Marblestone Mansion, Book 10 Page 4

  We passed through the Cascade Tunnel easily enough, only to find the tracks below Windy Mountain blocked by an avalanche at such a serious depth, the train could not continue on. A second train was also forced to wait, and wait we did, while the Great Northern railway employees did their very best to clear the tracks. My dears, we sat stranded for the better part of six whole, dreary days with nothing to do but play cards and try to keep warm. Then the telegraph lines went down and there we were, cut off from the world in yet another blizzard.

  It was the first of March in the dead of night when it began to rain. Lightning lit up the sky, thunder echoed through the canyon and the wind ferociously howled. What we feared most had begun. We were all awake, for who could sleep? A disagreeable rumbling that turned to a terrifying roar left us no time to escape.

  Thunder shook loose the snow in the mountains above and it began to fall on both trains. All at once, Tom and I were rolling, first hitting the ceiling and then the floor repeatedly, until the passenger car finally rested at the bottom of a canyon.

  I know not how long I lay there before I realized the man lying next to me was dead. Thank God, it was not Tom. Yet, the windows were broken, snow had pushed its way inside, and I soon realized we were encased and would most likely die a long and horrible death, either from the cold, if not from a lack of air.

  Fortunately, a man whose name I do not recall, managed to open the door of our upside down passenger car. He then led those that could walk, which included both Tom and I, a considerable distance in deep snow to the warmth of a bunkhouse in Wellington. Never were we so glad to see a place in all our lives.

  Many were not as fortunate as we, for they say ninety-six died that night, most of who worked for the railroad and were trying to clear the tracks. Ninety-six? I can hardly believe it still.

  At this writing, we are back with our children in Oregon. I assure you, I shall cherish them and you, all the more for what we have lately gone through.

  Please write soon.

  All our love,

  Tom and Madeline Boland

  Leesil folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and then rang the bell. A few seconds later, Dugan again knocked on the door. Not surprised, Leesil opened it, smiled, and then handed him the letter. “See that everyone reads it.”

  “Yes, Miss Leesil. I was hoping you would say that.”

  She gently touched his sleeve. “They are all safe, but ‘tis the stuff of nightmares.”

  His smile quickly faded. “I shall caution them.”

  *

  Winter seemed endless in Quebec, yet the duchess was content to read more and go out less. With great interest, she read in newspapers about a live opera heard on something called radio waves. Soon, they predicted, everyone in the world would have radios, and be able to hear great performances sitting in their very own parlors. She glanced around her small, terribly quiet hotel room and sighed. A radio certainly would liven up the place. Next, she read about protestors in Cleveland who were upset about the high price of meat, and a fire in Constantinople that destroyed the Sultan’s palace. After that, it was back to reading the latest novel.

  In January, nothing interested her more than articles about the deluge of heavy rain that caused the Seine River to overflow its banks, and flood all the lowlands of Paris. She hadn’t planned to settle there anyway, but now, Paris was completely out of the question.

  In February, she was horrified to read about the release of the cook they called Typhoid Mary, from her New York City confinement. Typhoid was the worst disease in the world, and Mary was known to infect others. The very next article announced a marvelous machine that could add sound to movies.

  In March, papers reported that drillers struck oil in California, and there was much speculation as to what the unrest in Europe might mean. Sadly, there was still no word on a safe substance that could turn her hair black.

  At last, spring offered milder weather and the duchess felt the urge to get out and about more. The walled city of Quebec was situated atop Cap Diamant, a hill that stretched between the waters of the St. Lawrence and the St. Charles Rivers. Near the Porte St. Louis gate, a restaurant offered good food and a magnificent view of the St. Lawrence River. Seated near a window, she gazed at a quarantined ocean liner that was anchored on the opposite shore. For ships to be quarantined was not unusual. Immigrants coming to the new world often brought their illnesses with them, but it was an inconvenience, especially for her. That was the very ship she intended to take back to Europe. She had already booked passage, and now all she could do was wait.

  The duchess ordered a meal that included potatoes and peas in a fattening cream sauce, and then looked back out the window. She simply could not wait to leave the wrong side of the world. In Europe…anywhere in Europe, newspaper articles concerning London society and the royalty she so greatly admired, would reach her in less than two or three days, unlike the weeks it took to come across the ocean.

  Just then, she caught something the waiter said as he seated a woman at the table next to hers. “Welcome to Quebec, Baroness Von Schmid.” The duchess raised an eyebrow. Carefully taught the lineage of European royalty by Lady Estelle Husher, who hired the duchess to keep her nephew, Yannick Ernsdorff, from marrying an American, she was almost certain no such baroness existed. If a fraud, as surely the woman must be, how ludicrous of her to claim such a low title. A Baron, absolutely everyone knew, was even lower than an Earl or a viscount, and certainly could not hold a candle to a duke. It made the duchess determined to ignore her. Yet, even after she looked away, the duchess was intrigued…perhaps more than intrigued, for this woman might well add entertainment to her currently uneventful life. There was something odd about the woman too. She seemed to struggle to unfold her napkin and place it in her lap. Apparently, there was something wrong with her left hand.

  The duchess waited until the waiter left and then caught the stranger’s attention. “Forgive me, but I could not help overhearing. You are a Baroness?” It was clear the woman found the intrusion into her privacy annoying, and just as the duchess was about to dismiss any further contact with her, the baroness answered.

  “What dish do you recommend?”

  “I have not eaten here before, but one can never go wrong with filet de boeuf en croute.”

  “I agree.” Finally, the baroness looked the duchess in the eye and smiled. “Would you care to join me, or do you await someone who is perhaps tall and handsome?”

  The duchess returned the woman’s smile. “I am quite grievously alone this evening.” She motioned to the waiter, who promptly came to move her place setting to the next table, and then changed chairs. She was tempted beyond measure to introduce herself as a duchess, but she managed to overcome the temptation. “I am Victoria Ballin, and you are?”

  “I am Baroness Daphne Von Schmid of Austria.”

  The duchess didn’t buy the woman’s accent as truly Austrian, but then, who could tell? To the duchess, the accents of so many of the minor countries in Europe sounded similar. “Austria? Your English is very good for a European.”

  “Thank you,” Baroness Daphne Von Schmid said. “Have we not met before?”

  A look of panic crossed her face and for a moment, the duchess feared the baroness had read the book. “It is doubtful.”

  As soon as the waiter poured it, the baroness took a sip of wine and then nodded her approval. “I did not think so. You are French?”

  “French? Why do you ask that?”

  A tall woman with the exact shade of dark hair the duchess used to have, Daphne slightly smiled. “Your last name, perhaps?”

  “Oh that. My husband’s ancestors were, I suppose. I am from Cleveland.” The duchess once planned to claim she was from San Francisco, and did, until someone asked her about the recent earthquake.

  “Cleveland? I visited Cleveland once and found it a lovely place with many helpful and friendly people.”

  The duchess stared at the cloth on the table for
a moment and considered choosing a different last name, but what for? Did not all American surnames come from the old world? “Will you be staying in Quebec long?”

  “I must, until that ugly misfortune is over in my homeland.”

  “What misfortune is that?”

  “Mrs. Ballin, have you not heard? The unrest in Bosnia, of course. It is in all the papers.”

  “Yes, I believe I have read something about that. Please call me Victoria. Addressing me as Mrs. Ballin reminds me so of my dearly departed husband.” She paused just a moment to display a touch of grief. “Have you family still in Austria?”

  “A brother and sister remain, but many have fled for there are riots in the streets. I know not where my family is just now.”

  “They have not called?”

  “I doubt they know where I am, for no one can be trusted with such information. There are spies and traitors among us.”

  “How very dreadful. Baroness, Von Schmid, what shall you do? Will you remain here until your part of the world calms?”

  “You may call me Daphne,” she answered, “and yes, I intend to stay until it is safe to go home.”

  Instantly irked, the duchess hid her indignation and forced herself to look away. The baroness had just given her permission to call her by her first name, as though the duchess was a mere commoner. She could not remember ever being so insulted. Yet, a commoner was exactly what she was pretending to be, and she best get used to it.

  “Are you unwell,” Daphne asked.

  “I am quite well. I only thought of something I neglected to do, but it is not important. Go on, what were you saying?”

  “You asked if I intended to stay in Quebec.”

  “Yes, I believe I did.”

  “Well, I was to meet an old friend here, but circumstances have changed.”

  “How so?” the duchess pressed.

  “He is in Denver seeing to the mysterious death of Johan Salvator and cannot get away.”

  Denver was the last place the duchess ever wanted to hear about. “Who?”

  “My dear, you truly must pay more attention to the world around you. Louis Von Vetsera was living under the name Johan Salvator, and how he ended up in Denver is a mystery to me. He is accused of all sorts of things, but particularly the murder of his very own sister, Countess Marie Von Vetsera, who was mistress to the prince. Can you imagine killing your own sister and the prince? And now, they cannot find the count’s body, supposedly. They know not which name he is buried under.”

  Insulted a second time by being told to pay attention to the world, the fuming duchess caught but a few words of what Daphne said. “The murder of what prince?”

  “Crown Prince Rudolph, of course. My friend has been sent to identify the remains, if such is possible. Simply everyone has been looking for Salvator, and there is hope their search is finally at an end.”

  The two women stopped talking while the waiter placed plates of beef tenderloin in a heavy wine sauce in front of them. The smell was heavenly and both immediately cut into the pastry wrapped meat, put a bite in their mouths, and took pleasure in the taste.

  At length Daphne asked, “Would you care to see more of Quebec with me tomorrow?”

  “I was thinking of doing some shopping.”

  “Shopping it is, then.”

  For the remainder of their first meal together, the duchess paid little attention to what they were chatting about. She was still annoyed at being thought of as having a lower station in life. If Hannish MacGreagor had not so cruelly cast her down the way he did, Daphne Von Schmid would be enamored to be in her presence. That she was not still a duchess was simply unbearable. And how dare Daphne tell the duchess to study the world more? Was the duchess not already reading each newspaper from cover to cover…although she truly had missed reading anything having to do with the murder of a prince and his mistress. How very odd that was. Of course, she was somewhat out of touch while she was in the lunatic asylum. That must be how she missed it.

  The more the fraudulent baroness talked, the more the duchess decided she was not going to like this woman. For a royal, Daphne was not even decently dressed. She was wearing a red skirt and jacket, with a black hat and a large red feather. Royals rarely wore red in public. That color was reserved for special occasions.

  Even so, she pretended to be engrossed in everything the Baroness had to say. She was, after all, somewhat entertaining. The duchess agreed to meet her the next day, and then went back to her hotel room. If only there was a way to verify Daphne’s station in life, but alas, the duchess knew of no one she could call. She would simply have to figure it out for herself, and perhaps it might be an enjoyable sort of game she could play.

  *

  Lady Roselee Taunton’s hotel accommodations were intentionally middle class, although she could afford much better. Still, the small room with a bathtub that folded down and took up what little room there was in the water closet, suited her purposes well enough. If she was going to pull off this baroness charade, everything had to be just right.

  She took off her coat, laid it over the back of a chair, and then went to the table. She sat down, picked up the telephone, and then placed an international call. While she waited, she unpinned her hat, put it on the table, and then relaxed. The call went through faster than she expected and when he answered, she smiled. “Darling, I have found her at last.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “I would know that face anywhere. We are in Quebec, Canada, and she is going by the name Victoria Ballin.”

  “I see. Well, do what you must and then come home. I miss you terribly.”

  “I miss you too. She has booked passage on a ship that is unfortunately quarantined. I fear we have no choice but to wait.”

  “A ship bound for England?”

  “Aye. It is to dock at Liverpool.”

  “Roselee, you could give up this vendetta and simply come home. I fear what she will do if she discovers who you are.”

  “I do not fear her. It is me she should fear – but not yet. It is not yet time.”

  *

  In the days to come, the new, yet guarded friends, shopped and saw all the best tourist attractions together. They visited the port of Quebec City, where hundreds of wooden and iron barrels filled with paper pulp, waited to be loaded on cargo ships. Other ships carried Canadian furs, gold, copper and silver to various countries throughout the world. On the summit of Cap Diamant, they toured the citadel with its massive cannons pointing across the river at the United States. The duchess particularly enjoyed imagining that one of them was pointed directly at Hannish MacGreagor. How she wanted to share her delight with her new friend, but she refrained.

  Each time they planned an outing, Daphne offered to meet at the duchess’ hotel. The duchess thought nothing of it at first, but later she suspected the baroness was embarrassed, for the grandest hotel in Quebec was also the most expensive. For a baroness to be low on funds might confirm suspicions that she was a fraud. On the other hand, perhaps she left Austria without the necessary funds because she was in a great hurry, just as she said. In the end, it mattered not. It was just a curiosity.

  The thing that amazed the duchess most was the possibility that Daphne actually liked her. She couldn’t remember a time when she had enjoyed the company of a woman…not since the days she shared with Laura Bayington. Of course, those were not always happy times, and if the duchess had any regrets at all, it was that she had apparently lost Laura’s friendship somewhere along the way. Just where, was a mystery, and one she never attempted to solve.

  Daphne was different. She smiled a lot, gossiped about the people they met, and actually made the duchess laugh a time or two. Still, the answer to whether or not Daphne was a true baroness escaped detection. The answer lay, quite naturally, in getting Daphne to talk about her life a little more. Therefore, when they met for dinner the next evening, that was exactly what the duchess intended to do.

  This time when
Daphne had difficulty opening her napkin and spreading it over her lap, the duchess boldly said, “I have been meaning to ask you. What has happened to your hand? You can hardly move it on occasion.”

  The baroness looked down, and then as if embarrassed, put her hand under the table and laid it in her lap. “It is quite a story, and not a very happy one, I fear.”

  “Well, if you would rather not tell it, I…”

  “I do not mind. It is just that I rarely remember the infirmity these days. I was but eleven when it happened. My older brother hung himself.”

  For a moment, her eyes widened, and then the duchess looked away. “I did not mean to remind you of that.”

  “You are very kind to say so. Thank you.”

  “Why did he hang himself?”

  “He fell in love with a girl…a woman, really, who said she loved him too. She married another instead.”

  “How awful, but what has that to do with your hand?” the duchess asked.

  “When I discovered him…hanging from a tree, I tried to get him down. I loosened the rope enough for his body to begin to fall, but my hand got tangled and I did not let go of the rope in time.”

  Horrified, the duchess scrunched up her face. “That must have been very painful.”

  “Indeed it was. I loved my brother very much.”

  The duchess soon recovered her horror, put another bite of meat in her mouth, and then hurried to chew and swallow. She daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I meant hurting your hand must have been painful.”

  “Some wounds heal, others do not.” When the duchess went back to happily eating her meal, Daphne glared at her and then quickly looked away.

  “I loved a man once,” the duchess admitted.

  “Only once?”

  “That I recall. He died too.”

  Daphne motioned for the waiter to bring them more wine. “Was he your husband?”