“I should hope not!”
Now if only it would work ... and get neither of them into trouble.
9
The next morning, Rebecca dressed herself in the shapeless grey dress, which fastened in the front, and tied on the long white apron with trembling hands. Stepping to the mirror, she pulled her hair back tightly and pinned it away from her face, then covered it all with the floppy, frilly cap.
Her reflection revealed pale skin and crescent shadows beneath her eyes. She had not slept well, worrying about the morning’s mission and imagining all that might go wrong. Then she reminded herself of John’s desperate state, and the quickly amassing sum she owed the hotel. She hated to imagine the total if Lady Fitzhoward had not offered to pay for her meals!
Studying her face in the mirror, Rebecca decided she still looked too much like herself. Retrieving the tortoiseshell case, she put on the spectacles she usually reserved for reading or mending. Then she ran a finger through the oily soot collected on her lamp and used it to darken her brows. She applied it with too heavy a hand and recoiled from her own startling image. She wiped most of it away until it looked more natural.
She glanced at the small mantel clock. A few minutes to spare. She clasped damp hands, gazed at the cross above her bed, and in the quiet of her solitary chamber, prayed, “Dear God, I know you don’t approve of deception but...”
Unbidden, thoughts of women from Scripture who had deceived scrolled through her mind. Sarah, Tamar, Rebekah ... Most of their stories had not ended well.
“I hope you will forgive me,” she murmured rather lamely. “I mean no harm.” She only wanted to get in to speak to Mr. Oliver, to urge him to recommend her brother’s manuscript to his publisher. To help John. To save him.
“Please, let Mr. Oliver listen. Soften his heart and grant me favor in his eyes.” She also prayed that Mr. Edgecombe—to avoid distracting the author—had not warned him about John Lane’s sister.
Rebecca then inched open her door and peeked out. Seeing no one, she waited until she heard quick footsteps on the nearby night stair and saw a white mobcap emerging from below. Rebecca picked up the large envelope containing the manuscript and tucked it under her arm, hoping it would look like a folded newspaper to any casual passerby. Then she stepped out, quietly closing the door behind herself.
Mary appeared, looking only half as nervous as Rebecca felt.
“Here you are, miss,” she whispered. “Careful not to spill. Bring back yesterday’s dishes and any dirty laundry he gives you. I’ll take care of them from here.”
Rebecca nodded her understanding and held out her hands.
The tray felt heavier than her father’s thousand-page Bible. Rebecca walked slowly, keeping a wary eye on the piled-high plate of food and pitcher of cream, glad the coffee had not yet been poured into the empty, rattling cup.
Nearing room three, she saw Mr. George glance up. Shequickly ducked her head and kept walking, pulse pounding hard with each step.
Open the door ... open the door, she silently begged.
He rose to do so, by habit as Mary had said, or by God’s favor, or both? He knocked on the door and stood there, waiting.
“Morning,” the man said to her as she approached.
She mumbled the same in reply, keeping her head down, trying not to draw the guard’s watchful eye.
Come on, come on ...she inwardly pleaded.
A few seconds later the lock clicked open from within, and the guard pushed the door wide for her.
She stepped through, and the door shut behind her. So far so good.
Inside the room, Mr. Oliver had already reclaimed his seat on a chaise longue, rosewood writing slant on his lap, head bent and dark hair flopping over his forehead. He murmured a barely audible grunt of acknowledgment without looking up. He scribbled with quill and ink to the end of the line, licked his finger to turn a page, and began scratching away again.
When she hesitated, he gestured toward the low end table. “Just set it down there.”
She bobbed a curtsy and moved to comply, setting the tray down with a clank of china and cutlery.
“Dirty laundry there.” He jerked an ink-stained thumb toward the corner. “I am out of stockings.”
She stammered, “I-I have brought you something.”
“Coffee, I hope. Eggs, kippers, kidneys, and bacon as usual?” He glanced over at his breakfast.
“That too.”
