“Shall I help you dress, miss? I’ll have to hurry, though. It’s almost time to deliver a certain guest’s breakfast. He is most particular that it’s delivered at nine sharp.”
Rebecca guessed, “Mr. Oliver, do you mean?”
“Yes, miss.” Mary winked. “Though you didn’t hear it from me.”
Rebecca washed quickly and pulled on a fresh shift. “What is he like?”
“Oh, he’s an odd one, he is,” Mary explained as she tightened Rebecca’s stays. “Talks to himself while he writes. Ink on his fingers and on his lips! Crumpled up paper everywhere! I’ll have a time cleaning that room once he’s out of it.”
Rebecca stepped into her gown and turned again so Mary could lace the waist while Rebecca fastened the front. “And how does he treat you?”
“Like I’m beneath his notice. Just mumbles to set the tray down and pick up his dirty dishes. If I dally, he urges me to finish and be gone without looking up from his page, which suits me perfectly well. His man outside warned me to take care around him, but Mr. Oliver has never paid me any attentionthatway. Some guests do, you know, but not him. Even so, I’m happy to leave his room without vexing him. If he complained to Mr. Mayhew, I’d be out on my ear in two shakes.” Finishing up, Mary hurried to the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can with your breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
While she awaited Mary’s return, Rebecca put on her stockings herself and brushed and pinned her hair.
When traveling, the lady’s maid assisted Rebecca. Lady Fitzhoward had generously sent Joly up last night before dinner but had said nothing about sending her back in the morning. And since Rebecca was not at the hotel in her official capacity as companion, she was reluctant to ask.
Over the years, Rebecca had learned to dress herself when needed, having acquired wraparound stays and frocks that laced, pinned, or buttoned at the front. She could have donned the same simple frock she’d worn yesterday, but anticipating a meeting with Mr. Oliver or Mr. Edgecombe, she’d deemed it wisest to dress well to make a positive impression.
She regarded her reflection in the mirror. The promenadedress hugged her figure with military-style frog lacings and a velvet collar, its lines giving it the look of a riding habit or frock coat, which made her feel less vulnerable than she would have felt in a thin muslin day dress.
Returning with her breakfast a short while later, Mary announced, “Mr. Mayhew is offering a tour of the abbey at eleven, if you are interested.”
Rebecca thanked her and sat down at the dressing table to sip her tea, but her jittery stomach would tolerate only a few bites of food.
Before leaving her room, she put on a modest hat ornamented with a ribbon. Then, having time to spare, she took a walk around the hotel’s garden, admiring its central fountain.
Might Mr. Oliver join the tour? If so, perhaps she could talk to him then. She decided it was worth a try.
At eleven, interested guests gathered in the blue parlour, a room off the reception hall, just beyond the stairs. Paneled in dark wood, the parlour was filled with comfortable furniture upholstered in rich blue fabrics.
Rebecca saw no sign of Mr. Oliver but was pleased to see Lady Fitzhoward, Thomas Wilford, and the lovely woman who’d caused a stir at dinner, whom Thomas introduced to her as Miss Selina Newport.
Mr. Mayhew, tall and lanky with dark ginger hair, rubbed his hands together in boyish enthusiasm. “Welcome, everyone, and thank you for your interest in the Swanford Abbey Hotel. I am Carl Mayhew, proprietor, and it will be my distinct pleasure to show you... or rather, show off”—here he chuckled—“the features, architecture, and history of this grand place.
“As you may know, it began its life as a monastic community. A devout woman named Elena de Wyke built the abbey in her husband’s honor after his death in the Crusades. Now, that’s devotion, gents. Would you not say?” Another chuckle. “She became abbess and lived here with a clutch of sisters for many years until her death, followed by a succession of other abbesses and nuns until the 1500s.
“After the dissolution, the Sharingtons became the new owners and renovated the old abbey into a commodious family home. And such it remained for many generations, until the last of the family died and the place was abandoned.
“Several years ago, a group of investors bought the property and hired architects and builders to convert it into a grand hotel. Sadly, the investors went bankrupt and the project was disbanded before completion.” Here he touched his lapels. “That is where yours truly comes in. I bought the place at a very good price and undertook to finish the work started by my predecessors. I have been successful, as you see.” He gestured around himself.
Then he continued, “The refectory and gentlemen’s coffee room you will see as a matter of course during your stay, so we won’t venture to those now. But do come with me upstairs, if you will.” He backed through the open parlour doorway into the hall. “The builders had already installed this staircase, but I personally chose the Turkish carpet, which is, I believe you’ll agree, exceptionally fine.”
He led the way upstairs, a middle-aged couple at his heels. Thomas Wilford and Miss Newport went next, heads near and whispering flirtatiously, while Rebecca lagged behind to accompany Lady Fitzhoward, who was gripping the railing tightly and breathing heavily before they were halfway up.
She panted, “Now you see why I requested a suite on the ground level!”
Sir Frederick appeared in the hall, the picture of a well-dressed sportsman in forest-green frock coat and buff breeches. Rebecca could not help but admire his confident bearing and long, athletic stride.
Glancing up and seeing them, he quickly ascended the stairs. “May I offer an arm, my lady?”
“Indeed you may,” the older woman said. She added wryly, “If you like, you may offer me two!”
Sir Frederick grinned and helped her up the remaining stairs, and Rebecca was touched by his kindness.
He said, “What are you ladies doing, if I may ask?”
