LILLIAN WAS the toast of Denver. Her first week at the Alcazar Variety Theater was a sellout every night. The Colorado Nightingale was front-page news.
Articles appeared in the Denver Tribune and the Rocky Mountain News. The stories gushed with accolades and adjectives, unanimous agreement that she was a sensation, a singer with the voice of an angel. She was the talk of the town.
The response was overwhelming. Loads of flowers were delivered to her dressing room every night, with notes expressing adulation and all but begging her attention. Every man in Denver was seemingly a rabid admirer and intent on becoming a suitor. She was an object of adoration, the stuff of men’s dreams.
Otis Gaylord was the envy of her many admirers. He managed to monopolize her time and squired her around town at every opportunity. Today, she joined him for lunch in the restaurant at the Brown Palace, and the maître d’ greeted them with the fanfare reserved for the hotel’s resident celebrity. Heads turned as they were led to their table.
Lillian was taken with Gaylord’s urbane manner. He was courteous, thoughtful, and attentive to her every wish. His wit amused her, and if he was not the handsomest man she’d ever known, he was nonetheless the most attractive. So much so that she declined dozens of invitations every night, for she was drawn to him by an emotional affinity she’d never before felt. And apart from all that, he was enormously wealthy.
Gaylord was a mining investor. As he explained it, he owned blocks of stock in several gold mines in Central City, which was located some thirty miles west of Denver. The mining camp was called the richest square mile on earth, and upward of a hundred thousand dollars a week was gouged from the mountainous terrain. A shrewd financier might easily quadruple his investment in a year or less.
For Lillian, Otis Gaylord seemed the answer to a girl’s prayers. Nor was she alone in that sense, for fortune had smiled on Chester as well. Earlier in the week he’d met Ethel Weaver, who kept the books at her father’s store, Weaver’s Mercantile. The girl was cute as a button, and to hear Chester tell it, she was one in a million. He spent every spare moment in her company, and he acted like a man who had fallen hard. He talked of nothing else.
Lillian’s one concern was her father. His spirit seemed broken by the theater crowd’s yawning indifference to Shakespeare and to him as an actor. His drinking had grown worse over the past week, starting in the morning and ending only when he fell into bed at night. His mind was fogged with alcohol, and on two occasions he’d forgotten his lines in the course of the melodrama. His escape into a bottle, just as Lillian had feared, was sapping him mentally and physically. He seemed a shell of his former self.
Gaylord tried to write it off as a momentary lapse. He enjoyed Fontaine’s sardonic wit, and even more, he respected his integrity as an actor. Gaylord counseled Lillian to patience, and today, when she seemed particularly distressed, he assured her that her father, given time, would come to grips with the problem. No more had he offered his assurances than James Clark, the manager of the Brown Palace, interrupted their luncheon. He rushed into the dining room.
“Pardon the intrusion,” he said earnestly. “Miss Fontaine, your father has been injured. Your brother asked that you come immediately to the suite.”
Lillian pushed back her chair. “What kind of injury?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t any details. I saw your brother and several men carry your father in from the street. He asked me to find you.”
Lillian hurried from the restaurant. Gaylord escorted her upstairs, and three men came out of the suite as they arrived. They found Chester nervously pacing around the sitting room. He turned as they entered.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said. “Dad got run over by a lumber wagon. I was on the way to lunch with Ethel and I saw it. He just stepped off the curb into the path of the horses.”
“How bad is he?” Lillian demanded. “Have you sent for a doctor?”
“There was a doctor there. On the street, on his way to lunch, I mean. He and some other men helped me carry Dad back here.”
“The doctor’s here, now?”
“Dr. Macquire.” Chester motioned to the closed bedroom door. “Dad was unconscious when we brought him in. He didn’t look good.”
Lillian sagged and Gaylord put his arm around her shoulders. “Steady now,” he said. “No need to think the worst.”
“Oh, Otis, I feel so terrible. Drinking the way he does, he shouldn’t have been on the street. I should have known better.”
Chester grimaced. “We would have to keep him under lock and key. Or hide the whiskey.”
The bedroom door opened. Dr. Thomas Macquire moved into the sitting room, his features solemn. He nodded to Lillian and Chester. “Your father has the constitution of an ox. Of course, in a way, being drunk was a lucky thing. Drunks can absorb more damage than a sober man.”
Lillian stepped forward. “Are you saying he’ll be all right?”
“There are no broken bones, and so far as I can tell, there’s no internal injuries. I’ll have to keep an eye on him for a few days.”
“Has he regained consciousness?”
“Miss Fontaine, not only is he awake, he asked for a drink.”
Lillian walked to the bedroom. Her father’s features were ashen, a discolored bruise on his jaw and a large knot on his forehead. His eyes were rheumy and his breathing raspy. He looked at her with a forlorn expression.
“ ‘If I must die,’ ” he said in a slurred voice, “ ‘I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.’ Send for a priest, my dear.”
“You aren’t going to die, Papa. Not as long as you can quote Shakespeare.”
“ ‘The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch’! I could quote the Bard from my grave.”
“Dr. Macquire says you’ll live.”
“What do doctors know?” Fontaine said dismissively. “I need a drink and a priest. Would you oblige me, my dear?”
“Try to get some rest,” Lillian said, turning away. “We’ll talk later, Papa.”
She closed the door on her way out.
Lillian carried on the show by herself. She was forced to cancel the melodrama, as well as the Shakespearean act, for the immediate future. Neither could be performed without her father.
Burt Tully was almost deliriously happy. The crowds jamming the Alcazar shared the sentiment to a man. Lillian was now singing five songs a night, and the theater was sold out a week in advance. A cottage industry sprang up with street hustlers hawking tickets for triple the box office price.
Chester, much to Lillian’s surprise, took it all in stride. He told her he was available to resume stage work whenever their father recovered. But he promptly obtained a job as a clerk in Weaver’s Mercantile and seemed content to spend his days in close proximity to Ethel Weaver. His nights were spent in her company as well.
Dr. Macquire, at Fontaine’s insistence, got the clergy involved. The Reverend Titus Hunnicut, pastor of the First Baptist Church, became a regular at Fontaine’s bedside. The actor and the minister sequestered themselves, talking for hours at a time. A male nurse was hired to tend to Fontaine’s physical needs, and Reverend Hunnicut tended to his spiritual needs. Fontaine, to Lillian’s utter shock, stopped drinking.
Three days after the accident, Fontaine was on the mend. Dr. Macquire pronounced his recovery remarkable, for he’d been trampled by the horses and the lumber wagon had passed over his right leg. He was alert and sober, his cheeks glowing with health, and positively reveling in all the attention. Even more remarkable, he’d taken a vow of abstinence, swearing off demon rum forever. He basked in the glory of the Lord.
Lillian returned from rehearsing a new number late that afternoon. Reverend Hunnicut was on his way out and stopped to chat with her for a moment. A slight man, with oily hair and an unctuous manner, he seemed forever on the pulpit. He nodded as though angels were whispering in his ear.
“Praise the Lord,” he said in a sepulchral voice. “Your father has been delivered from the damnation of hell’s fires. He is truly blessed.”
“How wonderful,” Lillian demurred. “Thank you for all your concern, Reverend.”
“I am but a humble servant of Christ, Miss Fontaine. God’s will be done!”
“Yes, of course.”
Lillian showed him to the door. The male nurse, who was seated on the divan reading a newspaper, started to his feet. She waved him down with a smile and proceeded on into the bedroom. Her father was propped up against a bank of pillows.
“Hello, Papa,” she said, bussing him on the cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Quite well.” Fontaine studied her with an eager look. “I have something to tell you, my dear. Reverend Hunnicut convinced me it was time.”
“Oh?”
“The day the wagon ran over me—actually it was that evening—God spoke to me in the moment of my death.”
“You weren’t dying, Papa. And since when have you become so devout?”
“ ‘Ye of little faith,’ ” Fontaine chided her. “ ‘They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles.’ ” He paused, holding her gaze. “I have been spared death for a greater mission in life.”
“A greater mission?”
“Yes indeed, my dear. I shall carry the word of our Lord to the infidels in the mining camps. Their immortal souls are but a step away from perdition.”
Lillian was never more stunned in her life. “Are you serious, Papa?”
“I most certainly am.”
“What about the stage?”
“All the world’s a stage.” Fontaine’s eyes burned with a fervent light. “I shall be an actor for our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Really?” Lillian said dubiously. “You intend to give up Shakespeare to become a preacher?”
“ ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’ That comes from Ecclesiastes, not Shakespeare.”
“Yes, but how can you forsake the stage?”
“On the contrary, the stage has forsaken me. I go now to spread the word of Him who so oft inspired the Bard.”
“Are you certain about this, Papa?”
“I have been called,” Fontaine said with conviction. “The Gospel will light my way.”
Lillian returned to the sitting room in a daze. The male nurse rose from the divan and went past her into the bedroom. As she sat down, the door opened and Chester entered the suite. She gave him a look of baffled consternation.
“Papa has decided to become a preacher.”
“I know,” Chester said, crossing to the divan. “He’s been working himself up to telling you. I found out last night.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” Lillian was astounded. “Do you think he’s lost his mind? I have to talk to the doctor.”
“Think about it a minute and you’ll understand. What he lost was his faith in himself as a Shakespearean. He’s adopted a new role in life—a man of God.”
“Oh, Chet, how can you say that? He’s an actor, not a preacher.”
“As the Bard said,” Chester quoted, “ ‘one man in his time plays many parts.’ I’m taking on a new part myself.”
“You?” Lillian said. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve decided to quit the stage.”
“I don’t believe it!”
Chester sat down beside her. “You know yourself I was never much of an actor. I stayed with it because it was sort of the family tradition. I think it’s time to move on.”
Lillian’s head was reeling. “Move on to what?”
“I really believe I was cut out to be a merchant. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy working in the store. Ethel’s father says I have a head for business.”
“For business or for Ethel?”
“Well, her, too,” Chester said with a goofy smile. “But the point is, what with the act breaking up, I have no future on the stage. Time to make a new career for myself.”
“I’m speechless.” Lillian felt dizzy and somehow saddened. “Papa a preacher and you a merchant. Where will it end?”
“As for Dad and myself, who’s to say? You’re the only sure bet in the family.”
“I’d so much rather have you and Papa onstage with me.”
“You don’t need us where you’re going, little sister. You never did.”
Lillian snuggled close in his arms, her head on his shoulder. A tear ran down her cheek and she wondered how they’d come so far to have it end this way. So abruptly, so unforeseen. So final.
The end of The Fontaines.
* * *
My wild Irish Rose
The sweetest flower that grows
You may search everywhere
But none can compare
With my wild Irish Rose
Lillian’s voice was particularly poignant that night. She was thinking not of the lyrics but of her father and Chester. Her eyes shone with tears, and the emotion she felt inside gave the song a haunting quality. She got hold of herself for the last refrain.
My wild Irish Rose
The dearest flower that grows
And someday for my sake
She may let me take
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose
A momentary lull held the audience in thrall as the last note faded away. Then the house rocked with applause, men swiping at their noses, their eyes moist with memories evoked by her performance. The noise quickened, went on unabated, the crowd on their feet, bellowing their approval. She left them wanting more with a fifth curtain call.
Some while later Otis Gaylord met her at the stage-door entrance. She was dressed in a gossamer satin gown, a fashionable Eton jacket thrown over her shoulders, her hair pulled back in a lustrous chignon. A carriage took them to Delmonico’s, one of the finer restaurants in Denver. The owner personally escorted them to their table.
“That was some performance,” Gaylord said when they were seated. “You had the boys crying in their beer.”
“I feel like crying myself.”
“What’s wrong?”
Lillian told him about her afternoon. Gaylord was no less amazed to hear that her father was to become a preacher. The news of her brother was no great surprise, for he’d always felt Chester was the least talented of the family. She ended on a rueful note.
“Nothing will ever be the same again. We’ve been an act since I was a little girl.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame,” Gaylord agreed. “Of course, maybe it’s the best thing for Alistair, and Chester, too. You have to look on the bright side.”
“What bright side?” Lillian said. “We’ll be separated now.”
“Only on the stage. Sounds to me like Alistair and Chester will be doing something that makes them lots happier. Think of it that way.”
The waiter appeared with menus. Lillian thought about Gaylord’s advice, and after they ordered, she looked at him. Her eyes crinkled with a smile.
“I was being selfish,” she said. “If they’re happy, why should I be sad? Isn’t that what you meant?”
Gaylord chuckled. “I think I put it a little more tactfully. But yeah, that’s the general idea.”
“Well, you were right, and I feel like a ninny I didn’t see it for myself. No more tears.”
“Maybe this will cheer you up even more.”
Gaylord took a small box from his pocket. He set it before her on the table, his expression unreadable, and eased back in his chair. She opened it and saw a gold heart-shaped locket bordered with tiny diamonds, strung on a delicate chain. Her mouth ovaled with surprise.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” she said merrily. “No one ever gave me anything so nice!”
“We’ll have to correct that,” Gaylord said. “Lots of pretty presents for a pretty lady. I like it when you laugh.”
Lillian batted her eyelashes. “Are you trying to ply me with favors, Mr. Gaylord?”
“I’ll ply you any way I can, Miss Fontaine. I intend to be the object of your affections.”
“Do you?”
“No question about it.”
“Well …” She gave him a sultry look. “We’ll see.”
Gaylord ordered champagne. Lillian strung the locket around her neck, aware that he was watching her. She wondered if tonight was the beginning of what would lead to a proposal. She certainly wasn’t going to surrender herself without a wedding band on her finger. But then, on second thought, she wasn’t at all sure that love and marriage were the same thing. She felt awfully old to still be a virgin. Too old.
The waiter poured champagne, then moved away. Gaylord lifted his glass, staring at her over the rim. “To us,” he said in a seductive voice. “And the future.”
Lillian laughed vivaciously. “Yes, to the future.”