Mary shrugged. “It’s all right. I get tips sometimes. I like that. Otherwise, the work is much the same as anywhere else.”
“I imagine you meet some ... interesting people here.”
“A few. Though I don’t really ‘meet’ the guests, do I? Just tote and clean for them. Some are kind and some are a right bother.” The girl seemed to realize whom she was talking to and bit her lip. “Pray, don’t be offended, miss. I don’t mean you, now you’re a guest. I’m happy to do my job—’specially for you.”
“Thank you, Mary. While I am here, I shall endeavor not to be too much bother.”
The girl’s worried gaze flew to hers, but seeing Rebecca’sgrin, she returned it with relief and then finished the tasks she had come for.
Stepping to the door, Mary said, “Indoor water closet just down the passage. Breakfast served in the refectory, or I can bring it to your room. You need anything else while you’re here, you just let me know.”
“I will. Thank you, Mary.”
After the maid left, Rebecca washed her face and hands and tidied her hair in the small mirror. Then she stepped from her room, locked the door, and slipped the key into her reticule.
Instead of going back down the night stair, she passed by it and went through the archway into the main corridor. She walked past numbered doors at intervals, while the inner walls held windows that overlooked the cloister courtyard below.
She strolled along first one side and then the next of the quadrangle that composed the upper floor. Turning down the third side, she passed a few more doors and then reached the gallery balustrade, open to the reception hall below.
Ahead of her, just beyond the main stairway, a man sat on a chair outside the final door along this corridor. She wondered what he was doing there. Even while seated, he displayed the excellent posture of a military man, although he wore ordinary civilian attire. If not an officer, perhaps a coachman, she guessed.
He glanced her way, eyes narrowing. Disconcerted to be caught staring, she lowered her head and started down the stairs, holding on to the railing to avoid slipping from such a height.
Reaching the ground floor, Rebecca avoided the gaze of the rude clerk as she crossed the hall. Stepping into the corridor behind, she passed the refectory dining room and the coffee room around the corner. The savory smells of roasted coffee beansand fresh bread wafted out, and in reply, Rebecca’s stomach growled a vacant protest. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to venture into the dining room on her own. She supposed she could ask Mary to bring a tray to her room to avoid the awkwardness of dining alone.
Continuing on, Rebecca noticed that while many of the hotel furnishings were clearly new, some ancient scent lingered in the air. She breathed it in, trying to place it. A slight mustiness paired with ... what ... chalk dust and incense?
The tall ceilings and doors with high transoms lent the place an institutional atmosphere, like a university or a church. And, she supposed, it had once been a bit of both.
Turning another corner, she went by a closed door markedGrand Suiteand a passage that led to a rear exit.
Just past it, an open doorway and the pleasanter smell of leather and old books beckoned her. The library and writing room, she realized, where guests might borrow books or keep up with correspondence. Rebecca decided she would first complete her circuit with a peek into the chapel, then return to peruse the hotel’s books.
Passing the night stair, she reached the final door, which, the porter had said, led to what remained of the church.
Inching open the heavy door, Rebecca hoped she would not disturb a service of some sort. Perhaps she would pray for John while she was there.
Inside, she saw a woman kneeling at the altar rail, head bowed. The chapel was dim, but a shaft of colored light from the stained-glass windows shone on her, and Rebecca glimpsed a brimmed hat and the outline of her profile.
At the sound of soft weeping, Rebecca retreated, quietly closing the door behind her.
Retracing her steps to the library and writing room, Rebeccaentered to find two walls filled floor-to-ceiling with books, high-back armchairs facing a fireplace, a game table laid with chess pieces, and several writing desks.
She paused. A woman sat at one of the desks, her back to the door, putting pen to paper. She crumpled the page, tossed it into a nearby rubbish basket, and then rested her head in her hands in a hunched posture of defeat.
Rebecca walked closer. As she did, her slipper scuffed the floor and the woman turned to look over her shoulder.
Surprised, Rebecca said, “Good day, Lady Fitzhoward.”
Her employer was dressed in her striped rust-and-gold open-robe, which fastened under the bosom of a muslin day dress, the style old, but the garments new and the fabric of finest quality. A filmy fichu around her shoulders covered her decolletage.
She wore a lace-trimmed cap over hair that appeared flat and in need of a washing rather than her usual lofty, elegant coiffure. Nor was she wearing powder and rouge. She looked careworn and older, more like the woman of nearly sixty that she was.
“I am surprised to find you here,” Rebecca added, feeling suddenly awkward in her presence.
The woman straightened, and her confident demeanor slid back into place. Her lower lip buttoned over a thin upper lip in an expression of disapproval. “I could say the same of you. I thought you were visiting your brother.”
“I was. I stayed at the lodge last night, but he ... he is not prepared for a house guest. He suggested I come here and deliver something to an acquaintance staying in the hotel.”
