“I’ve seen desperate conditions, Mr. Gadwell, I assure you. And I’ve witnessed my share of injustice and cruelty. But tonight, the lust and greed, it was somehow more tragic. Why do we bother with the appearances of morality? Why all the bowing and draping shawls over our shoulders in the horrible heat when men behave like that? I understand poverty. I know why people like George are forced into bad situations, but most of those men tonight were wealthy gentlemen. Did you notice all the gold studs? My father was even carrying his diamond pocket watch.”
Under difference circumstances the ride might have been a bit romantic; her petite shoulder just touching mine. Instead my thoughts were on the enormity of sitting beside the daughter of Charlton Harting.
When we reached the hotel, I escorted my damsel in distress through the quiet lobby to the main staircase. She thanked me for an unforgettable evening and repaid my bravery by allowing me to call her Mary. Then she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “By the by, I saw the dancing girls.” She winked and disappeared up the staircase leaving me with my mouth flopped open.
So you see, Avery, I was called to arms. What else could be done? Harper & Brothers will understand chivalry must be proven, and it may be argued such acts are the linchpin to a good story. Needless to say, once this letter is sealed I shall fill my inkwell and get back to work. Unlike the time I had a hankering for pickled turnips and wound up trapped in the root cellar, nothing will keep me from finishing this book. Of course, you must concede that after such an ordeal, Miss Harting shall need some measure of soothing. But how long can that take.
Your humble servant,
Thomas
June 7, 1888.
DEAR MOTHER —
I received your telegram. No, I was not shanghaied through a trap door at The Beantown Tavern. My escape from summer in Boston was perhaps impulsive, but you can assure Aunt Ruth the hotel is not overcrowded with men in jockey hats brandishing Spencer rifles and fishing lures. She may cancel her trip.
Having received the recommendation for this California jaunt from Henry (you know him as Mr. James), I imagined a maudlin inn promoting fireside confessions and pithy dining selections like Hawthorne Hasty Pudding. Surprises began the moment I arrived.
Ten miles of lurching turns had soured my exhilaration, not to mention my stomach, when at last the train gave its final sigh. We arrived at dusk, and through my window I saw golden strands of light shimmering on the Pacific. Though the smell of the crisp air was stirring and I was eager to part from the jarring iron horse, my fellow riders were quite preoccupied.
Gentlemen threatened a frenzied list of litigation if monogrammed trunks were damaged. The ladies, fretful about sand in their boots, tightened their mantles against the breeze and sent husbands to fetch fleeing bonnets. There was also consternation over costumes for a masquerade ball and how the damp climate flattens ruffles. In truth, I was discouraged by their nonchalant reaction to the splendid welcome.
Colorful streamers waved like banderoles at the Boston Harbor Festival and a brass band played “Liberty Bell Quickstep” from somewhere in the depths of the hotel. Stewards in emerald waistcoats and black bowties weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne, and a man in a white tailcoat announced dinner was served in the dining room at eight o’clock. Toasting my arrival to the West with champagne felt as awkward as the first time my father handed me the reins. I expected a glass of watered ale in a dirty tin cup. In fact, my thoughts were on such a barley pop when a porter in a red Kepi cap tapped my shoulder and took my satchel.
“Welcome, my good sir, to San Diego’s new Hotel Del Coronado. On behalf of the staff I’d like to extend our deepest appreciation for your patronage. A complimentary bottle of Chateau Margaux is in your suite, and we’d like to offer you a hansom cab tour of the city. Your attendant can arrange your visit whenever you’re interested and available.
“I mention available, sir, because here at The Del there are many ways to occupy yourself. Each morning you’ll receive a list of the day’s activities and the appropriate attire for the evening’s entertainment. In addition to your personal attendant, there’s a concierge to arrange equipment rental for archery, croquet, golf, and boating. Our kitchen is equipped to handle any dietary restrictions, and the smoking lounge is well stocked. Our only goal is to provide you with a memorable summer, sir. We’re proud to serve you in any way possible.”
His lavish greeting paled in comparison to the lady behind him.
Before me was a generous Queen Anne painted stark white. Long shadows caressed her red dome roof, and I saw the fetching silhouette of grand turrets, carved spindles, and a large walking deck leading to the sea. Rows of spacious windows faced the ocean like soldiers ready to march, and an ethereal mist swirled across the veranda.
“Lovely,” I muttered.
“Why, thank you, young man. It’s new. Bought it especially for the trip.”
Mother, I turned to see a round woman adjusting a hat with black feathers and gold ladybugs swinging from brass wire. It reminded me of a child’s mobile. As she walked away I heard her call out, “You see, Stella, I told you bugs were fashionable this year.”
A second announcement for dinner inspired the newcomers, so I followed my comrades across the threshold. It was almost as if I had never left Boston.
The intimate lobby was a flurry of excitement. Patent leather heels and boisterous chatter echoed on the marble floor as receptionists matched visitors with their attendants. Settled guests, their pressed jackets and tanned skin worn as a coveted prize, weaved through the fresh faces. Their inspection was thorough.
A lady’s nod or a gent’s familiar handshake meant an invitation to dinner and a front row seat for the chamber orchestra. You, of course, know I sought neither. Instead I found a restful spot near the concierge desk, propped myself against the mahogany paneling, and took up my usual role. I admit with pleasure what first drew my attention.
Two pleasing young ladies were well positioned on an embroidered loveseat. Their silk fans fluttered with excited agitation as they surveyed the crowd and whispered in each other’s ears. The ladies looked refreshed in long, white linen dresses with large straw hats. As I wiped bits of coal from my Chesterfield, I was amused by the skill with which they tilted their broad brims to camouflage their stares. You need not worry, I turned away before I caught their eyes and continued my observation.
Caramel light from the gas lamps softened the society. French doors were opened to the rush of the waves and the evening’s meal promised a healthy portion of garlic. However, not until my eyes drifted to the far side of the lobby was I quite in awe.
Do you remember the gold birdcage in that Parisian boutique? Beside a group of men pulling calling cards from their vest pockets was a hydraulic elevator that looked just like that elaborate coop. Through the open slats guests waved as they rode to the upper floors. It was a marvel to see their feet lift right off the ground. Alas, my enjoyment at watching the elevator was interrupted.
The girls on the loveseat rose and linked arms. They ambled toward me with their fans resting at their sides and stopped at the concierge desk.
“We’ve forgotten our table assignment. Please look up Adams, Elizabeth and Emily.”
The girls smiled at me then turned away to speak in low voices. Just then a lithe man with a sharp chin and deep wrinkles approached and asked, “Mr. Thomas M. Gadwell?” My attendant, Walter, led me to the elevator but not before I tipped my bowler and left the young ladies giggling.
My ferry to the second floor was thrilling, and I, too, felt compelled to wave to strangers in the lobby. Then Walter showed me down a spacious hallway to the last suite. Though I suffer in many ways for my craft, I freely admit accommodation is not one of them.
The room is spacious with a sitting area and comfortable feather bed. There is a private privy and a thoughtful balcony providing marvelous views. The curved coastline stretches for miles in both directions with jagged cliffs hovering in the distance, and beyond the hotel’s landscaped gardens are secluded pockets of stiff sea grass you might feel compelled to weed.
Still, if you reconsider a trip, the hotel’s craftsmanship and intriguing company are worth the arduous journey from Boston. Provided, of course, you forbid father to bring his newspapers aboard the train. Not even you could withstand seven days trapped with father and his convictions.
I must take my leave, as I have an engagement for afternoon tea and a quartet is playing this evening. Please tell Father I hope he recovers from his lingering cold, and enjoy your tulip garden before you leave for your vacation in Newport. Lest you fear I shall be stirred by the wild frontier to grow a thick mustache and long side whiskers, I assure you that the society is conventional, management forbids saloon gunfights, and I have yet to meet a rowdy gold prospector—of course I hope to soon.
Your loving son,
Thomas
June 10, 1888.
DEAR MISS MARY HARTING —
Thank you again for a charming afternoon. I feared nothing could surpass the excitement of our escapade, but then I never suspected your interest in sharp arrows.
Even with such delicate, feminine hands you had a steady aim and did a fine job of breaking in the new target. You also had the appropriate archer’s look of concentration. Based on your snickering, I imagine my grimace resembled eating sour candy. But I again remind you it was my shot that provided our fresh quail for lunch. That the instructor had to dive for safety was part of my skill.
If your bravery has not waned, I hope you will join me tomorrow so I may again flaunt my talent with a teacup. As the manager has banned me from picking up another bow while on hotel grounds, perhaps we can explore other interests. I hear the bicycle trails are comfortably wide, as are the bicycle seats.
