She nodded absently.
“Growing weary, my lady?”
Rebecca expected to hear the woman’s oft-repeated rebuke,“I am not an invalid.”
But instead she said, “I believe that is far enough for today.” She straightened her shoulders and started determinedly down the lane, stick clacking with each step.
Rebecca noticed how heavily she leaned upon it and hurried to catch her. “Shall we walk back together?”
“If you are going back now anyway.”
“I am.” Rebecca took her arm, lending her strength, and the two made their way steadily to the hotel.
8
That evening, Miss Joly again helped Rebecca change for dinner earlier than usual.
Hearing the lady’s maid hum a tune as she arranged her hair, mischief tickled Rebecca’s stomach. She said, “Apparently you saw your chef today.”
The woman flashed a frown in the mirror. “He is not mine.”
“But you did see him?”
The maid’s thin lips twitched. “Curiosity does not become you, Miss Lane.”
“I cannot help myself. I have only experienced romance vicariously.”
“Vi-care-ious? I do not know this word.”
“It means, since I don’t have my own romance, I enjoy hearing about yours.”
Nicole Joly shook her head. “It is not ‘romance.’ He is very busy, cooking all the day.” She paused, then allowed, “But I like talking with him when he has the moment. We speak of our families and all we miss of France. We have much in common, he and I. Bothcatholique. Both have sisters. And of course we both detest the English food.”
“Sounds a perfect match, then,” Rebecca agreed.
Miss Joly looked up and caught Rebecca’s grin in the mirror. “Enough now. You like too much teasing me.”
“I confess I do,” Rebecca replied. “It is a new experience.” She was gratified when the maid did not scowl in reply but grinned back instead.
A short while later, Rebecca was once again dressed and waiting in the hall an hour before their scheduled dinner time.
Mr. Edgecombe entered, and hope rose even as nerves quivered through her limbs.
She stood on shaky legs. “Mr. Edgecombe.”
“Ah, yes. Miss ...?”
She couldn’t avoid giving her name forever. If he agreed to read the manuscript, she would simply leave off the title page with its pen name. “Miss Lane ... John Lane’s sister.”
She glanced at him timidly. Did he recognize the name? His expression revealed little.
He gestured for her to sit at one of the tea tables in the reception hall. She did so, setting the portfolio on the floor beside her chair. With trembling fingers, she handed him the first, thin envelope, which held two neatly written pages and a few typeset pages marked with handwritten changes.
His gaze dropped to the envelope and his expression flattened.
She said, “I thought it might be helpful to see a summary of my brother’s experience and qualifications. As you can see, he worked as secretary to Ambrose Oliver, taking dictation, writing clean copies, et cetera. And now he corrects galley proofs for our newspaper. The second page is a letter of recommendation from that publisher. And after that are examples of his skill as a proofreader.”
“I see.” He opened the envelope and idly flipped throughthe pages. “Unfortunately, we are not hiring anyone at this time.”
