Dear Reader
Denver, Colorado
May 1883
“I tell you, Percy, my uncle’s American enterprise will be a disaster. Look at these ragtag masses.” Garrick Wakefield waved a dismissive hand toward the crowds milling about the Denver train station. His gesture stirred up the stench of burning coal and unwashed bodies. “It’s far worse than I expected.”
Most travelers on the platform beneath them were clearly lower class. Unkempt children dashed about with no parental restraint. Cowboys—he shuddered at the term—wore guns strapped to their dusty, wrinkled trousers. Beggars sat against the depot’s brick walls, their hands lifted in supplication to all passersby. In grating American accents, hawkers advertised their wares. How Garrick longed for a pastoral English countryside.
“Tut, tut, old man. It’s not so bad.” Percy, ever the optimist, could afford to overlook the chaos. A cousin from Garrick’s mother’s family, with an unentailed inheritance to spend as he wished, Percy didn’t face a future dependent upon another man’s whimsy. “I find this country delightful.”
“Indeed? How so?” Garrick spied a mother on the lower platform struggling with tattered baggage and several children. Compassion welled up inside him. Where was the woman’s husband? If he could get through the tangled crowd, he’d offer to help. Why didn’t one of those cowboys or another closer man lend a hand? Their neglect validated Garrick’s disdain for the lot of them. If she came closer, he’d step down and offer assistance.
“Look at the beautiful scenery.” Percy indicated the mountains to the west. “Every bit as majestic as the Scottish Highlands, what?” His eyes brightened. “Can you not feel the call to climb them?”
“I’ll grant you that. But remember the endless rivers and plains we crossed to get here.” At least they’d traveled by train, not in oxen-drawn covered wagons such as those they’d passed along the way. “Too much wasteland.”
A conductor called “All aboard,” and the crowd moved toward the train’s open doors, where uniformed porters assisted passengers up the steps. A quick glance down the length of the platform assured Garrick that his and Percy’s valets were seeing to their trunks.
“These Americans have no manners, no refinement. If Uncle could see them, he’d change his mind about this business venture.” After a lifetime of prejudice against all things American, Lord Westbourne had met one single gentleman rancher and revised his opinion of the entire country. He’d sent Garrick to build a hotel, not in Boston or New York or even this growing city of Denver, but in some village in southern Colorado, barely a smudge on the map.
“Come now. Not all Americans are the same.” Percy elbowed Garrick and nodded toward two ladies rising from their seats on the lower platform.
After taking a few steps, the stylishly dressed young misses turned to glance toward Garrick and Percy before moving toward the train. Something struck Garrick’s midsection, and he looked down to see if Percy had hit him. No, the shock was entirely internal and caused by the exquisite girl in the lavender traveling suit and matching hat. Her stunningly beautiful countenance bespoke an English heritage: a porcelain complexion framed by shiny dark brown hair upswept in an attractive coiffure. Her elegant posture and carriage suggested she might very well be used to gracing London’s finest drawing rooms. If propriety didn’t prohibit his addressing her, he’d step forward straightaway and introduce himself.
“Did you see her?” Percy sounded breathless. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful lady? Why, a man could be tempted to propose on the spot based upon her looks alone.”
Garrick huffed out a sigh. Of course Percy was joking, but with fortune enough to last beyond a lifetime, he could well afford to consider marriage. Conversely, Garrick had lost all such expectations at the age of nineteen when his childless widowed uncle had remarried. His young bride had borne him three healthy sons in his old age. Yet hadn’t Garrick himself encouraged Uncle to remarry in his loneliness? That was as it should be.
However, at the age of twenty-five, instead of anticipating an inheritance of title, wealth and lands, Garrick had been forced to revise his expectations and work for his living. He wouldn’t mind so much if he didn’t also have to provide for Helena’s dowry. His younger sister must make a good match even if Garrick never could.
“Yes, she’s quite lovely.” A melancholy twinge stung inside his chest. Though it would be ill-advised, Percy could pursue the young beauty if he liked. Garrick could only admire her from afar. Or he could redirect his cousin’s attention. “Her companion is rather pleasant looking. Perhaps her ginger hair denotes an Irish heritage.”
“It’s the redhead I admire, cousin.” Percy laughed in his merry way. “As it appears we’ll be on the same train, it’s a shame we’ve no one to introduce us. What a jolly chat we could have with them as we travel.”
Profound relief flooded Garrick’s chest. Which was ridiculous, of course. Even though they fancied different girls, as Percy said, they had no proper way to meet them. Nor would it be wise to do so.
A piercing whistle cut short his thoughts as a westbound train approached on the second track. Garrick glanced toward it and saw a small child, one belonging to the harried young mother, toddle after a red ball between the tracks. Did no one closer see? Driven by horror, Garrick plunged down the steps and through the crowd, using his walking cane to move people aside. Others now saw the danger and cried out.
Garrick dashed onto the track and snatched the child back moments before the great black engine chugged into the station, steam blasting from its undercarriage. He restored the toddler to his hysterical mother. Beside her, a teary-eyed lad of perhaps fourteen years held a small girl.
“Thank you, sir. I didn’t see Jack wander off.” He stuck out a grimy hand. “I’m Adam Starling.”
“How do you do, Adam?” Moved more than he cared to admit, Garrick shook the lad’s hand. Clearly he endeavored to be the man of the family. Garrick knew very well the problems faced by an eldest son. As others congratulated him, he brushed past them. His train would depart momentarily, and he must drag Percy from his stupor induced by watching the scene. Poor chap. He always hesitated in times of crisis. Perhaps on this trip he’d learn to be a bit more aggressive.
“We should board.” Garrick nudged his cousin’s arm.
“I say, old man, brilliantly done.” Percy walked beside him toward the first-class coach. “Nothing short of heroic.”
“Nonsense.” Garrick hated such praise. If he were a true hero, he’d have saved another Jack five years ago. The hapless village boy had sunk beneath the black surface of Uncle’s lake before Garrick could reach him. His lifeless body was found in a marsh days later and returned to his widowed mother. If only Garrick could have reached him.
Remorse wouldn’t restore life to that Jack, but it did spur him to help the less fortunate whenever possible. Besides, if he craved admiration for today’s actions, it was from the beautiful young lady in lavender, who’d boarded the train before he even noticed the child’s dire circumstances.
