Auraria: A Novel (37 page)

Holtzclaw had changed from his potato-smeared suit and tie into evening clothes—tails and white gloves. All the men were attired similarly, even Shadburn. A tailor and advisor had spent all afternoon with him, selecting everything from shoe polish to hair cream to cufflinks. The outfit nearly fit him when they all had sat down, but now, not ten minutes into the meal, Holtzclaw could see that the cuffs were fraying, and one button had come loose. Shadburn had been rubbing his wrists together in a habit of discomfort.

A waiter brought a magnum bottle of claret to Shadburn’s side. He presented the label to Shadburn, who barely looked at it before nodding his assent. This was only meaningless ritual to him. The bottle was uncorked and a small portion poured for Shadburn, per ritual.

“Very good,” said Shadburn. “An excellent year.”

The employee poured the bottle around the table—a glass each for the railroad baroness, the actual baroness, the corundum miner, the ovine man, Shadburn, Holtzclaw, and the newspaper magnate.

Holtzclaw knew the claret was corked before it touched his lips. The odor was unmistakable. But the baronesses had already downed several mouthfuls; Shadburn was halfway through his glass; the ovine man gargled his beverage between his mutton chops. Holtzclaw set his glass down.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Holtzclaw?” asked the actual baroness.

“Not at all, Your Ladyship. Simply no taste for it this evening, I’m afraid.”

“No taste for it?” said Shadburn, grinning too widely. “I didn’t think it was possible. Drink up! It’s excellent for the constitution, just as good as the mineral waters, if consumed in proper proportions. Isn’t that right, Holtzclaw?”

Holtzclaw choked through a sip, which was enough to satisfy the curiosity of the table.

The many-armed epergne, holding an assortment of olives, morsels of celery, an India relish, and burgherkins, was cleared away. In its place was laid a plate containing a filet of baked red snappe
r
au grati
n
. Shadburn ate with unusual restraint, taking only as much as the baronesses. Holtzclaw left half his portion. The fish tasted too much like the miles it had traveled.

Next was presented a roasted lamb and mint sauce, accompanied by boiled potatoes and creamed okra. The creamed okra was a noxious slime, despite Abigail’s best efforts. Holtzclaw could not bring himself to eat the boiled potatoes; he saw faces in them. He turned the plate so that the line of lamb bones would serve as a defensive palisade should the potatoes decide to rise up again. Shadburn and the baronesses and the ovine man ate with gusto, but the corundum miner picked at her food. She too had turned her potatoes away.

Next came the lobster. It could not provide enough flesh for all the hungry diners, so Abigail had stretched it into a consommé. Holtzclaw avoided the broth and nibbled instead on pieces of mountain trout that were served on a tray of smoked seafood.

A platter of cold meats passed from hand to hand—veal, beef, bologna, duck, and something pickled that had lost all taste but brine. This was followed by a chicken salad. The greens were still cold from their voyage in a refrigerated car.

Dessert arrived. Gooseberry pie, compote of pineapple, preserved ginger, and steamed plum pudding with a hard sauce. Holtzclaw had hoped for peaches, but evidently, they had all gone into the homebrew.

When all had been cleared away, the party received coffee and tea cakes. The square confections, no bigger than a thumbnail, were covered in white icing and topped with a blueberry.

“It was a splendid meal, Mr. Shadburn,” said the actual baroness, lifting her glass and voice, “and in fine company. We have commemorated the Day of the Fallen Star in high fashion and with food as elegant as you would see at Saratoga.” A general sound of approval circled the table. “I must say, sir, that given your upbringing, I supposed that you would be a rather rustic figure.”

“What Her Ladyship means is, we had heard you were rich,” said the railroad baroness, “but you didn’t seem rich.”

“We thought you were only a codfish aristocrat,” said the actual baroness.

“Then you put out a banquet such as this,” continued the railroad baroness, “and your cufflinks are splendid, and one cannot doubt that you are a gentleman.”

Through an evident force of will, Shadburn bowed his head and smiled. “I have a very comfortable living, and I am pleased to share that comfort with you, my guests, and with the town where I was raised.” A longer exposure to high society would have taught Shadburn to tuck his emotions behind his cummerbund, but Shadburn was only recently respectable. Under the circumstances, Holtzclaw thought he did well enough. The pained expression on Shadburn’s face was twisted just enough that one could take it for indigestion.

“I suppose it would be easy enough to be rich here,” said the corundum miner. “There were gold mines, weren’t there?”

The baronesses lifted their eyes in wonder at the very word: gold. Even the ovine man was stirred to an emotional reaction—he put down his tea cake in mid-bite.

“It was, in fact, very difficult to be rich,” said Shadburn. “The story of gold here is complicated, and that is why we are trying to expunge that reputation. We don’t put it on our advertisements.”

“Why ever not?” said the actual baroness. “You see how a man’s eyes glitter at the very mention.”

“It’s an era of the valley’s history that has passed,” said Shadburn. “But you must consider this money talk impolite. Not respectable.”

“On the contrary,” said the railroad baroness. “I find it the most pleasing and fascinating of subjects.

“Were there any big strikes?” said the actual baroness. “Great fortunes? Did some peasant find a nugget the size of a potato and buy an estate? Did a stranger leave a heap of gold dust to repay some kindness? Oh! Was anyone murdered?”

“What a question, Your Ladyship!” said the railroad baroness. “Of course people were murdered. Where there is gold, blood runs through the streets like rainwater! You should have asked how many people were murdered and which murders are still talked about in the saloons.”

The actual baroness continued. “I heard that in the California rush, a man blew up his own brother with black powder as he slept, for fear that he would divulge the secret of a mine they’d found together. Did any of that happen here?”

“I don’t think so,” said Shadburn.

“Pity,” said the actual baroness. She poured cream and sugar into her coffee until it looked like dirty snow. She quaffed it in gulps, leaving a line of cream on her upper lip.

“How about double-dealings?” said the railroad baroness. “Shady sales? A man who tunneled under his neighbor’s claim and mined away all the good minerals, undetected? Bawdy houses? Rough saloons? Gunslingers and their women? Betrayals? Explosions?”

“There’s little to tell,” said Shadburn. “There is only disappointment, jealousy, and waste.”

The actual baroness crossed her arms. “Were you cheated out of a land claim, Mr. Shadburn? Tricked into buying a salted mine? How did the gold business disappoint you?”

“I have made my money in land development,” said Shadburn. Holtzclaw thought that, if gold and money were two separate things, then this statement was not a lie. “I have always been in land development, which is an enterprise that rewards hard work, determination, pluck, and talent.”

“No, it’s sitting on land and hoping the railroad comes through,” said the corundum miner.

“You are describing land speculation, ma’am. Land development is a systematic process, a science, the goal of which is to call a higher and better use from the earth. Take, for example, this hotel. Would you credit, ladies and gentlemen, that this dining hall sits on land that was once a farmer’s field? What did Moss grow here, Holtzclaw?”

“Ice,” said Holtzclaw, thinking of the cold winds blowing from the neglected springhouse door. “Under the ice, sweet potatoes, I think.”

“See?” said Shadburn. “A pasture of frozen sweet potatoes has become a formal dining room.”

“To what end, Mr. Shadburn?” said the corundum miner.

“Why, to so many ends that I could not list them all! For the edification and uplift of the people of the valley—to show them with money what money can bring. To give them a better employment than to scratch in the dirt for some shiny metal that they may never find.”

“Now we have wandered away from money into less interesting topics,” said the railroad baroness. “Altruism—what’s more tiresome than harping on all the good you’ve done? Let’s talk of something else. What is next for the Queen of the Mountains?”

“You should have a gala,” said the railroad baroness. “That is the pinnacle of the social calendar.”

“Oh, a gala!” said the actual baroness. “That would be so grand. A party like this is the perfect practice exercise, but you are capable of much more. Have an orchestra; let us dance the figures. Set it for the end of the season. I have the perfect dress for it.”

“I will summon my circles,” said the railroad baroness. “They will all come, if I can promise a great enough spectacle. There are parties every day, you see, but galas promise more wonder.”

“What do you think, Holtzclaw?” said Shadburn. “Could we arrange such an event, if our baronesses request it? What could stop us?”

The tablecloth billowed at the far end of a table. Holtzclaw startled, but it was only the passing breeze of a debutante, made by the sweep of her spangled gown and the vacuum of her male companions standing for her.

“Nothing, Shadburn,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

#

It was not long before Holtzclaw’s meager meal at the banquet had worn away, and his stomach grumbled. He left his tabulations, put on his shoes, and descended from his room to the kitchen. Before he reached it, he saw that the lights in the New Rock Falls were still aglow.

Shadburn sat at a table, bent over a heap of food. Mr. Bad Thing plinked out a popular melody from one of the follies.

“Ms. Thompson saved a plate for me,” said Shadburn.

“Does she have any more?”

“There’s more here than I can finish, Holtzclaw. Find yourself a fork.”

Holtzclaw retrieved one and checked under the counter for claret. There was a bottle of a serviceable maker and year. Shadburn shook his head, declining a glass. Holtzclaw took a pull from the neck of the bottle.

“Ramps and eggs and bacon,” he said, tucking in to Shadburn’s plate. “You didn’t ask Abigail for hash browns with wild mushrooms?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother, Holtzclaw. The ramps were already prepared. They are quite good, aren’t they? We should have them at this gala.”

“I think they might be too pungent for our rarefied clientele.”

“They eat cheeses that would stir the dead.”

“Yes, but they have a tradition of eating such foods, and for them, ramps would be a novelty.”

“Hmm,” mused Shadburn.

“Perhaps we could start with having more sweet potatoes in the grand dining room. They are far more filling than the usual fare.”

“And then Mr. Bad Thing could play the piano for them? How would that be seen in the upper circles of society?”

“They’d think it a wonder, I believe.”

“They’d want to know how many people he murdered. How many gold mines he robbed.”

Holtzclaw and Shadburn found themselves both angling their forks for the same butter-plumped mushroom. With tiny motions, they simultaneously conceded it to the other. Finally Holtzclaw stabbed the mushroom and ate it.

“You cut a fairly convincing character this evening,” said Holtzclaw, “with your cufflinks and your air of charity and wealth. With more practice, you will be impeccable.”

“It’s a strain, Holtzclaw. Not what I had expected. It isn’t the sort of work that agrees with me, nor the sort of food.” Holtzclaw saw the weariness in Shadburn’s posture. His shoulders slumped over his hash browns. His awkward frame, too tall for the furniture, was not at ease. Shadburn was uncomfortable even in his own creation.

“Do you think you can last through a gala then?” said Holtzclaw. “There are other options for attracting attention, getting tourists. We could style the Queen of the Mountains as the premier place to find a suitable spouse, for yourself or for your undesirable children. There are lonely hearts, even among the rich. Or we could open a gold mine. Not a real one; as you’ve said, that’s impossible. We could bury some flakes, here and there, and little nuggets too, and the tourists might think it a lark.”

Shadburn put down his fork. He had lost his appetite. “I think, of those options, a gala sounds best. A grand one, a spectacular one. It is what those baronesses want; it’s their will that should guide us, since they are our guests. And it would seem the easiest for us to realize. It would take only money.”

Holtzclaw brought out a pen and paper. “Who should be the entertainment?”

Shadburn held up a hand. “Tomorrow, Holtzclaw. For now, let this codfish aristocrat eat in peace.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

At daybreak, Cannie intercepted Holtzclaw in the hallway. There was a crisis in the kitchen: the door to the refrigerated storeroom had been left open overnight. Holtzclaw followed her to the kitchen, and as he entered, he was blasted with a blizzard wind. Fires were blown out. Lobster broth became an unappetizing sorbet. Chilled salads turned into ice shards.