Winter at Death's Hotel (17 page)

I
want
a
woman
friend
, she thought. Perhaps that was all the dream had meant—having a friend, as she'd had Tenny when she'd been very young. The only other possibility at hand was Marie Corelli, and she seemed rather too formidable to become a friend.

Ethel was fastening her in back. Ethel, of course, could not really be a friend: rather sad for both of them. Louisa missed women she knew in England, missed that intimacy, different from what she had with Arthur. She needed, wanted, both, she thought. She said, “Do you have friends here, Ethel?”

“Not as to say
friends
, madame. You don't make friends so quick, do you? Acquaintances, more like. But people come and go so fast in a hotel, don't they.”

“Do you miss your friends at home?”

“I do, yes, I do.” Ethel finished doing her up and said, “Mr. Galt is coming by just at any minute, remember.”

“Is he? Oh, drat, I'd forgotten again.” With that, there was a knock on the door.

Galt looked at her ankle and watched her use the crutches and said she was making wonderful progress. He showed Ethel how to wrap an X of bandage around the ankle to hold it in what he called its natural position. Ethel seemed flustered; after watching her make a hash of it, Louisa said, “I can surely do that for myself.”

“I don't at all mind, madame.” Ethel sounded hurt.

“The thing,” Galt said, “is to get it right but not too tight. If you can get a finger under the bandage, it's too loose—loose as a goose, they say where I was born—but if you feel your toes numbing up, it's too tight.”

“Will I be able to walk on it?”

“Not yet, you won't, but when you can, that bandage'll help.”

“I'm sick of hobbling around, Mr. Galt. I want to be
well
.”

“I think that's something you have to discuss with the Man Upstairs, Mrs. Doyle.”

She thought he meant old Mr. Carver but then realized he meant God. She didn't chat with God much and she didn't believe at all in divine intervention, so she supposed what Galt meant was she should grin and bear it. Or perhaps he was a religious man. She hoped not; religious people always wanted to lecture one.

After he was gone, she tried the X-shaped wrap again. “I think I've got it, Ethel.

Ethel said, “May I tell you something, madame?”

“Please do.”

“Mr. Galt has asked me to walk out with him.”

Galt? And Ethel?
“What did you tell him?”

“That I'd ask you, madame.”

Louisa was astonished. But rather pleased. She didn't think of either of them as a catch, but a friend would be good for Ethel. Of course, it couldn't go too far: after all, they wouldn't be in New York a great while longer. She said, “Are you asking for my approval, Ethel?”

“For your permission, madame.”

“Well, you may certainly have that. But you must be careful, you know…”

“I am very careful when it comes to men, madame.”

“That's wise.”

“And I am not a babe in the woods.”

Louisa met Ethel's eyes. They were direct, almost challenging. Did Ethel have a past? A past with a man,
men
, in it? How surprising people were. “You will be careful, nonetheless, Ethel. Remember, anything you do could reflect on Mr. Doyle.”

Ethel said nothing, but busied herself with bits of lint and invisible specks on the carpet. Bent over, her voice muffled, she said, “I thought that Mr. Galt and I might go to see Mr. Irving's play.”

Good
heavens, it isn't Galt who's asked her to walk out, it's Ethel who's asked him!
“Is that wise?”

“He's a perfect gentleman. He understood about me asking you first.” She pushed herself upright. “If you disapprove, I won't do it.”

Louisa dodged the implied accusation. “You'll need to fix that dress you mentioned. We shall have to get the ribbon and lace today. In fact, why don't you do that now? And a small bustle with some sort of train; I'm sure the shops will have something in black.” She pulled a Liberty shawl over her shoulders. “I'll just slip downstairs to see if there's any mail.”

She had barely emerged from the elevator and was gathering herself and the crutches together when she saw an arm waving at her from the lobby. It was Mrs. Simmons, covered again in cascades of lace. She was actually calling, “Yoo-hoo.”

Louisa hoisted herself on the crutches and launched herself into the lobby.

“Look at you, you poor thing! But you get along real good on those contraptions. I'd be scared to death to try them, and I've got two good feet! How are you today? I hear you were out on the town yesterday and came back in a horseless carriage with Mr. Henry Irving. I'm sure he's the nay plus ultra of respectability, but a girl can't be too careful. Sit, sit, take a load off your feet, I'll get the girl for coffee. My, that's some eye you've got.”

Louisa had forgotten to powder her bruises. She collapsed into a chair, grateful to sit, if not to have to listen to Mrs. Simmons. “I was out on business yesterday—which
everybody
seems to know about, I must say.”

“Oh, honey, a hotel's like a small town, everybody sees everything that goes on. You couldn't keep a secret here if you were Bluebeard the Pirate.” She was looking for more ice cream in her glass, which had nothing left in it but streaks that her spoon wouldn't pick up. “I'll have another of those, and some cookies,” she said to the waitress who had appeared. “And coffee for my friend here.”

“Oh, I have to go back upstairs.”

“You got time for a coffee.” The old woman waved the waitress away. “And what's to go back upstairs for? It does get dull, doesn't it, being kind of a prisoner in a hotel? I'm not really a prisoner, but it gets harder and harder for me to go out, and I must say it can't be easy for you, either, horseless carriage or no. There are days when if it wasn't for Fannie, I declare I'd go right off my noggin. Fannie's company, you know.” Louisa had no idea who Fannie was. “That odious Carver can complain about her, but I
like
her to bark.” Then she knew who Fannie was. “It's another voice. It just picks me up. Have you ever had a dog?”

“When I was little, I wasn't allowed.” When she was a child on an impoverished island in Scotland, she meant, but she didn't tell people that.

“Well, then you can't know what a comfort they are. When I first had her, she just barked and barked and barked. People were livid!” She shrieked with laughter. “There was one part of my sitting room, all Fannie had to do was
look
at it, and she'd start barking. She'd sniff and back away and sniff and back away and then she'd just bark her sweet little head off. If I was feeling blue, I'd just point her at that wall, and she'd bark and cheer me up. How's your ankle?”

“Oh, better, I think, but I'm still not able to walk on it.”

“Of course you're not! It'll be weeks yet. I had a friend who sprained her wrist, and it was three years before she was normal, and even to this day, it gives her pain when it rains. You take cream or sugar? Have a cookie.” She took two for herself. “Of course, Fannie
always
barks at men. She pretty much hates the entire species. I've always liked men, myself, but dogs are very sensitive. What I figure is, there was some man in a past life who was mean to her. That Carver, now, she goes after him like she means to tear his pant-legs off, which I think shows good judgment on her part. And that house detective, too.” Mrs. Simmons looked across the lobby at where Manion was sitting. Although he was too far away to hear her, she lowered her voice. “Fannie barks at him like she's one of the geese saving Rome.” She lowered her voice even farther. “He's a bad actor.”

“How so?”

“I'm sure he has a past.” Her voice changed. “There's that nephew of mine.” She bit into a cookie, waved at the approaching Newcome, and sipped her coffee. She said to Louisa sotto voce, “He was out till all hours again and looks it.” With satisfaction, she said, “Fannie barks at him until the cows come home.”

Newcome looked perfectly healthy to Louisa, although when he came closer she saw that he had a bruise high on his left cheek, and perhaps he looked a little pale. They went through the formalities and Louisa said she had to go; Mrs. Simmons shouted that she'd just got there; Newcome murmured something about the pleasure of seeing her up and about. He sounded as he always did, she supposed, rather British and proper and a bit wispy, or perhaps bloodless was more accurate. She found herself looking at him and remembering that her first response to him had been the word “safe.” Now she wondered why. He didn't seem safe to her now; perhaps it was the bruise, which suggested violence, another aspect of him. He was, she thought, one of those men who didn't love women (she skirted whether he was one of those men who loved other men, about which she was mostly ignorant and not very curious), but such men were surely not necessarily then
safe
. Might not a man who didn't love women then
hate
women?

What odd things I am thinking. I am being unfair to Mr. Newcome because he disappointed me.

Newcome had appropriated an orange from the fruit basket and now took something from a pocket that abruptly grew a shiny blade as long as his fingers. He cut a perfect circle around the stem end of the orange and then two circles around the entire fruit like lines of longitude. He put a thumb in the top circle of the ring and began to pry it off. He smiled at Louisa. “You are admiring my coltello, Mrs. Doyle.”

“I was admiring your technique with the orange, actually.”

He held the knife up. It was quite elegant, with a mother-of-pearl handle and an engraved silver bolster. He said, “I bought it in Italy last year.” He folded the blade into the handle with a click. “It's the knife with which the bravos of Sicily fight what they call their duels of honor. I limit my duels to oranges.” He pressed a button, and the blade flashed out. He closed it again with a titter. “My honor is too limited to mention.”

Louisa found herself repelled by him, by his knife. Rising and supporting herself on the back of her chair, she said, “I had thought to accept your offer of your friend's carriage yesterday, Mr. Newcome, but you were not to be found.”

His face went blank. “I'm so sorry.” He flushed. “I didn't realize you'd need me so quickly.”

“One should never depend on others, should one. It's always helpful to be reminded of that.” She went off on her awkward way, hearing Mrs. Simmons asking her nephew what that was about.

***

Stillman Hotel

Cleveland, Ohio

Mr. dearest, darlingest Touie:

It is not the way I would have done it, and I think perhaps premature, but you must accept whatever has been put before you.

Whatever was he talking about?

The application of ice

Oh, that's it—my ankle.

is I should think less indicated than a good hot-water bottle that is hot but not torrid to the touch, perhaps wrapped in a towel for safety's sake. I think you are alarmist to question morphine for another three days; it is a benign anodyne, though overuse can induce a habituation akin to dependence.

The audience for my lectures to date have consisted almost entirely of women, perhaps because they have been held at hours when sensible men are working (perhaps to escape from the women, who are, insofar as I have been forced to commune with them, philistine, overbearing, and benighted).

Oh, Arthur, somebody is
killing
women here.

I am now inured to questions about Holmes's most trivial details, and what I cannot recall from the stories, I simply make up. I told some harpy yesterday that Holmes's mother was an authoress who had taught Watson how to write the stories. She seemed delighted and said roguishly, “I knew there was a woman in the case!” I could cheerfully have murdered her.

Oh, Arthur! Oh, don't.

I have been trying to gauge the intellectual level of my audiences—which have been gratifyingly large in terms of quantity, if only the quality were better—and have so far failed abjectly to get responses to Queen Cophetua, King Log, Boadicea, or Gog and Magog, although they do seem to respond to such sentimental slush as the two little princes in the Tower. Any reference to Shakespeare or the Bible is readily understood. Any reference to Shakespeare's contemporaries or the Apocrypha are treated as if I were mentioning works unfit for the ears of ladies. In general, I would say that they are less interesting than a mob of fourth-formers on a drowsy afternoon.

When will you be able to join me? I do miss you so, Touie. I realize that I am lonely, although I am surrounded by people much of the day. Travel without you is excruciating, for I am doomed on the trains to the company of men, not the good fellowship of men like myself, but drummers and back-slapping businessmen, who sit in the “smoking cars” and tell salacious stories or Munchausenesque lies by the hour. The only thing that will silence them is my telling them I am an author, which causes sudden palls to descend, and thereafter I am eyed shiftily, perhaps as a threat to public safety.

Will you be well enough to come to Milwaukee, at least? You know that thereafter I shall be getting so close to the time that I shall be back in the East that it would hardly be worthwhile to travel to somewhere like St. Louis instead of waiting a few days and meeting me in Philadelphia.

Oh, my dear, pity your poor husband, alone and footloose in the wilds of America! This is a country of savages—well-fed, pink, buxom, brainless savages! I fear I shall be thrust into a pot and boiled, to be served up for what they call “Sunday dinner.” Boiled Author with Mashed Ideas and Brainless Salad!