to bribe without someone eventually spilling it. And those five returned with the happy news that Kyle had actually sent the telegram. And then they showed the one he’d got in return. They’d confirmed rooms at the new Jerome for it’s grand opening. Shared rooms, to be sure. They’d have to be doubled and tripled up to fit in. But they’d be there. All of them, even Hildy and her impulsive boyfriend. All of them except for acharacter actor named Willy Kidd, who had packed his bags and left, saying that telegram or not, the day he’d trust anything Kyle Harper had to do with again, even if it was written in blood and not ink, was the day they’d have to commit him. And speaking of blood, he muttered as he snapped his traveling case closed before he marched off to the railroad station, he’d sooner bargain with the devil than Kyle Harper, because all the devil would be after was his soul.
But after a moment’s unease, everyone accepted the defection, because Kyle reminded them there was now to be one less room that had to be triple occupancy on that great day when they finally got to Aspen, and their deserved reward.
Royal stood half-dressed and hip shot, one sunbaked brown arm on the lintel of the door, staring into his closet.
“Packing to leave?” Gray asked, and was sorry for it if he was, since he’d miss him. But he himself couldn’t leave as yet. He’d unfinished business in Denver.
“No,” Royal said thoughtfully, running a hand across his bare chest, the contrast between his lightly tanned chest and his dark hand a startling one. “Just wondering if I got a clean shirt.”
“Have one of mine,” Gray offered more cheerfully, as he took up his towel and finished toweling dry his freshly washed hair.
“Might have to,” Royal commented, as he gazed into the closet and without turning, said, ‘I want to look as good as I can. Which ain’t much, I’ll grant. But I want to do the best I can. I’m thinking of going back to the opera house tonight— to that Harper’s Review again.”
“Oh. As it happens, so am I,” Gray answered, and then added too casually, “you must have really liked Miss Bliss last night.”
“Nope,” Royal said. “Couldn’t stand her. Seen someone else there though.”
“Interesting,” Gray said, and waited.
“You surely must have enjoyed Miss Lottie’s company, if you’re going back again, too,” Royal commented instead.
“No. Actually not at all. I got to bed early and alone last night, if you remember,” Gray answered tightly, draping his towel around his neck and staring at Royal’s broad bare back, as though willing him to say more.
