Lottie Beauchamp was 5'6". 117 lbs. Age unknown. Paine’s Celery Compound Complexion. Light brown hair. Would be called blonde nowadays. Excellent shape but excessive topside structure by modern standards. Golden voice. Could raise your hackles, also bring tears to every eye. Noticeable English accent but not foreign sounding or in any other way unpleasant. Fastidious nature. Traveled with own bed-linen as noted above. Hot house flowers in bedroom. Spoke however of humble beginnings. Daughter of a Leeds mill worker. Mother was drunkard. Familiar with cold, hunger, poverty, destitution, etc., in childhood. A dungheap rose. Enjoyed ample stock of artistic temperament. Very volatile. Complained liberally to management about lack of hot water and lumpiness of bed but was always gracious to servants. Sometimes repented of life as actress. All mummery and sham. Needed tenderness. Writer happy to accommodate. No question of wrong-doing or so it seemed.
End of September business at Mansion House slow as cold molasses. Some northerly winds. Also fine weather. Bright sun. Warm air. Breeze up and down the mast. Wouldn’t blow a butterfly off your mainsail. Walked often on beach with Thespian before commencing tour of duty. Delightful company. Lingered in various coves, nooks, also aboard catboat. Property of hotel. Tern. Fifteen foot. Marconi rig. Wide waisted. Sailed like a butter-tub. Small cabin with no amenities. So the days passed.
Maiden ladies composed majority of clientele at season’s end. Some dear old ladies; some lemons. Front-porch committee commanded by Dr. Helen Archibald. Famous dietician. Also hygienist. Led daily course in calisthenics in music saloon For Women Only. Never privileged to see same but expect consisted of knee bends performed to old music box tunes. Big music box. Called Regina. Music produced by flat metal disks, two feet in diameter. Wide selection. Opera. Marches. Songs of love.
Front-porch committee bored with counting whitecaps. Got wind of romance. Famous dietician evinced sudden interest in sea-shells. Shells of no particular interest on Travertine beach. Sand dollars. Starfish. Usual produce of cold northern waters. Few colored stones gleaming like jewels when wet. Colorless when dry. Purpose of famous dietician’s seaside excursions was to spy. Shadowed Lottie and me like moral gumshoe. Pretending to look for shells. Upsoaring of self. Tramped the beach for hours. Got sand in shoes. Ruined several costumes. Vigilance was rewarded. Writer, rising from recumbent position in sheltered cove, saw famous dietician scurrying back to Mansion House in full possession of damaging facts. All interest in sea-shells forgotten. Was unable to pursue same, being clad only in birthday suit. Lottie very calm. Planned campaign. She would return to Mansion House alone. Gallant. Unafraid to beard front-porch committee. Writer would travel cross-country and approach hostelry from opposite direction. Did so. Walked through scrub pine woods to village of Travertine and then down dirt road to shore via so-called Great Western. Changed clothes and took up position behind desk at 6 P.M. with fresh flower in button-hole. String trio tuning instruments in Grand Dining Salon. Handyman lighting gas chandeliers. (No daylight saving time. September dusk fell swiftly.) All h——l broke loose.
Front-porch committee led by self-designated Grand Marshal and Chief Bottle Washer Dr. Helen Archibald approached hotel manager and issued ultimatum. Unable to hear terms from desk but surmised they dealt with Lottie. Committee then entered dining salon in full panoply, sat down and put on pince-nezs and other assorted storm windows, pretending to study menus. (Menus printed for every meal.) Other guests entered and were seated. Music of string trio did nothing to relieve tension. Soup is being served when Lottie comes downstairs in salmon or coral-colored dress. Beautiful! She is waylaid by hotel proprietor who urges her sotto voce to dine in her suite at the expense of the management. No soap. On sweeps Lottie into the lion’s den. Considerable noise of dropped soup spoons. Also storm windows. Then silence. Grand Marshal for the opposition deals the first and only blow. “I will not eat off the same dishes as that whore,” says she. Then up spake the desk clerk in the swallowtail coat. “Apologize to Miss Beauchamp, Dr. Archibald.” “You’re fired,” says the manager. “When was this?” says I. “The day before yesterday,” says he and the forces of Venus retired in confusion. Lottie took a trip to Travertine and went up to Boston on freight train with load of cranberries. I walked to St. Botolphs, carrying my straw suitcase and, finding Cousin Honora’s dark, spent the night at the Viaduct House. Only concern was indignation at having been fired. Was never fired before or since during fifty-five years in business.
