With Emily being middle-aged, somewhat withdrawn, and private, and Amanda being older still and too reserved for nonsense, it was Lilly who became a good prospect for marriage. Not long after introductions, invitations to social events began to arrive. It was a tenuous situation for her, for Lilly would not have anyone feel slighted when she declined, but she was not good at frivolity. She was perfectly happy to assist her grandmother with entertaining, but she didn’t enjoy social events that had nothing whatever to do with business. She knew with absolute certainty that a number of people desired to see her married. If it wasn’t enough that guests within the hotel saw fine marriageability in her and urged her to their dinners, parties, or receptions to meet this gentleman or that, some of her grandmother’s oldest friends from the finest of Philadelphia families had discovered an enormous number of bachelors.
“Now, be a big girl, Lilly,” Amanda urged when Lilly complained of no gracious way to refuse. “If you put your mind to it, you might meet a special gentleman--even make friends!”
“Don’t be as bad as all the rest,” she huffed. “I don’t want to meet anymore special gentlemen! I don’t have to be a wife to be happy!”
“No one said you did, Lilly. But we all know you would be even happier with all the right circumstances--a family of your own and your business!”
“I regret the day I admitted that!”
Emily observed with some concern, Amanda with amusement. An ordinary man was just not good enough for Lilly. She couldn’t be attracted by looks without intelligence, by a foreign title without a sense of humor, by money without substance.
She dined with a British earl of reputation and charm, but returned to her suite morose. Emily was watching a card game between Amanda and Bertie. “He is so dull,” she reported. “I nearly fell asleep in my dinner. With all his traveling and experience, isn’t it odd that all he’s read in his life is the face of a playing card!”
A young man from a fine New York family escorted Lilly to an evening of music at the home of the Huntington family. He was polite, attractive, had plenty of money, and political ambitions.
“He told me that women are born to create a gentle atmosphere for the men in their lives! He said the reason I am content living in a hotel is because I am doing what women do best--providing a home for others!”
“Oh, Lilly, you didn’t hurt his pride--”
“I asked him if he had the first idea how much accounting, planning, hiring, and firing a hotel owner was responsible for, and he squeezed my hand! I swear he did! He told me he hoped we had a good solicitor to take care of our business!”
There was a miner from Minnesota who betrayed his need for money, an aristocratic gentleman from Boston who was recently widowed with two young children who missed their mother, and a young banker from Washington who assured her that he had great expertise in bookkeeping and had enjoyed success in the trading of stocks--he would oblige by trading some for her. She also had the unfortunate experience of being courted by a few men who neglected to mention they already had wives.
Lilly had reddened a few cheeks with her palm, although she usually tried to be polite and avoid creating a conflict that would hurt the hotel’s business by behaving in a controversial manner or contradicting the notions of the many gentlemen who pursued her. She did become more and more convinced that there was not a man alive who could appreciate her just as she was. They all seemed to want prestige, money, a business, or a mother for their orphaned children. “Old fashioned,” she would report in the evening. “Arrogant.” “Boring.” “Stupid.” And more often than anything, “He seems to be in need of money.”
There were also times, though fairly rare, when Lilly had nothing at all to report. She would enter the apartments shared with Emily, Amanda, and Bertie and slam the door. They continued their ritual of cards, pipe, and stitching on almost every evening, not quite admitting they waited up for her. If the sound of Lilly’s return was angry, all three women would flinch, look toward the door, and observe Lilly’s pursed lips and glittering eyes. Lilly would glare, then walk past them in a huff to her private sector, and it would be apparent that the suitor of the day had committed more than one of the usual grievances: undoubtedly he had diminished the possibility of her intelligence, all but asked for a money-making business, betrayed a houseful of children awaiting a new mother, and quite likely had placed one or both hands in an unwelcome location.
“My granddaughter has not stayed for the fruit and wine,” Amanda would say to the others. “Again.”
The Armstrong Arms’ success grew through the winter and spring of its first year, and June of 1881 brought gardens more resplendent than Queen Victoria’s. Compliments from guests provided a foundation of good reputation and brought many visitors for summer holidays, and the hotel enjoyed a larger number of guests every month. Lilly installed a bay of bicycles and had the work of clearing and cleaning the nearby pond begun so that small boats could be used there for the pleasure of the guests.
In this spring John Giddings finished his novel, a thing that should have marked the greatest achievement of his life. All the joy that could accompany that feeling of completion was diminished by an almost panicked concern for Patricia. For over two years letters had passed between them, letters that had begun as admiring poems and kind words and then had grown into passionate, erotic love letters. It had become a love affair of words, an affair not physical but a fictitious invention. John could not touch her silken flesh or give her exotic sexual pleasures, but he could write of these things. And she was safe from any caress because of her marriage and motherhood. But the letters had become powerful messages of love, sensuality, desire, and promise. “I know in my heart that you are the only man I will ever truly love, the only man who will ever truly love me,” Patricia wrote to John. And to Patricia went the message, “If all I can do is worship the softness of your skin, the sweetness of your breath, and glow of your hair, then worship I shall…until my last breath.”
This writing escalated into passion right up until the time Patricia delivered her daughter. Her opportunities to write to him decreased during her mother’s long stay and the fuss over the new baby, but gradually she resumed her letters.
All the love and passion she wrote of and received was as intense as ever before, but something began to change. Their correspondence began to lose its fever and was replaced by Patricia’s increasing unhappiness with her life and a strong desire to escape. John would have gladly traded any possession he had for a chance to be the one to take her away from Dale Montaine. John suspected Patricia didn’t care for motherhood; she never mentioned her child. But Patricia’s misery only increased, and then the letters had stopped suddenly on the first of May.
He tried every rational thing he could think of, but was left with only one option. Worry and grief sent him to Lilly. He hoped she would help because he lacked the courage to go to Mrs. Armstrong.
Lilly hadn’t seen John in a very long time. She had only exchanged passing greetings with him during her few visits to the Nesbitt House, but even if she hadn’t seen him in years, she would never have trouble recognizing him. He evolved only into an older version of himself; he became bald early and his little bit of wispy hair was overlong; his clothing, though of a decent cut and style, was perpetually wrinkled, and his spectacles slid down his nose.
“I need your help,” he said nervously.
“Anything, John,” she said sincerely, inviting him into her office on the fifth floor of the Armstrong Arms. “You have only to ask.”
“It’s Patricia. I’m sure something is wrong.”
“Patricia? But I saw her just--” Lilly stopped to think. Patricia had joined them for tea a few weeks before, had attended a party for a portrait painter a few weeks before that. Patricia was not ignored, but then there were very few functions that could reasonably include her. “What’s wrong with Patricia? And how--”
John edged along the seat of the chair. He held his hat s
o tightly that his knuckles were white. “Lilly, in order for you to understand, I must tell you something very private. Can you give your word to keep a secret? My telling could embarrass Patricia.”
“I suppose,” she said uneasily.
“We’ve been writing to each other,” he began.
“Why, John--” she said, smiling, dismissing the importance of such an admission.
“Not innocent letters, Lilly. Very serious letters. Of course, Patricia being married and a mother, it was impossible for us to spend so much as an hour in mutual company. I could never compromise her in that way because I do care for her…But we did have the letters.”
Lilly frowned; she remembered days of notes and journals in the boardinghouse. John loved Patricia, and apparently that love had never faded, but had become more fierce. “I’m sure it is a mistake, John, to correspond so personally with--”
“Oh, Lilly, that’s not why I’m here. I didn’t come here to make a confession! I thought I could make you understand why I know something is wrong. I would know because a letter came from her at least every week, except when she was lying in with her child. Then, when the letters began again, Patricia was not herself. She’s been feeling terrible about her life, more unhappy than I’ve ever known her!”
“But John! When have you known Patricia to be anything else? She’s determined--”
“No! No! Not easily contented, I know. She’s never had everything just the way she likes it, but her unhappiness was getting worse and worse, and then the letters stopped. I waited. I wrote to her again and again, and finally I went to the Montaine house and asked to see her. I was told she was indisposed and couldn’t be seen by anyone.”
“John,” Lilly entreated, “you mustn’t take Patricia so seriously. You know how she is. You watched her grow up! She gets an idea of something she wants and…Well, if she’s hurt you I’ll never forgive her, but it’s very likely that she just--”
“I know I don’t look like the kind of man who can win the heart of a beauty like Patricia, but I tell you, Lilly, she’s in some kind of terrible trouble. Maybe her husband found her letters? I think if he had, however, I would have been invited into his house and battered. But something’s wrong. In the last letter I had from her, she said she had so thoroughly lost interest in living she wished she could go to sleep and not wake up!”
Lilly’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed suspiciously. She guessed that Patricia had led this innocent man on, letter after letter, using all his genuine affection and reassurance to buoy her spirits and distract her from boredom, and then had simply forgotten about him. Lilly quickly thought about the times she had seen her since Christmas. She was no more unhappy than she ever was. Even Emily had taken to visiting the baby without bothering much about Patricia’s moods. A good nanny had been installed; it was as much as any of them could hope for.
“She’s been very busy with the baby, John.”
“She doesn’t even mention the baby! Lilly, please go see if she’s all right!”
“I’ll go,” Lilly said, standing. “I’ll go today, if it will make you feel better, but really I think there’s nothing wrong. Patricia is often thoughtless. She just became busy and preoccupied and--”
“No,” John said. “I understand why you would think so, Lilly, but you’re wrong. Patricia has very strong feelings. Not many people understand her as I do, she has always been criticized and accused of being selfish and lazy, and you don’t know how much pain it causes in her. I know how she feels about me. I know she wouldn’t forget to write to me. She’s told me more than once that my letters keep her alive!”
Lilly’s heart broke for him. She knew her sister had been unforgivably cruel. She would go see Patricia, and the first thing she would discuss with her would be the total disregard for John’s feelings Patricia showed by expressing so much in letters to him.
“Today, Lilly!” he said, the nearest thing to a command she had ever heard from him. “Promise!”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Today, John.”
He turned and left her office, and she sat down again. “Oh, I’m so sorry, John,” she muttered to herself.
Chapter Seventeen
It was simple embarrassment that caused Lilly to go alone to her sister’s home. She might have spoken with her mother and grandmother about John’s visit if she could have discovered a way to disclose the reason for his concern. Instead, she told no one and took a covered carriage and driver from the hotel stables and went by herself. Lilly was so angry, so enraged by Patricia’s behavior, that all she could do was rehearse the tongue-lashing she would give her sister. Patricia’s damned unhappiness! Her everlasting helplessness! She had hurt so many people with her need to be indulged, and now it had reached so far as John!
John was a kind if misguided man who would not lash out at anyone, especially Patricia, to whom he was so devotedly attracted. Poor John, poisoned by Patricia’s completely impossible encouragement, would probably never be able to find himself a nice young woman who could become his wife.
Lilly was momentarily confused when the housemaid gave her the same excuse John had reported. Mrs. Montaine could not be seen by anyone.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lilly said. “She’s my sister. I can see her in any condition!”
“No, ma’am, my orders are very firm. She’s not to be seen by anyone at all.”
“Then I’ll find her myself,” Lilly said, prepared to force her way up the stairs.
“No, ma’am! Please, ma’am! Let me get the nurse, then, and let her explain. Please!”
Lilly stopped short. “The nurse? What the devil is going on here?”
“Please, Miss Armstrong, let me get the nurse. Stay here, please.”
Lilly waited, looking around the foyer and into the front sitting room while she was left alone. The house looked the same--fancy and cluttered. The opened draperies made the place brighter, a custom Deanna had inherited from Emily. It was quiet, but no longer glum to her. Their Christmas together had made her feel much better about this place, these people. But how the devil, she wondered, could Patricia have a nurse and none of them know?
A woman about forty years of age came down the stairs. She wore a stiff blue dress, white apron, and a cap. She had pleasant features and smiled at Lilly, but the smile was too starched with formality to be sincere or caring. Something was not right.
“You’re the nurse?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want to see my sister. Immediately.”
“Miss Armstrong, I know you’re concerned, but let me explain, and then you’ll feel very good about all this, I assure you. Your sister is quite well, actually. She becomes a little agitated now and then, but Mr. Montaine had secured a specialist, Dr. Merlin Wissel. Mrs. Montaine is being treated for melancholia.”
“Melancholia?” Lilly repeated with a laugh. “Miss…Miss--”
“Stewart, ma’am,” she stiffly provided.
“Miss Stewart, my sister was born with melancholia! Now really, I insist you take me to her. Patricia doesn’t need a specialist. She needs a good kick in the behind!”
Lilly made another attempt at the stairs and found her sleeve was pinched by the nurse. “I beg your pardon, miss, but I’m very serious. Mrs. Montaine is being treated by Dr. Wissel, who has made his schedule cure quite famous, especially among the finer families in the United States and Europe.”
“I don’t frankly care if he can raise the dead. I’m going to see my sister!”
Lilly snatched herself free of the nurse and glanced over her shoulder at a cowering, helpless housemaid. She would not be stopped. She went up the stairs to the second floor and opened Patricia’s bedroom door without knocking. The room looked as though it had never been lived in. She quickly forgot her anger; her sudden conviction that Patricia had been misbehaving again was replaced by rising fear. She called out her name in the hall and began opening doors, finding each room empty of people.
She h
eard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Dale and a gentleman with a dark, pointed beard and slick mustache.
“Where is she, Dale?” she asked, noting that his appearance was slightly more rumpled than she was accustomed to. Patricia had sworn that when he didn’t have to be in the company of others, Dale would let himself become sloppy, drunk, and obnoxious, but whenever Lilly had seen him, he had been impeccably dressed and only sullen.
The gentleman stepped around from behind Dale to face Lilly. “Miss Armstrong, for your sister’s well-being, it is imperative that you hear an explanation and leave quietly.”
“I’ll hear that explanation, believe me. But as for my quiet departure, that’s unlikely.”