A Private Hotel for Gentle Ladies by Ellen Cooney Read Free Book Online

listed anywhere.”
    He’d said nothing more about it. There was something in his denial that had not rung true, and something in his expression that crinkled up, as it did when he considered something unseemly, but why? He wasn’t a snob. She had no reason to doubt his estimation of things.
    She hadn’t pressed. She wasn’t supposed to have kept up a correspondence with Mrs. Petty.
    Mr. Harry Alcorn held to high standards. He would never fit in anywhere that was not a city and just barely felt at home in Boston. You were not supposed to be an eccentric in Boston, unless you had the money to back yourself up, which apparently he had. He was eccentric in his clothing and food preferences, and would only wear whites and tans, no matter the season. He ate no meat, suffered from problems with his teeth, and would only take food that was yellow or white, or had come from the vegetable gardens kept by his kitchen people in a stone-walled back terrace. He was said to be devoted to his always-behind-the-scenes wife. A wedding photo of them was somewhere on a wall: both in white, young and pale and ethereal, but this was especially true of Mrs. Alcorn, all gauzy in her bridal dress, and very fragile-looking, like someone who could easily break.
    That was the extent of Charlotte’s knowledge of the Beechmont. Mrs. Petty’s letters, smuggled to Charlotte by one of the kitchen maids, were lavish in detail and description. She was a colorful letter writer. Charlotte knew to believe every word. Like all good cooks, Mrs. Petty had a firm, insoluble grounding in Fact.
    But the letters didn’t come half as often as Charlotte wanted them to. In the latest, a week ago, Mrs. Petty spoke of the children. The baby was nearly ready to start walking but was lazy about it. Sophy was attending a primary class in the Park Street Church, and so was Momo, who was too young for it, but he would not be separated from his sister; they allowed him to sit among the girls like a toy of theirs. And just lately, Mrs. Petty took on a second position, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, trying out recipes at the Boston Cooking School, under the direction of Miss Fannie Farmer.
    Dear God, it was cold. The gas lamps were lit along the hill, casting their lights in a yellow haze through gently falling snow. Everett Gerson was patient, and he didn’t complain, but Beacon Hill was like a maze.
    It was tricky to negotiate the side streets, but at last, here was Eustis, here was Beech, here was the brick hotel, the Beechmont itself, on the corner behind a handsome iron fence.
    A PRIVATE HOTEL FOR GENTLE LADIES . It was just as Mrs. Petty had described, but the words of the sign were elegant, put into the fence in fancy metalwork, with bits of snow clinging to some of the letters, like decorations in a picture book.
    Everett Gerson had the long ride home in front of him, but he wanted to tie up his horse and go inside with her. It didn’t seem right to just leave her there.
    No, she was fine; this was where her friend was; honestly, he had done quite enough. Which way should she enter? The horse through long experience wanted to go and find the back, like this was any other delivery, and perhaps a kitchen maid would come out with some sugar or an apple.
    The front. She was a guest. She was a gentle lady. “Good night to you, Mr. Gerson. Tell your wife I feel more well than ever.”
    Her spirits were singing inside her. Everything was going to be different. She found it amazing to remember she’d ever been sick at all.
    The walkway was clear, right down to the smooth granite squares laid carefully in tidy rows; someone must have swept it very recently. A large iron knocker in the shape of an acorn was in the center of the door, and when she rapped it, the door opened at once, so that she nearly fell inside.
    She hardly had time to notice right away who was standing in front of her in the vestibule. She had a sense of dark wood, smelling of polish, and shadows and