Chapter Five

Arriving in Comstock

First Stop… the Comstock Grand Hotel

Sunday, August 9, 1895

Adela accepted the driver's hand and stepped down from the coach and onto the sidewalk directly in front of the hotel. Far larger than she expected, what she could see of the interior looked to be well appointed.

"You can go on inside, Miss," the hotel's porter told her. "I'll be right behind with your luggage."

Mister Smits, the stage's driver, snickered, "You're going to need a bigger handcart."

Adela spun around and met the driver's embarrassed grin. "Thank you so much for a smooth and uneventful ride, Mister Smits."

"You're welcome, ma'am," he replied, doffing his dusty hat.

The doorman held open the beautiful brass and glass door and ushered her forward. "Welcome to the Comstock Grand, Miss. The front desk is to your right."

"I'm expecting Mister Wentworth, from the bank, to meet me," she explained.

"He's not arrived yet, but I'll keep my eye out for him."

"I'd appreciate that. In the meantime, I'll get myself checked in."

She'd just finished signing the hotel's guest register, when the sound of voices behind her caused her to turn.

Peter Wentworth stood there, less than four feet away, his expression one of surprise, bordering on shock.

"You're not Adela Dutton," he said sharply.

"No. I'm Adela McIntyre, the woman you are to marry."

All around them, people stopped to watch as both she and Mister Wentworth continued to stare at one another. "This isn't right," Wentworth insisted. "I was expecting to wed Mister Miles Wentworth's daughter… Missus Hermonie Dutton said so."

"You're obviously mistaken. Mister Dutton's daughter's name is Adelaide."

He shot a glare at the few people still within reach, sending each of them scurrying away. "If you're not a member of the Dutton family, then just who are you? And why would Missus Dutton refer to you as ‘our dear Adela' in her letters."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you don't remember me. We met once before at the Dutton's holiday party in 1892. I was there as Adelaide's chaperone, and Missus Hermonie Dutton's lady's companion… a job I've held for eight years."

"You're the hired help?"

Adela drew a long breath and confirmed, "Yes, I guess I was. However, with Missus Dutton's return to England, I am now here. And to be married… to you."

He shook his head. "No. This won't do. I can't marry you."

"But—"

"I won't marry you. I had a plan that didn't include some lady's maid… or companion… or whatever. If I'm not marrying the Dutton heir, then I'm not marrying at all."

Adela clutched her hands together tightly in front of her. Drawing a breath, she told him, "Well then, I guess we have nothing else to say to one another. I'll post a letter tomorrow to let Mister Dutton know of the change in plans. In the meantime, I do expect you to cover the cost of the hotel through this week, as was promised pending our planned wedding next Saturday."

He nodded. "I'll see to it that the bank covers the bill."

Adela shook her head in disbelief. How could this have gone so wrong ?

Turning back to the desk clerk, she said, "I'll take my key now. Please send my two smaller bags up to my room. The larger steamer trunks can be put in storage, if you have the space."

"Yes, ma'am," the desk clerk confirmed. "I'll get that done for you immediately."

Head held high, Adela made her way up the grand staircase to the second floor, quickly disappearing down the long hallway. When she was sure no one could see her, she let out a muffled cry, and swiped at the first of what would likely be many tears.

Adela poked at the remainder of her mashed potatoes and swished the last dregs of tea around in the bottom of her cup. The hotel staff had been gracious, and quick, when they'd brought a late supper to her room. No doubt the events of earlier that evening had fueled an endless stream of gossip. Yet, there was nothing to be done about it.

She was a jilted bride, and Mister Wentworth a cad of the first order .

Rustling a sheet of notepaper between her fingers, she read through the letter she'd begun when she first settled into her room.

" Dear Mister Miles Dutton ," she began softly.

" I regret to inform you that Mister Wentworth has refused to marry me due to a case of mistaken identity on his part. He believed he was to be marrying your daughter, Adelaide. While I was sorely disappointed at his change of heart, now that I've had time to think about it, I am grateful to get his measure as a gentleman before it was too late. I will not be returning to Boston but may call upon you for a reference when I begin to seek employment in either Denver, or somewhere farther west. I would appreciate your kind words on my behalf ."

Flipping open the inkwell on the desk, she dipped the nub of her pen into the murky black ink and affixed her name to the bottom of the letter before setting it aside to dry.

She placed her meal tray out in the corridor as the porter had told her to do, and then went about her evening routine. A good night's sleep would set her right and help her think straight and plan her next move. Surely, she would be able to find work in Denver. Perhaps even stay with her sister until the new baby arrives.

With the thoughts about her future came the memories of her past. Of how, ever since she was a child, she followed the rules, the direction set for her by others. With the first nudge of sleep, came another thought… a realization.

It was well past time she took charge of her own life, made her own decisions, and set her own course. Rather than run back to the safety of her sister's home, perhaps she'd stay in Comstock a while longer. She'd see what the growing town had to offer for employment. Most of all, she'd weather the gossip for no other reason than to show the entire town what type of man Peter Wentworth truly was. And, more importantly, prove to herself that she was a far better woman… lady… then he was a gentleman.

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Adela made herself a vow. The most solemn vow she'd ever make in her entire life. No one, man or woman, would ever make a decision for her again, especially when it came to something as important as a husband and family. She would take charge of her own future, even if it meant never having a family of her own .

Her eyelids were getting heavy. Quickly, she said her evening prayers, the last Amen echoing around inside her head as she drifted off.

Comstock Main Street

Monday, August 10, 1895

Key made his way from the boarding house toward his office. Everywhere he looked there were clusters of townsfolk whispering among themselves. Two or three women were posted in front of the dressmaker's shop, the barber and butcher were conversing next to Mister Kyle's fancy red-striped pole. The reverend and his wife were talking with Mister Overbee, editor of the weekly newspaper. About the only two storefronts empty of people were the jail and the bank.

Shaking off the weird feeling climbing up the back of his neck, Key opened his office door and stepped inside. Both his deputies were huddled around the coffee pot, their words garbled by the coffee they swilled between sentences.

"What the devil is going on?" Key demanded. "The entire town is abuzz with gossip of some sort."

Jack Baker swallowed back his coffee and coughed to clear his throat. "Mister Wentworth's intended bride arrived on the five o'clock stage."

"And?" Key prompted when Baker stopped to take another drink.

"He rejected her," McGibbon explained. "Told her he couldn't marry her right there in the lobby of the hotel."

Key's gaze narrowed, sliding from one deputy to the other. "What went wrong? It was barely a month when the man was throwing himself an engagement party at the bank."

"According to the reverend's wife, whose sister works at the hotel, it was a case of mistaken identity," Baker confided. "He thought he was getting the head honcho's debutante daughter for a bride. Rather, the lady that arrived was the Dowager Dutton's lady's companion."

"Their names are a lot alike, it seems," McGibbon added helpfully. "Still, the man shouldn't have dumped her like a shovel full of hot embers in the middle of the hotel lobby."

"Indeed not," Key agreed. "Given he's still got an obligation to marry before the end of the year, he should have honored their agreement, no matter the mistake on his part."

"I thought at first she might have been… you know… homely," Baker admitted. "But apparently, she's not. The ladies at the hotel were going on about her fancy clothes, and her grace given how embarrassed she must have been."

"Do you know if she's still at the hotel?" Key wondered. "I should probably have a word with her, let her know she has legal recourse for breach of contract if she wishes to pursue it."

"She took her breakfast at the café this morning. Or so the ladies at Missus Peters' shop said," McGibbon explained. "Don't know where she's at now, though."

"Maybe I'll pay a visit to our local banker and see what he's got to say for himself first," Key declared. "Then, I'll make it a point to find Miss… um…"

"McIntyre. Adela McIntyre," Deputy Baker clarified.

"Adela McIntyre," Key repeated. "Got it. Why don't you fellows get busy with the weekly reports? One of you should run over and check to see if any new wanted posters arrived in the early mail." Key started for the door, then stopped to add, "And, for heaven's sake, tell these people to quit talking. We don't want the poor woman to think we're a bunch of busybodies."

"Even if we are?" Baked joked.

"That goes especially for you two. I won't have my deputies displaying anything but the most gentlemanly behavior."

The walk from the jail and the bank was short and blessedly uneventful. To their credit, the majority of the townspeople had ceased their conversations and gone on about their business. Pausing for a brief moment to quell his urge to berate Wentworth for his callous behavior, Key turned the knob, swung the door open, and stepped inside a nearly empty bank.

He glanced around the main lobby. The two morning tellers were sequestered inside their cages. They both raised their heads and smiled but said nothing. Key's gaze swept the entire bank, finally landing on Peter Wentworth seated at his desk, behind a closed glass door.

Key tapped on the door then pushed it open without waiting for an invitation. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

"I've books to balance and sign off on, so I'm busy," Wentworth barked out. "Maybe later I'll have time to talk."

"This conversation is going to happen, Wentworth. Whether you like it or not. In the meantime, you should probably come up with a good excuse for your employer as to why you refused Miss McIntyre. My guess is they're not going to be pleased."

"Miles Dutton will understand, one man to another," Wentworth claimed.

"Well then, I guess that's not saying much for his character either, is it?"

Key backed out of the banker's office and spun on his heel. He'd never liked Peter Wentworth, and often got an uncanny sense he wasn't all he appeared to be. Why, when he was under the clock to take a bride, would he refuse one sent to him directly from his employer ? What was the difference between the two women, especially if you're marrying someone you barely know in the first place ?

Money, of course. Why marry a lady's companion when you were expecting an heiress ?

Stepping out into the late morning sun, Key turned toward the hotel in search of Adela McIntrye, the jilted bride-to-be.