Chapter Ten
They stood in the lobby of the new Jerome Hotel, waiting their turn to sign the guest register, and they wondered.
That gent with the side whiskers and full paunch beneath his tweed coat—could he be Morgan, himself?
That great-bosomed grande dame with the wreath of red foxes biting each other’s tails that was so carelessly thrown about her thick, diamond-draped neck, could she be a Vanderbilt?
Her diamond parure certainly looked it—even if few of the company could recognize a Vanderbilt, they could add up a costume quickly enough.
But here in this lobby, on this day, all the ladies and gent’s jewels, furs, and clothing spoke up clearly in the voice of new American wealth—a wealth legendary enough to rival ancient Byzantium’s—to say: Astor, Carnegie, Gould.
Rockefeller. And if their clothing didn’t say it, their air of command and consequence did.
Aspen was no grander than Leadville, and its grandest new hotel was only three years younger than Leadville’s, though its setting in a cupped hollow of the mountains was more scenic.
The hotel itself was a modest building of red sandstone; every member of Kyle Harper’s troupe had certainly seen finer lobbies; although there were electric lights and a quantity of marble and gilt, flocked wallpaper and fernery, New York had many more dazzling places.
But as performers, they knew that the set was only backdrop to the drama.
Despite the fact that they were high in the mountains in the heart of the West, miles from civilization and New York, in a place where an antelope head on one wall was considered as fine as a Rembrandt on another, this was where the powerful and elite of the nation were or wanted to be, this week.
And Kyle Harper had actually brought them to this shining hour.
They were, to a man and a woman, astonished into silence at the enormity of that.
“Take the time to wash and refresh yourselves, and rest a bit,” Kyle told them as he doled out their room keys, as, stunned as they were weary with their travels and breathing the rarified air, they nodded and walked to the mahogany and gilt elevator.
Lottie didn’t even take a breath to protest having to share her room with Hannah and Peggy, and they, in turn, were too awed to exchange disgruntled looks with each other about it.
Once in the room, Lottie found her voice long enough to immediately claim the largest bed, by the window, leaving Hannah and Peggy to gallantly argue over which of them minded taking the truckle bed the least. Peggy exclaimed about their private bath, and Hannah turned on the tap just to feel the hot water issuing forth.
She couldn’t wait to wash the cinders from the train trip and the dust from the carriage ride off.
But even as she was struggling out of her gown, wondering how hard she’d have to fight for the right to bathe first, she noted that all Lottie did was glance in the mirror, pat her hat, announce that she was off to see the town, and sail from the room.
Bless Peggy, sweet Peggy, dear Peggy, Hannah thought reverently as she lowered herself into the steaming tub a few minutes later.
I’ll hurry, she silently promised as her aching limbs relaxed, because Peggy would appreciate her bath in her turn, too.
But her eyes were half-closed with pleasure as she leaned back in the warmth of the sudsy water, and she’d no idea of how much time had passed when they flew open again, at the sound of Lottie’s shrieking.
She rose from the tub with such haste she sent water sloshing everywhere, and wrapping a towel around herself, plunged out the door, only to see Peggy looking as stricken as Lottie did.
And she didn’t believe she’d ever seen anyone as stricken as Lottie was now.
It wasn’t so much that her hat was askew, as it was that her eyes were blazing and her face was blotchy with fury.
“She went to the Wheeler,” Peggy began, but Lottie cut in, with more fire and vivacity than she’d ever shown on stage—and that was a considerable amount of high energy emoting, Hannah thought. “The bastid done it again! Damn and double goddamn him!
“I went over to the Wheeler so as to see our go-damned names on the bill,” Lottie cried. “And guess what? We ain’t playing there! Not tomorrow, like he said. Not the next day, not never! I even ast!”
“Never?” Hannah asked dumbly, with the insane desire to add, “not even— hardly ever?” as they did in Pinafore, to lighten the moment.
“Never, never, never!” Lottie screeched.
Hannah nodded. From the second she’d heard it, she hadn’t really doubted it, and now every awful implication of it began to dawn on her.
She scurried into her clothes, and as soon as she’d gotten into a state where she could be seen in the halls of the hotel, she threw open the door and raced down them, seeking Kyle’s room.
She hadn’t pounded on his door for more than a minute when it drew open.
Kyle gazed down at her, looking so arrogant, bored, and annoyed that she knew he knew she knew, she thought, in as much confusion as sorrow.
“I never said ‘the Wheeler,’ ” he said calmly, as she stared at him mutely.
“I said,” he went on, after he’d drawn her in and closed the door behind them, “ ‘Aspen.’ I said, ‘The Jerome.’ I said, ‘The world will be there for the opening of The Jerome, and we will stay there and play in Aspen then.’ But I hasten to assure you that I never specifically said, ‘We will play the Wheeler.’ Think on, did I?”
“I don’t remember. You know I can’t remember exactly what you said,” Hannah answered, her eyes on his.
“But you also know what we all thought. Oh, Kyle, you’ve really done it this time.
This time the fur will fly. How can I defend you, when I’m so disappointed myself?
” she asked in hollow tones. “I know it’s my job to help you, but how could you? ”
He turned his back on her and paced to the window. His room overlooked the town. He gazed down at the low, red sandstone buildings, the carriage and horse traffic, the city nestled in the mountains that ringed around it like a painted backdrop.
“They may well have believed it,” he said, without looking at Hannah.
“True. And it may be—it just may be that was not an entirely unreasonable supposition on their part, nor altogether an accidental…ah, turning of words, on mine. But tell me, how else was I to get them here? We’ll make good money,” he said, turning around to face her, but the light behind him was so bright, she couldn’t make out his expression.
“They’ll not suffer from it. In fact, it may be a better booking than some of them ever had—or will ever have again.
“Good Lord, you know the business,” he said in an aggravated voice, as he watched her face.
“Tell me, how could they have honestly believed they’d play the Wheeler?
It’s a first-rate house in a boomtown, stuffed to the gills with the richest and most powerful in the land this week.
And who are we, after all? We both know,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, “don’t we? ”
When she remained still, only staring at him, all her anger and disappointment clear in her eyes, he spoke again.
“They fell victim to their own magic,” he said ruefully, “not mine. They believed because they wanted to. That’s what this business is all about, isn’t it?
If a sane man can sit in a darkened theater and come to believe, even for a moment, that another man in a tawdry costume in a painted castle has just killed a king, and worry for his immortal soul because of it—if a painted woman of no morals at all can stand upon that same stage and get other women to cry for her endangered virginity—if a man with no more than a set of mustaches and a good script can set a houseful of otherwise reasonable people to hissing and booing him within minutes of making his acquaintance—it has to be because they all want to believe in make-believe.
The only difference is that our troupe needed to believe in it.
“Be sensible. If they’d thought about it at all,” he said in low, flat tones, quite unlike his normal ones, “they’d have known the truth of it.
And so, having known all along in some small part of their minds, they’ll come around.
You’ll see. They’ll squall, they’ll swagger, and they’ll shriek.
One or two may walk, to be sure. But the rest will come around.
And why not? We’ll eventually have the same audience, the Wheeler can’t have them coming back every night.
The high-and-mighty will eventually cover this town in search of amusement, and we, at least, can provide that—one way or the other. ”
“What theater are we playing?” Hannah asked, when she could.
“Ah, as to that…” Kyle answered, hesitant for the first time. Hannah closed her eyes tightly, as though she didn’t want to see what she’d hear.
“Another saloon-theater?” she asked, when she heard no immediate answer.
“No, no, I said it would be a good house, and so it will be.…The Rink,” he said quickly.
“The Rink?” she asked slowly, opening her eyes to gaze at him in confusion.
“A very good house,” he assured her. “Seats more than the Wheeler, too.”
“But…” Hannah said, waiting.
“No ‘buts’ at all,” he said with great joviality, before the look in her eyes sobered him, and he added gruffly, “but when it’s not in use as a theater, it’s a roller rink.
A small thing. A nothing, you’ll see.” He waved a long, thin hand dismissively.
“When the seats are put in and the stage is up, it’ll be a joy to perform in. They’ll love it.”
“They will never, never, never accept it,” she said, unconsciously echoing Lottie as she shook her head slowly.