Time Passage: A Time Travel Novel, page 7
“Yes, Miss Adams.”
“You can call me Rosamond, Alice, if you want to.”
Alice didn’t look at me. “I beg your pardon, but that would not be proper, Miss Adams.”
I tried again. “What happened to Mr. Gannon’s first wife?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Alice said, moving to the other side of the bed and drawing up the quilt.
“Not at liberty?”
Alice changed the subject, and not so subtly. “Will you be wanting a sponge bath or a soak in the tub, Miss Adams?”
“The tub, if that’s all right.”
“I will draw the water for you. The Gannon Mansion is the only house for many miles that has running water,” she concluded proudly.
“Have you been here long?” I asked, hoping to develop a friendship.
“Four years.”
“And where are you from?”
“Lowell, Massachusetts.”
“I’ve heard of it, but never been.”
“It’s a mill town. My father and brothers work in the mills.”
“And why did you come here?”
Alice hesitated, while she smoothed the quilt and carefully positioned the shams and throw pillows.
“My husband came for the gold, like many other men, even though I told him I thought it was all played out back in the 1860s. But he had the fever and so we came and for a time he panned for gold at the South Platte River.”
Alice straightened up, examining her work, giving it a satisfied nod.
“Did he find any gold?”
Alice glanced over. “Yes, he did, Miss Adams, and two men killed him for it. A short time later, I found work here.”
I’m sure my face registered shock. “I’m so sorry.”
Alice shrugged, and her eyes stared ahead, her face falling into sorrow. “He was a good man, Callen was, but he wouldn’t hear, and he wouldn’t listen. I told him, ‘When everybody is out looking for gold, it’s time to get into the pick and shovel business.’ He just laughed at me.”
Alice blinked, clearing her sad eyes. “All right, Miss Adams, I will run your bath and prepare your clothes.”
I followed her into the bathroom and watched as she adjusted the bathtub’s porcelain levers. A weak stream of water poured into the tub, and the pipes above knocked and thumped.
I took a lukewarm bath in shallow water, while Alice cleaned the bedroom and prepared my clothes. I heard Tara enter and remove my breakfast tray.
When it was time to dress, I groaned at the plum-colored bustle dress displayed extravagantly across the bed, along with all its undergarment companions. But before I was stuffed into them, Alice brushed and styled my hair, artistically piling it high on my head, curling it, placing it, and pinning it. I decided to ask Alice another question.
“Are you surprised that Mr. Gannon wants to marry again?”
Alice continued working, checking the mirror often. “I have no opinion about that, Miss Adams.”
I’d been picking at a thought, and being the curious, often annoying type who liked to ask questions, I risked being a nuisance. “In a house like this, there must be lots of rumors about me. I mean, it must be, well, a little weird to have a stranger suddenly appear.”
“I couldn’t say,” Alice said, steady at her work, not looking at me through the mirror.
I gave up. Obviously, Alice wasn’t going to volunteer any information about Gannon or the house.
Alice applied light makeup, lip salve, powder, and a subtle touch of rouge. We didn’t talk until after I was corseted, petticoated and squeezed into that bustle dress. Once again, I had to admit that it was a beauty. It had a double-layered skirt, the top bunched to reveal an intricately patterned underskirt.
“Where did this thing come from?” I asked.
Alice took a step back and examined her work with great attention, scrutinizing me from head to toe. It was obvious that she was anxious and eager, wanting to ensure I looked my best for Gannon, a reflection of her own lady’s maid skills.
Alice said distractedly, “Mr. Gannon had it made in France, according to the specifications the New York agency sent him with regard to your measurements. The dress arrived only a week ago. It was the dress he wants to see you in today.”
Between the tightness of the dress and her last comment, I felt slightly nauseated. Gannon was obviously a controlling man.
The final touch was jewelry, which Alice brought from an ornate, gold jewelry box kept in a top vanity drawer. She held up a pair of stunning gold and black earrings for me to see. “These are 16-karat gold, also French,” Alice said, proud of her knowledge.
After she’d fastened the earrings, she presented me with a simple flower brooch with black crystals and diamonds, and then she pinned it at the neckline of the dress.
Alice stepped back for a final appraisal of her work and invited me to take a look in the mirror. “Please have a look at yourself, Miss Adams, and be so kind as to tell me if you approve.”
I stepped before the oval vanity mirror.
“Do you like what you see?” Alice asked, hope lighting up her eyes.
My eyes were round with surprise. I looked absolutely fabulous in that elegant, tucked-in-at-the-waist, bustle-in-the-back, totally awesome dress. I stared with a detached, emotionless gaze, finding it hard to believe that the woman in the mirror, with all that lusciously styled hair, was me. I looked like a royal princess from some British period drama. I blinked slowly, like a tortoise.
“Do you approve, Miss Adams?”
“Oh, yeah. I totally approve. You are amazing, Alice.”
She accepted the comment with a small, pleased smile.
“Wow… and I love the earrings,” I said, turning my head slowly from side to side. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“You are quite lovely, Miss Adams. I believe Mr. Gannon will be pleased.”
And then I had a dark thought. I look like a princess, and based on that, I doubt that John Gannon will send me away. I mean, look at me! That’s not good, is it? How could that be good if he doesn’t send me away?
I felt tension tightening my shoulders. “Well, I have about two hours until I meet him. What should I do?”
“Mr. Hopkins, the butler, is to take you on a tour of the house.”
I looked at Alice in the mirror. “A tour? Okay…”
“You will be served some refreshments at noon, and then afterwards, you will be escorted to Mr. Gannon’s private office.”
I nodded again. “Okay… So, my day is all planned out.”
“Yes, Miss Adams. I hope it will be a pleasant one for you.”
“Yeah… sure. Cool… I mean, thank you.”
After Alice had left, I continued staring into the mirror. With exaggerated enunciation, I whispered, “What the hell am I going to do?”
CHAPTER 13
The stately butler, Sidney Hopkins, arrived ten minutes later, along with Tara, who slipped in behind him, head bowed, clutching a broom and dustpan. Without a word, she went straight to work, bending over the fireplace, sweeping the hearth clear of soot and debris.
I learned later that one of Tara’s many jobs included cleaning all the fireplaces and replenishing them with the firewood that she toted about in a large canvas bag. She rarely got to bed before eleven in the evening and she was up before dawn.
I wanted to say hello to her, but she was hard at work, and she kept her eyes down, avoiding me. It was obvious that she wasn’t supposed to speak to me, or to any of the upper rank servants.
Mr. Hopkins regarded me with cool indifference, offering a little nod of his head. My smile was vaguely awkward and excessively bright.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sidney.”
He cleared his throat and lifted an eyebrow. “I’d prefer that you address me as Mr. Hopkins, Miss Adams.”
“Okay… Well, then, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hopkins,” I repeated.
He stared over my head at the far windows, as if he were addressing a snowy fir tree. “Nice, is it? How interesting,” he concluded, dryly.
Mr. Hopkins was in his forties, a tall, attractive, and refined man with autocratic features. His gleaming, pomaded hair was combed sideways with a perfect part, and he was gray at the temples, a feature that added distinction and class.
I later learned that Mr. Hopkins was the first employee hired by John Gannon when the house opened five years before, in 1875, and, when anyone questioned his abilities or authority, he reminded them of that fact, with an arrogant lift of his nose.
I heard him once say to a complaining underbutler, “Don’t question me, just do as I say, sir. I was the first servant to be hired in this fine edifice, and I know the requirements of the place utterly, intuitively, and intimately.”
Mr. Hopkins cast his worshipful eyes about, his voice as deep and rich as that of a fine Shakespearean actor. “The Gannon Mansion is one of the finest houses inside or outside Denver,” Mr. Hopkins expounded, with superb articulation and pride. “And the society of the city of Denver, as well as the regions beyond, accord it great respect, as well they should.”
Another bit of information I later learned was that Mr. Hopkins had never been married and was not inclined to do so. Rumors circulated that he’d once been smitten by a Chicago showgirl who had broken his heart, making him bitter about marriage, and about most women.
We left the room and began the tour.
“This house is made of Colorado,” Mr. Hopkins said grandly, pointing here and there. “The stones used to build this four-level mansion consist of rhyolite from Castle Rock and red sandstone from the Garden of the Gods.”
I nodded, not knowing what rhyolite was, or where Castle Rock or the Garden of the Gods were, but I tried to look intelligent.
While we toured the impressive mansion, Mr. Hopkins’ tall stature and commanding gaze seemed to see everything—the slightest infraction, the minutest detail: a small smudge on a crystal glass in the dining room; the linen tablecloth hanging a fraction of an inch longer on the right side than on the left.
With a keen eye, he’d noticed that a flower arrangement “lacked balance and grace,” and he’d demanded that the anxious servant girl reconstruct it, “Ensuring there is a dignity of color and presentation.”
There were ten bedrooms, nine bathrooms and remarkable woodwork, with crafted fireplace mantels and three sweeping, ornate, multi-level oak staircases. The library had multitiered bookshelves, leather furniture, oversized windows, a lofty ceiling, and a massive stone fireplace.
I saw polished hardwood floors in the hallways, a cozy sitting room, and a third-floor parlor, rich with burgundy color and heavy, Victorian furniture.
The jaw-dropping second-floor ballroom had white birch floors, one entire wall of mirrors, and a stage for an orchestra that featured a black grand piano and a harpsichord. There were stained-glass windows and interior oak woodwork that smelled of wealth, and I couldn’t imagine how many servants were needed to keep the house tidy and clean.
I wasn’t shown the fourth floor, where some of the house servants lived, nor was I taken “below the stairs,” which was occupied by upper rank servants, the wine cellar, food pantries and the main kitchen.
During the tour, I’d stayed silent, learning, observing and nodding, impressed for sure, but scared to death, and wishing I had a friend. Any friend. Mr. Hopkins glanced at me once, as we left the ballroom, and I commented, without thinking, “Wow! That was totally awesome.”
As soon as I said it, I wanted to grab the words and force them back into my mouth. I had to stop it with the slang! Among these formal-speaking people, I sounded stupid!
Mr. Hopkins looked at me with kindly contempt, as if I were a child to be tolerated. “How utterly descriptive,” he said dryly, an obvious insult.
With the tour complete, Mr. Hopkins escorted me to a white and gold private dining room, where I sat at one of four, linen-covered tables, set with primrose teacups, linen napkins, and a rose-colored vase with sprigs of evergreen and pine. The cathedral style windows offered a stunning view of a nearby carriage house, snowy trees, and distant mountains.
It was so quiet that I was startled when a young, tuxedoed footman, named Edward, appeared from a side door, carrying a tray with a silver teapot. Once the tea was poured, he drifted to a side table and brought a tray of assorted tea sandwiches: ham and mustard, cucumber, butter and jam, and smoked salmon.
“Will there be anything else, Miss Adams?” he asked in a soft, formal voice.
“No, thank you. It all looks…” I was going to say, “awesome,” but this time I caught myself. “Everything is lovely. Thank you, Edward.”
As I nibbled on the butter and jam sandwich, I thought, Why am I being treated like royalty? Gannon hasn’t even met me. I could only conclude that he’d already made up his mind and, as crazy and sickening as it sounded, I was going to be his wife.
At 12:50 p.m., Mrs. Grieve appeared, wearing the same black, dreary dress as the night before. She also wore the same sour face and stern, accusing stare, as if I were a thief who was about to steal them blind.
She crossed to my table and stared straight ahead. “Mr. Gannon will see you now.”
As soon as my napkin touched the table, the footman glided over and courteously pulled back my chair while I stood up. I thanked him and steadied myself. The time had come to meet the Big Boss.
I followed the “charming” Mrs. Grieve from the dining room, down a long hallway, which led to winding stairs, which led to the second floor, which led along another curving hallway, where servants were cleaning mirrors and dusting side tables and lamps.
We turned left, passed through a card/game room and another Victorian parlor, styled in emerald green and gold, and, finally, we arrived at a large, impressive, oak door. Inside was John Gannon’s private office. Inside my chest, my heart was thumping, and blood surged hot to my face.
Mrs. Grieve knocked firmly, twice.
I heard a deep baritone voice from inside. “Yes… Come in.”
Mrs. Grieve opened the door, stepped in, backed away and nodded for me to enter. On rubbery legs, I did so, stepping into a spacious, dark wood room with barrel-vaulted ceilings, towering bookcases, and an outsized window with expansive views of a forest of snow-heavy trees and towering mountains, bathed in a wintry, western light.
“This is Miss Rosamond Adams, Mr. Gannon.”
And then Mrs. Grieve withdrew, closing the door. My left eye twitched when I viewed John Gannon. He stood behind a massive oak desk, a taller man than I’d imagined, a younger man than I’d imagined, and a more handsome man than I’d ever imagined. I guessed his age at between forty-five and fifty.
He wore a black frock coat, with a hint of a blue hue, and matching fabric-covered buttons. His white silk shirt was impressive, the black silk string tie knotted formally, and his burgundy vest was a perfect fit, revealing a man who was in good shape. I also noticed a gold watch chain visible across his vest, leading to a gold watch, tucked into a vest pocket.
His bearing was stiff, his features sensual, his black hair flecked with gray and curly over his ears. John Gannon had a strong face that seemed chiseled from rock, with a workman’s body and a muscular neck.
We stood in silence as his narrowed, blue-gray eyes looked me over, and my heart jumped a little. And then he gave me a deep, probing look. He made a gesture toward an armless walnut chair with a beautifully shaped carved back. I was grateful it was armless, otherwise I would have never been able to sit in the thing with my bustle dress.
“Please sit down, Miss Adams.”
I moved to the chair and eased down, leaning a bit forward, placing my folded, clammy hands in my lap. I wanted to appear like a still-life painting, not moving, not breathing, and not scared.
He didn’t sit, but he kept his steady gaze on me, and I was sure he was going to point an accusing finger and bellow out that I was an imposter. And then he picked up the sepia tone photograph of Nellie, which The Rose Daisy Agency had mailed to him.
Gannon studied it, and my racing mind conjured up lies and excuses, but then I thought better of it. Wouldn’t it be better if I told the truth? After all, I had nothing to hide, at least as far as Nellie was concerned.
As John Gannon’s attention remained on the photo, I thought, But what if he doesn’t believe the truth? He’ll toss me out, and I’ll have nowhere to go, no family or friends. Nothing.
My face and neck burned hot. I felt sweat on my back, my butt, my legs.
And then he placed the photo on his desk and sat, making a pyramid of his fingers, looking at me over the top of them.
I was about to blurt out the truth and tell everything. I was about to beg for help, and tell him I was a victim, when Mr. Gannon rose and walked to the beautiful sandstone fireplace on the left side of the room.
Above the mantel, hanging on the paneled wall, was an oil portrait of a young woman—an attractive young woman. And then I saw it. The woman in that portrait looked a lot like me! Something about the cheekbones and the eyes. Yes, a similarity. How was that possible?
CHAPTER 14
John Gannon locked his hands behind his back and stared up at the portrait, as I shifted to my left to examine the painting more closely.
The woman was a slender beauty, captured by the artist in strokes of muted color and cream-colored light, against a background of a gold and deep burgundy curtain. She stood beside a Greek style column, fingering her pearls; her features elegant and soft; her lush, blonde hair drawn up and styled in waves and supported by combs. It was a startlingly clear rendering of the face, with a tender mouth and lucid blue eyes, alive, as they gazed out into the room.
Her full-length gown featured a dazzling array of white fabrics of varying textures: satin, lace, and chiffon, and the broad stroke highlights on her off-the-shoulder, pink and white, opulent cape were vibrant, adding to the romance of the portrait.
John Gannon released his hands as he slowly turned to face me, looking absorbed and worried. Returning to his desk, he reached for the photo and, once again, studied it. Then he lifted his eyes and studied me, and I felt like a specimen under a microscope.
