“It’s breathtaking.”
“And so are you.” His eyes moved from her face to her shoulders to the tip of one satin slipper peeking from beneath the hem of her dress.
She inclined her head, acknowledging his compliment, and waved a hand toward the crowd gathering at the other end of the room. “Perhaps we should join the others. I’m dying to meet everyone.”
He laughed softly, and she felt her cheeks grow warmer as he continued to hold her gaze.
“Did I say something funny?” She opened her reticule and busied herself with her pen and notebook.
“Not at all. I was actually admiring your enthusiasm. Come on. I’ll introduce you to the few people I know, and I’m sure they will do the rest.”
Taking her arm, he moved into the crowd and motioned to a handsome, stocky gentleman who had just accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Miss Sophie Caldwell, may I introduce Mr. Edward Carmack of the
Columbia Herald
. Edward, Miss Caldwell is the new owner of the
Hickory Ridge Gazette
.”
“Hello.” Sophie nodded, and Mr. Carmack smiled back.
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” he said. “I’m glad the
Gazette
is back in business. I thought a lot of the Greers. It was surely a sad day in these parts when Mr. Greer passed on.”
A waiter came by with a tray laden with punch cups and Sophie took one. “Patsy Greer is the reason I got into newspapering. She let me try out her typewriting machine when I was a child, and I never got over the excitement of a newspaper office.” She sipped the punch. “This is good. Do you know what’s in it?”
“Sophie,” Ethan said. “I must go and speak to my other guests. I’ll catch up with you later, all right?”
Mr. Carmack smiled. “Don’t worry about her, Ethan. Such a lovely lady is not likely to want for conversation.”
Ethan disappeared into the growing crowd, and Mr. Carmack motioned to a handsome woman clad in a navy dress, a small flowered hat perched at a jaunty angle on her head. “Lydia, come and meet Miss Caldwell.”
The woman set down her plate and cup and made her way through a knot of people gathered near the fireplace.
“Lydia McPherson, meet Sophie Caldwell. She’s the new owner of the local paper.”
“Indeed.” The woman smiled and nodded. “I am delighted to meet another woman engaged in our profession.”
Sophie returned Mrs. McPherson’s nod, suddenly shy in the presence of a woman she’d long admired and hoped to emulate.
“Lydia owns the
Democrat
down in Sherman, Texas,” Mr. Carmack said. “It’s one of the most successful dailies in the South.”
“My sons deserve some of the credit for that,” Mrs. McPherson said. “After my husband died, we moved to Texas. The boys have worked hard to make the paper a success. We’ve done all right for ourselves.”
“She’s being modest,” Mr. Carmack said. “Lydia here was one of the first women to join the Texas Press Association. Why, they even made her an honorary commissioner for the World Expo in New Orleans last January.”
“I was there,” Sophie said, delighted to have even more in common with the accomplished newspaperwoman. “My guardian
spent summers with her family in New Orleans when she was growing up. The exposition provided her a good excuse to show her children the place where she spent much of her childhood.”
“What did you think of it?”
“It was overwhelming, to tell you the truth. Didn’t they say it was the biggest world’s fair ever held in the United States?” Sophie took another sip of punch. “But I loved New Orleans. So many kinds of people, so much noise and energy on the river. I can see why Ada wanted to go back there.”
Mrs. McPherson laughed. “I agree with you, even though I felt as if I walked a hundred miles just to see it all. My poor feet may never be the—”
“Lydia!” A bearded man dressed like an undertaker pushed through the crowd. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Hello, Adolph.” Mrs. McPherson smiled. “I didn’t either. My son planned to come, but he’s ill, I’m afraid, and I didn’t want our paper to miss out on a firsthand look at Mr. Blakely’s masterpiece. And my cousin Deborah Patterson lives here. The opening was a good excuse to pay her a visit. Blue Smoke is quite something, isn’t it?”
The man nodded. “Mr. Heyward invited me up here for a look a couple of times while the building was going up, but I had no idea it would turn out to be so fancy. Small wonder that they’re calling Hickory Ridge the Saratoga of the South.”
“Well, there’s your lead paragraph for page one.” Mr. Carmack began scribbling in his leather-bound notebook.
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. McPherson said. “Where on earth are my manners? Miss Caldwell, this is my old friend Adolph Ochs. Adolph, Miss Caldwell of the
Gazette
.”
“
Chattanooga Times
.” Mr. Ochs smiled at Sophie. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He waved one hand at the crowded room. “Mr. Heyward has himself quite a turnout.”
Sophie looked around. Reporters leaned against the fireplace,
talking and taking notes. At the other end of the room, a photographer had set up his equipment and was busy framing a view of the mountains through the tall windows. Waiters scurried about bearing gilt-rimmed trays laden with sandwiches and tiny iced cakes. The hum of a dozen conversations filled the air.
“. . . wouldn’t you say so, Miss Caldwell?” Mr. Carmack smiled down at Sophie, one brow raised.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was just saying that newfangled machine Mr. Mergenthaler patented is sure to revolutionize our business.”
“The linotype, yes. I’ve wanted one in the worst way ever since I read about it.”
Mr. Ochs laughed. “Don’t we all? They say one of the New York papers will get the first one sometime next year.” He shook his head. “Imagine being able to form an entire line of type as one piece of metal.”
Mrs. McPherson, who had accepted another glass of punch, took a sip and sighed. “Imagining is about all I’ll be able to do, I fear. No doubt that new machine will be scandalously expensive.”
“But it will be worth it in the long run,” Sophie said. “Think of how much faster the work will go when we don’t have to set the type letter by letter.”
Mr. Ochs nodded. “I might even be able to let my printer’s devil go. I’d save a lot of money if I didn’t have to pay his wages every week.”
Sophie thought of Caleb. A linotype machine would undoubtedly be better for her, but without the small amount she paid him, what would become of him and his family?
The doors to the ballroom opened, and a portly man in a fancy suit entered with an equally elegant woman on his arm.
“That’s Horace Blakely,” Mr. Ochs said. “I met him last fall when I was up here touring the place.”
A bell tinkled and the room gradually quieted. All eyes turned
to Mr. Blakely, who held up one hand, palm out, and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it’s an honor for Mrs. Blakely and me to welcome you to Blue Smoke, the finest resort in the South.”
Applause rippled across the room.
“When I first saw Hickory Ridge back in seventy-six, she was a pretty little town fallen on hard times. But the local banker, Franklin Gilman, refused to let his town die. He organized the first-ever Hickory Ridge Race Day, which still draws visitors from all over the country.”
He smiled a little ruefully. “My horse was beaten that day by the now-legendary Majestic, ridden by one of Hickory Ridge’s most outstanding citizens, Mr. Griffin Rutledge—now head of our riding program. And if you know me, you know I don’t like to lose. But I gained something that day too. Something about this place called to me—these beautiful, unspoiled mountains, the clear springs and grassy meadows, and . . . well, a sort of peacefulness that seems to fill the air, like a favorite hymn on Sunday morning.”
All around her, reporters were opening notebooks and digging for pencils. Sophie set her punch cup on a nearby tray and took notes too.
“On the train home from that first race, I started to dream about building a place where folks from all over could come to enjoy the solitude and beauty of these magnificent mountains. Fish in the clear-running streams. Ride the trails. And partake of the finest foods and wines available anywhere.” He held up his glass as if for a toast and swept his arm toward the window. “It took a long time to acquire the land, clear it, and build a rail supply line, not to mention building the resort itself. But this evening you are witnesses to the result of big dreams, hard work, and imagination. If you will follow me, we’ll begin the tour.”
Sophie followed Mrs. McPherson and Mr. Carmack to the door. Mr. Ochs spotted another friend across the room and soon was
engaged in animated conversation, waving his hands in the air. For the next half hour, Mr. Blakely led the reporters through the public rooms and about the manicured grounds, peppering his comments with enough facts and figures to fill a government report.
They stopped at the stables, and Griff Rutledge walked out leading Majestic. Griff waited for photographers to set up their cameras and posed for pictures with the sleek black stallion before pointing out the riding trail snaking upward through the forest. Mr. Blakely then led them back to the main building by way of a lavishly planted garden just beginning to bloom. They reached the wide terrace and stood quietly, taking in the view. The sun perched atop the mountain as if suspended by a string, turning the sky to pink. The doors opened and a small band of strolling musicians came onto the terrace, filling the air with song.
“This concludes my remarks,” Mr. Blakely said, “but if any of you have further questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. Or you can ask my partner and managing director of this enterprise, Mr. Ethan Heyward.” He scanned the crowd, a scowl darkening his fleshy face. “If you can find him.”
After another round of food and drink, the photographers packed away their cameras and the reporters began gathering their things, saying good-bye. Mr. Carmack nodded a farewell to Sophie and called for his rig. Mrs. McPherson patted Sophie’s arm. “I’m glad to have met you, Miss Caldwell. Perhaps one day we’ll have a chance to compare notes on the New Orleans Exposition.”
“I’d like that.”
“Tell me. Did you write about it for anyone?”
“Only a couple of small articles for our paper in Dallas.”
“Oh, so you’re from Texas too?”
“Since I was a girl. I started working for the paper after I finished school. My boss, Mrs. Mills, thought I was ready to handle the reporting, but her boss thought otherwise. He said I was too young.”
Mrs. McPherson shook her head. “Nonsense. I’ve known Prudence Mills for years. She’s solid as they come. If she thought you were ready, you are. Age has nothing to do with it. A keen eye and a decent vocabulary trump age any day.” She motioned for her carriage. “Have you heard about Mr. McClure’s news syndicate?”
“Only that he formed one a couple of years ago.”
“I hear it’s doing well. Perhaps you should approach him about writing for his organization. It would be excellent exposure for your talents, and the pay is all right.”
“I’d love that, but right now the
Gazette
is more than enough for me to handle.”
The carriage arrived and Mrs. McPherson climbed inside. “Perhaps later, then. Good-bye, my dear.”
Sophie waved as the carriage started down the drive, and then returned to the ballroom where a few reporters still leaned against the wall, laughing and comparing notes. She found a chair by the window and watched the lengthening shadows fall across the grass. Where on earth was Ethan? She hadn’t seen him all night.
She was tired but eager to get home and write her story while all her impressions were still fresh in her mind. And she needed to think about the editorial she promised Gillie. How could she possibly influence the mayor and the council where others had failed?
She rose and left the ballroom, her shoes skimming the Oriental carpet, and hurried down the hall to Ethan’s office. Perhaps he was working on more details for tomorrow night’s ball. She lifted her hand to knock on the door, but the sound of angry voices stopped her.
The door crashed open and a tall, olive-skinned man stormed out, nearly knocking her down as he passed. Ice-blue eyes briefly met hers, and in that instant, something immediate and visceral passed between them. She had never before seen this man, but somehow she felt a kind of instant kinship.
“Pardon,” he muttered before hurrying into the night, a small
leather pouch tucked into the crook of his arm. A few moments later horses’ hooves clattered across the brick driveway and receded into the silence.
Sophie peered into the office. Papers and books were scattered everywhere. A crystal glass lay on its side on the floor, its contents dribbling onto the priceless carpet.
Ethan sat behind his desk, his head in his hands.
“Ethan?”
He started and leapt to his feet. “Sophie. You must forgive me for being such an inattentive escort. I became sidetracked, I’m afraid.” He picked up the glass and began stacking the books. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yes, but, Ethan, what happened here?”
He squared his shoulders and offered her a tight smile. “I should get you home. Wait a moment, and I’ll call for the carriage.”
Together they returned to the ballroom where the staff were already busy cleaning up, preparing for tomorrow night’s festivities. Ethan spoke to a couple of the men and then offered her his arm. Outside, they waited beneath the portico while the driver brought the carriage around.