A few anxious days later, Tilly finally began to relax. Between the cold compresses and Burma’s pan-cake make-up, the bruise on Fliss’ face was barely noticeable. Saul noticed it, of course, but Fliss brushed it off as having tripped and fallen on the stairs. A perfectly feasible excuse, but one Tilly was not sure he believed. There was no gossip around the hotel, no murmurs of anything untoward having taken place. Wealthy and elegant visitors from Boston and New York, from Chicago and San Francisco, from Europe and the Far East, continued to arrive and depart, all delighted with the size and amenities of the magnificent hotel cradled in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.
All seemed routine, and yet she could not shake off the feeling that something unpleasant hovered on her particular horizon. She had not seen or heard Frederic but sensed he would not leave well alone. She tried to put him in the back of her mind and looked forward, instead, to Ryan coming back from his pack trip.
Would she tell him what had happened? She decided not. He would be angry with himself for not being there to protect her, and then angry with her for taking such a risk.
Hindsight is wonderful, she told herself as she cleaned a bathroom. She was sure that, given the same circumstance over again, she would not have wandered out into the night and dangled herself like a dang carrot. She had been too angry to think straight and, but for being farm strong, might have fared far worse.
Finished for the day, she thankfully stowed her service cart and turned in her uniform. As she started down the stairs she heard music, and slowed her steps, listening carefully. She could determine no particular tune and then realized that the violin, piano and cello strains that drifted up to her were not in tune with each other. Continuing down the stairs, she followed the sounds to the foyer where the trio, which played for the dinner hour, were practicing. She listened for a while longer, quietly humming along when she recognized the sets they played.
She listened to the babble of conversation in languages she did not understand from people walking past her and could only guess at their origins. More and more people came through the foyer and she decided she should go. Taking the stairs, she went down one more flight and exited onto the Garden Terrace. She knew she should not be here but could not help but take a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the blooms on the terrace. For a moment she rested against the parapet and looked down along the valley, sighing at the grand sight of the river below her and the soaring mountains beyond.
It gave her a badly needed lift and now, feeling more settled and at peace with herself, she returned to her room to tidy up for the evening. Fliss was waiting for her and Tilly was relieved to see how much better her face looked.
“All thanks to your administrations and Burma’s make-up,” Fliss said. “By the way, did you hear what happened to her?”
Tilly shook her head, her curiosity roused by a glint of indignation in her friend’s eyes.
“She finished up in the swimming pool, gala ball gown and all.”
“Oh, no. Not the strapless, sequinned red gown?”
“That’s the one.” Fliss settled back against the wall as if ready to gossip. “She was overheard arguing with Frederic. He and Jeffrey and those two hangers-on Sylvia Turville and Cecily Waters were having drinks by the pool before dinner. He said she was drunk, and she said two drinks didn’t even make her head swim and if he wanted to see her drunk then she’d show him what drunk was. She called a waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne. She wanted Veuve Clicquot but the waiter told her he could only offer her Dom Perignon or Bollinger. She went off like a rocket about the lack of amenities and what sort of hotel didn’t stock Veuve Clicquot and, before anyone knew it, she was in the pool.”
“Didn’t she know she was so close to the edge?”
“Apparently not.” Fliss shrugged. “Although, it’s being said she was pushed.”
“By the waiter?” Tilly asked.
“Could have been him, could have been Frederic, could have been Sylvia. By all accounts there’s no love lost between those two and no wonder at it. No one knows for sure. Frederic offered her a hand up, but she refused and waded to the ladder where she bunched up all her wet skirts and climbed out of her own accord.”
“Do you see it happen?”
“No, one of the waiters did and told Saul—”
“Who told you,” Tilly finished for her.
Fliss laughed. “Oh, come on, Tilly, that’s the kind of gossip that’s too juicy not to share. Not only that Saul later overheard Frederic telling Jeffrey that he’d slip a five spot to whoever pushed her if he could find out who it was.”
“Poor Burma,” Tilly murmured.
“I know she helped me,” Fliss said, “but I still can’t think of her as anything other than a spoilt rich girl who got what was coming to her. I’ve seen the likes of her many a time, and they all seem to get what they deserve in the end.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t know what she has to put up with.” Despite Burma’s haughtiness, Tilly sensed a deep unhappiness in the girl. How could someone have all the benefits that such wealth could provide and still be unhappy? She made an instant decision. “I know it’s late but I’m going up to see her.”
“She’ll probably throw something at you,” Fliss warned.
“And will get it thrown right back at her if she does. I’ll see you later.”
Tilly hurried to Burma’s room, knocked smartly on the door and was ordered to go away.
“Burma, it’s Tilly. Can I come in?”
She listened carefully as she waited for an answer and heard mutterings and crashes as if Burma stumbled into things. Maybe she was drunk, Tilly thought.
“All right, if you must.” Burma slurred her words as she wrenched the door open. Her hair was still damp from her tumble into the pool. Her mascara had smudged, leaving a black trail on her cheeks and appeared to have difficulty in focusing her vision on Tilly.
Tilly stepped inside and looked around in disgust. “Good Lord, Burma, your room is a disaster.”
Clothes, as usual, cluttered the floor. Magazines were thrown carelessly beside one chair, and onto the seat of another, as if Burma had begun reading in one place then moved to the other. A couple of bottles of wine and another of champagne in a bucket sat on a side table with an empty glass on floor beside it. The red dress lay in a wet heap in the bathroom doorway.
“Pooh.” Burma shrugged and sniffed loudly as she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, spreading the mascara further astray. “Who cares?”
“Well, I do as I have to pick up after you.”
“Poor you.”
“Don’t be so snide.” Tilly picked up the dress, placed it on a hanger and hung it over the bathroom door. “I don’t know if we can do anything about this, but I’ll take it to Laundry anyway.”
She perched on the arm of the sofa and regarded Burma gravely. “Come on, out with it. What happened?”
Burma chewed on a nail and looked as though she would burst into tears. “In a word—Frederic.”
“What about him?” Tilly asked carefully. She could not reveal a word of her own involvement with Frederic and hoped that he had not said anything about it either.
“He and that obnoxious Jeffery are hanging out with Sylvia Turville and Cecily Waters. Those stupid girls think they have snagged a pair of gems. I’m not sure which is the worst of the two, Jeffery or Frederic, but it is so humiliating to have one’s ex-fiancée dangling a new girlfriend on his arm right under my nose.” Burma collapsed on the bed, throwing her forearm across her eyes in a dramatic gesture worthy of a stage performance.
“You know you are better off without him,” Tilly said reasonably. “Why are you making such a fuss? I would have thought you would be relieved?”
“I should be, but I’m not.” Burma sniffed. “It was such a lovely feeling to be actually wanted by someone. I felt so special when I had his ring on my finger.”
“But Burma,” Tilly said softly, “surely it’s better to be wanted by the right person, someone who will love you for who you are rather than what he can get from you?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Burma said mournfully. “And I still have to explain everything to Papa.”
“You still haven’t told him?”
“I’ve tried, I really have.” Burma sat up, piled the pillows in the middle of the bed and reclined on them. “But everything is arranged. Papa’s secretary has liaised with the catering manager here and organized everything for two hundred guests. The invitations have gone out, rooms have been booked for those who are coming. We’ve even received wedding gifts.”
“So what?” Tilly sat on the end of the bed. “If your father’s secretary is so efficient, she can take care of returning those as easily as she sent out your invitations. I’m sure people will understand.”
“I’ll be a laughing stock,” Burma sniffed. “Especially to my bridesmaids who all told me I was acting in too much of a hurry, but I thought Freddy loved me.”
“Maybe they knew something you didn’t,” Tilly said carefully. “Are they here?”
Burma shook her head. “Helen and Ruth are in Italy, Lillian is in France, and my matron of honor, Frances, is in the Bahamas. They’ll all be arriving next week and I just don’t know what I’m going to tell them.”
“The truth, I should think,” Tilly offered. “Frederic turned out to be an absolute cad, so you ditched him. It wouldn’t hurt to tell them the whole truth either. You might find they have more sympathy for you than you think.”
“But how do I deal with Papa? I told you, he really likes Freddy and was so looking forward to taking him into the business. Freddy is the son he never had.”
“Have you actually talked to your father?” Tilly asked, suddenly suspicious that Burma might be avoiding him.
“Once.” Burma punched a pillow. “He said he had something to tell me but it would have to wait until he got here. He didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. Something about wedding rings. I had no idea what he was talking about. Freddy took care of all of that.”
“Burma, I could shake you.” Exasperated, Tilly stood up. “Are you so used to playing the helpless little woman that you really cannot stand up for yourself? You’re pretty and sophisticated, well-educated, and yet you have no back-bone.”
“Who made you my mother?” Burma snapped back. Her mouth puckered into a disapproving pout.
Tilly rolled her eyes. “No one. All I’m saying is that you really should try standing up for yourself a little more. Who knows what may come of it?”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Burma acknowledged ungraciously.
“Well, maybe I am or maybe I’m not. What you do is up to you. Right now I’m going to take this dress to Laundry. Can I do anything else for you?”
Burma shook her head and Tilly left the room and headed for the stairs. She preferred them to the elevator. Half way down the flight she heard music again and thought the Toronto Trio must still be playing. She stopped and cocked her head. It sounded more like a full orchestra than the three musicians she’d listened to earlier. Where was it coming from?
It was a waltz, she was sure of it. She followed the sound, stopping when the music faded, following it when the notes became clear again. Picking up the melody, she hummed in time with it and then stopped, surprised to find herself outside the grand doors of the ballroom.
A chilly draft of air swirled around her neck. She shivered as she opened the door and peeked inside, expecting to find an orchestra practicing its repertoire. Moonlight fell through the tall window panes, filtering between the half-drawn, full-length drapes hanging from the swagged valances. The silvery beams made the shadows darker, yet somehow illuminated the gold accented ceiling and the splendid chandeliers.
Puzzled, Tilly looked around. A grand piano with several rows of chairs placed close to it, sat at the conservatory end of the ballroom. Tall potted palms marked each end of the last row of chairs, but of pianist and audience there was no sign. That someone had been there was evident from the pile of sheet music placed on the bench seat at the keyboard.
She could still hear the music. It was louder now, pulsating in her ears, vibrating in her body. She turned around, thinking that maybe someone had turned on a radio or started playing a record on a gramophone. She was quite alone. The music must simply be in her head, but she knew she had never heard that particular piece before.
Shadows suddenly shifted in the center of the floor and the chill drifted over her, making her shiver again. There was nothing she could see that could have caused it, yet the shadows continued to twirl like fall leaves caught in a capricious breeze. A mist formed before her eyes, swirling out of the shadows and spiralling upwards, becoming more and more solid until she detected a wispy, smiling figure who beckoned to her.
That’s right, Tilly, come in. Come and waltz with me.
The words echoed in Tilly’s brain, resonated through her as clearly as if a living person had spoken to her. A compunction she could not deny drew her into the center of the ballroom.
Details on the bride’s dress emerged, shimmering into view—white silk flowers embroidered onto satin. The bride’s blonde hair was swept into a topknot with loose ringlets framing her smiling face and tiny tendrils curling at the back of her neck. Her white, elbow length gloves covered slender arms. The music swelled and the bride flowed around the floor, leaning back as if held by invisible arms.
Tilly lifted her own arms. The red dress dripped water onto the floor but she took no notice as she picked up the melody and began to hum along. It was intoxicating. She was laughing now as she and the bride spun around and around, faster and faster as the music roared in her ears. Her feet moved in a blur and did not seem to belong to her. Breathless now, she lifted her arms higher, the red dress lifting and falling like a flag in the wind.
The ballroom doors flew open and a loud voice brought her to a sudden stop. Disoriented, she blinked and stumbled. The music had faded. The bride had gone. In her place stood Miss Richards, red-faced and furious.
“McCormack,” she snapped. “What do you think you are doing?”
A flush of embarrassment crawled up Tilly’s neck. “I’m sorry, Miss Richards. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Your behaviour is disgraceful. You have no business being in here.” Her sharp gray eyes focused on the dress in Tilly’s arms. “Whose dress is that?”
“I was taking it to Laundry for Miss Evans.”
“Then you’d better get on with it.” Miss Richards walked past Tilly and surveyed the splattered ring of water on the polished hardwood floor. “I hope for your sake that floor is not ruined. Now get along with you.”
Almost in tears, Tilly made her way to the laundry. She handed the dress in and had assurances that every effort would be made to restore it, but she barely heard a word.
Her head still spun from her giddy waltzing and she felt a little sick. She needed air.
Now.