Читать книгу Duchess For A Day - Nan Ryan, Nan Ryan - Страница 10

At straight-up noon the handsome, thirty-two-year-old Hank Cassidy stepped onto his private rail car—alone—for the journey across the country. The muscular, rough-around-the-edges, hardworking Westerner who had made tens of millions in the mines was better known as Nevada’s young Silver King.

Hank looked the part of royalty on this sunny summer day. With his smoothly shaven face bronzed by the Nevada sun and wind and glowing with good health, his midnight hair slightly damp from his bath, Hank was impeccably dressed in buff-colored custom-tailored trousers and sky-blue linen shirt. He had the self-assured manner and sleek, self-satisfied appearance of a man who had been born to the purple.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Hank Cassidy came from modest means. He never knew his mother. She died giving birth to him. When he was seventeen his quiet, frugal father, a lifelong miner who rarely talked or smiled, was killed in an explosion deep underground. To Hank’s surprise, his undemonstrative father had managed to save a small sum of money and left it to his only son.

Hank had invested every cent of his meager inheritance in what everyone told him was a worthless hole in the mountain. He hadn’t listened. He’d bought the long-boarded-up quarry from an old miner who was a pallbearer at his father’s funeral.

Hank christened his mine the Black Cat and immediately went to work. He spent years laboring deep in the darkness, searching for buried veins, patiently coaxing the precious metal out of stubborn solid rock. The mine hardly yielded enough silver to pay his hands.

Hank didn’t give up.

Four long years after his first day in the Black Cat, Hank and his employees hit the mother lode. Overnight, young Hank Cassidy was a millionaire. He bought more mines. He made more millions. He continued to work alongside his men, sweating and straining and toiling and, as he worked, filling the cavern with the sound of his rich laughter. He encouraged the miners to joke around and make play out of work as much as possible.

His men loved him.

Hank paid his workers far above the average wage and supported their widows when things went wrong below.

Soon every miner within hundreds of miles had heard of Hank Cassidy and all wanted to work for the young, likable Silver King.

Hank’s mining empire grew and finally he came up out of the darkness into the daylight to enjoy his riches. He had a huge three-story mansion built on the bluffs above Virginia City. He purchased, sight unseen and fully staffed, a stately home on New York City’s Fifth Avenue. He ordered a private rail car from the Pullman company. He commissioned the building of a yacht to be harbored in San Francisco with a full crew at the ready for whenever he felt like a cruise.

A generous man, he also lavished expensive gifts on his trusted employees. Especially on their delighted wives. Hank liked to say that they were the only wives to whom he would be giving presents. He had no plans to ever have one of his own.

No one doubted he meant it. Everyone who knew the handsome, footloose, cavalier Silver King agreed that marriage was not in Cassidy’s cards, to the disappointment of many a young lady.

A lover of fast horses, Hank was leaving today for Saratoga Springs where he would spend the summer racing season. Prized Thoroughbreds from his Kentucky farm were being shipped to Saratoga to compete at the historic old track.

The blooded horses would be transported in special rail cars, escorted by Hank’s loyal friend and winning horse trainer, Fox Connor.

Once Hank reached Saratoga, he would spend the warm, pleasant days watching his Thoroughbreds go up against some stiff competition. And the cool, mountain nights dining and dancing and taking strolls with the fairest of the Eastern beauties.

Life was good indeed for the Nevada Silver King.

Now as Hank settled comfortably in a big easy chair in the plush private rail car, he felt the vibration of the wheels beginning to turn on the tracks, heard the engine’s whistle sound a loud warning blast.

Hank smiled, took a Cuban cigar from a nearby humidor and sniffed its fragrance, nodding his dark head in approval. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, clamping it firmly between his even white teeth, then lifted his feet up onto an ottoman. He reached for a match, struck it and lighted his expensive cigar. He dropped the smoking match into a crystal ashtray and took a long, slow pull.

Hank exhaled with pleasure, blowing the smoke out as he turned his head and glanced out the window. The train was slowly moving now, leaving the station where dozens of well-wishers had gathered to bid him goodbye. A half-dozen pretty women had surged forward to hug him and whisper, “You’ll miss me, Hank. You’ll be lonely way off over there in Saratoga.” His answer to each had been noncommittal—a gentle squeeze, a nod of the head, and no promises.

Hank Cassidy knew he wouldn’t be lonely.

The summertime population of the Springs swelled with all sorts of diverse and interesting people. Millionaires, gamblers, respectable family folk, politicians and famous actors and actresses could always be found at the upstate resort. Saratoga Springs was a favorite gathering spot for wealthy men and beautiful women. The cream of Eastern society would be in residence for the season.

Engraved invitations to the many private dinners and parties would be collecting in a silver bowl there in the foyer of his reserved hotel accommodations. The upper crust had warmly accepted him since his first visit to the Springs. Especially the ladies. And he had learned, on his very first visit to Saratoga, that some of those elegant, expensively gowned ladies were not ladies at all once those gowns came off.

Claire Orwell experienced a tingling excitement when the locomotive began to slow as the train chugged closer to the depot at Saratoga Springs, New York.

The weariness of the long ocean voyage and the anxiety of the switch from ship to train in bustling New York City had miraculously disappeared.

She was no longer exhausted, but instead filled with a great surge of energy. And, she felt optimistic and hopeful in a way she had not felt since she was a young girl with her whole life ahead of her.

Her sense of excitement escalated when the train screeched to a stop. “Olivia—” she gently shook her companion “—wake up. We’re here! We’re at Saratoga.”

Olivia sat up, yawned, grabbed her silver-headed cane, then reached for the new hat she’d bought back in London. She clamped it on her head. “How do I look?”

Claire reached up and straightened the fashionable straw hat, pulling the brim forward a little, then carefully smoothing a wispy lock of gray hair back from Olivia’s face. “Like an elegant, well-bred lady,” Claire said with a conspiratorial smile.

Olivia’s eyes sparkled.

Both women were smiling when they stepped down from the train onto the platform outside the passenger depot. A building befitting a resort favored by the fashionable set, the little depot was of red brick with elaborate iron trimmings.

Claire took a deep breath, grabbed Olivia’s hand and hurried toward the depot door.

Hank Cassidy stepped down from his private rail car at the train’s rear. He caught a fleeting glance of pale blond hair, gleaming golden in the sunlight. That golden head abruptly turned and Hank saw her face. He smiled foolishly, admiring her. He started to call out, stopped himself, but anxiously stepped down and started toward her.

But the platform was crowded with arriving passengers and friends and family who had come to welcome the travelers. He quickly lost sight of the golden-haired beauty.

Hank uttered an oath under his breath, feeling a sense of loss, then immediately laughed at himself for his foolishness. No need to hurry after her. Obviously, she would be staying at the Springs for the season. They were sure to cross paths at some point in time.

Claire, with Olivia in tow, was swept along with the crowd into the depot with its muted interior of black walnut. The two women fought their way through the crush of travelers and out the depot’s side doors.

Directly in front of the station was an open square adorned with splashing fountains and trees. And parked near the redbrick depot were landaus and phaetons and barouches. Hotel porters shouted and an omnibus driver was calling for passengers desiring transportation.

Claire stepped forward, raised a gloved hand, and called out to a hack driver. Minutes later she and Olivia were driven directly to the long-shuttered estate of Britain’s merry widow, the Duchess of Beaumont.

The impressive estate was secluded on a heavily timbered rise of land a quarter of a mile east of Saratoga. Claire and Olivia exchanged glances of awe when the carriage rolled up before the white stone mansion rising from the leafy forest and surrounded by landscaped gardens.

“I understand only a caretaker lives here full-time,” Claire said, alighting from the carriage, gazing at the mansion’s many windows, all of which had the shades securely drawn. “I imagine we have our work cut out for us.”

“We can handle it,” assured Olivia.

The hack driver left them standing outside the mansion, valises at their feet.

“Shall we go inside and find out what must be done?” asked Claire.

“After you,” said Olivia and lifted her valise.

Midway up the front walk, both abruptly stopped when the aged caretaker came out of the mansion’s front door. Thin, stooped, he looked as if a puff of wind would blow him down. And he was, they quickly learned, half blind and hard of hearing.

Blinking in the dappled sunlight and easing himself down the mansion’s veranda steps, he grimaced as though every bone in his body was aching.

“You must be Walker,” Claire said, smiling, and hurried to him, her hand thrust out.

The thirty-three-year-old Duchess of Beaumont had not been to Saratoga in years. And, like Claire, she was a tall, slender woman with pale golden hair. Squinting, the nearsighted caretaker saw Claire’s light hair and mistook her for the duchess.

“Your Grace,” he said and attempted a creaking bow.

“No, no, Walker. You see, the duchess has not yet—”

“Eh, Your Grace?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear. “Speak up, please.”

Claire gave Olivia a helpless look. Olivia stepped forward. Raising her voice, she attempted to set the old man straight. “Walker, the Duchess of Beaumont will not be arriving until later in the month. This is Claire Orwell and I am Olivia Sutton. The duchess sent us on ahead to—”

Hearing only a word here and there of what Olivia was saying, the caretaker listened, frowning as if in pain, and before she had finished speaking, he interrupted.

“Come along, Your Grace, you must get in out of the harsh sunlight lest you blister.”

Claire tried again, “No, Walker, you’ve misunderstood, I’m not the duchess. My friend, Olivia Sutton, and I have come to ready the house for…” She patiently explained that she and Olivia had been sent ahead to open and staff the house for the duchess’s impending arrival.

When finally she concluded, Claire gave him an expectant look, hopeful that he had understood.

He smiled, nodded, and said, “How many years since you were here last, Your Grace? Five? Ten?”

Claire started to speak, but Olivia touched her arm and stopped her. “Let it go for now,” she said, shrugging. “We’ll clear it up later.” To the old man she shouted, “Thank you, Walker. We can manage from here. You’re dismissed. Go take a nap. A nice, long nap.” She gave her cane to Claire, raised her hands, folded them against her cheek and closed her eyes for a second.

When she opened her eyes the old man turned to Claire, half bowed once again, and said, “If you need me, Your Grace, I’ll be in my quarters out back.”