Inez ducked into the carriage and, with a rustle of satin, sat opposite Thomas Welles, also in black formal evening wear. “Glad you could join us, Mrs. Stannert,” said Welles. “It’ll be quite the crowd in attendance, I understand.” He held Nico’s violin case in his white-gloved hands.
The carriage bounced lightly on its springs as Nico entered and sat next to Thomas. He retrieved his violin, remarking, “And we shall do our best to entertain and enthrall, as only Mozart and Beethoven’s music can.”
Welles rapped on the wall, and the carriage began to move. Nico set his case on the seat. As they passed a streetlamp and turned onto Market, Inez realized what was different about Nico. “Mr. Donato, where is your magnificent cloak?”
Instead of the fine wool overgarment with the distinctive ermine collar he always wore, he had on a black cloak with a luxurious dark fur collar.
“Ah. It is out of fashion. This,” he stroked the dark fur collar as if it were a living creature, “is new. Just this season. Elegant, yes?”
Welles shifted, one white glove rising to hold his top hat as he turned his head toward Nico. “I thought you told me your kingly cape had been ruined.”
“Ah,” said Nico dismissively. “One and the same. Ruined by the fickle turn of la mode. When in the public eye, one must be in vogue, sì?”
Light poured into the carriage windows as the vehicle pulled into the circular driveway of the central court of the Palace Hotel and squeaked to a halt. The musicians exited first and helped Inez down. They crossed the marble-paved floor beset with potted trees and plants. Far above, the glass-encased dome was opaque with the night sky.
Inez recalled being up at the seventh-floor gallery arcade only that morning and looking down onto the carriage court. From seven floors up, the greenery had appeared little more than shrubs. Down at floor level, it seemed a veritable forest.
As the trio proceeded to the elevators, Welles engaged Inez, inquiring politely about Antonia, how she was doing, whether she was enjoying school. His eldest, he confided, was in third grade and finding it challenging. As she chatted with Welles, Inez registered Nico was scanning the reception area as if hoping to recognize some of the elite and powerful of the city. Or perhaps, she thought, he was hoping the elite and powerful would recognize him.
The elevator operator whisked them up to the second floor. “We will be in one of the grand parlors,” said Nico. “We have performed there before, Thomas and I.”
Welles nodded. “The hotel keeps their pianos well-tuned. A pleasure to play.”
Inez could hear the swell of voices grow as they approached a set of tall doors. Bright as the gaslight in the open corridor was, the light spilling from beyond the doors shone all the brighter. They paused at a cloak room where Inez shed her manteau, Nico his new cloak, and Welles his overcoat, before entering one of the Palace Hotel’s public “parlor rooms,” which had about as much in common with the humble residential parlor room as the ordinary two-story room-and-board residences had in common with the mansions of the city elite.
The parlor, decorated in a French Rococo style, was of outsized dimensions and glamor, much like the hotel itself. The grand room easily accommodated the hundred or so Inez estimated were in attendance. Massive bronze and gilt chandeliers holding constellations of gaslights shed their brilliant yellow light over the guests. Most of the women were dressed bright as peacocks, while the men were uniformly dark and somber in their eveningwear. Their fans aflutter, the women glided about in form-fitting attire of silk, tulle, taffeta, brocade, and satin on the arms of their male companions. Meanwhile, dark knots of single men clustered here and there, like murders of crows, cigar smoke curling above their heads in languid eddies.
Discomfited, Inez halted inside and snapped her fan open. It had been a long time since she had attended a soirée. There had been balls and fetes in Leadville, to be sure. Yet, this “small concert gathering” was a whole different elevation of entertainment entirely, more akin to the half-remembered balls and parties she attended as a New York City debutante or the elegant gatherings in London and Paris whispered about amongst the girls in her long-ago boarding school.
A waiter approached them with a silver tray, offering champagne. Nico waved him away. “After the performance,” he said as he scanned the room.
Inez determined to slip away at the first opportunity—surely the musicians would need to prepare for their performance—and hunt down one of those bobbing trays circulating the room. As she longingly watched the waiter retreat into the crowd, she noted the young and not-so-young women in their vicinity were directing sidelong glances or boldly open gazes of interest their way. Well, not at her, that was certain. Clearly Nico was the one drawing their interest and stirring their fans into a quickened tempo.
“Ah! And there is Signore Poole,” said Nico. “Come.” Escorting Inez and trailed by Welles, Nico moved through the crowd. Many of the guests acknowledged Nico with a nod or bow, and more than one called out, “Signore Donato!” or “Looking forward to your performance, Maestro!” In the case of the ladies, who by etiquette remained mute, they communicated with smiles demure and not-so-demure. Nico returned all with nods, bows, and smiles of his own, sprinkled with remarks such as “Ah! Signore Walton! Good to see you and the lovely Signora,” and “The concert, you will not be disappointed!” and “Signore Welles and I, we have been hard at work, turning the score into music fit for the angels.”
Inez lost track of what else he said because dead ahead, in the direction Nico was leading her and Welles, was Frisco Flo standing with a cluster of men.
Flo had her back to Inez, but there was no missing or mistaking her. Attired in an
