Kitty nodded. “We saw him briefly in the stable yard when we arrived, but he was on his way somewhere and sadly had little time to talk.”
“Ah.” She noticed Kitty’s attention had been captured bysomething behind her and turned to follow her gaze. Thomas was coming down the stairs with Miss Newport.
Kitty said quietly, “Mr. Wilford is handsome, one must admit. A shame he has to marry for money. Of course, that does not stop him from flirting with pretty females.”
No, it does not, Rebecca silently agreed.
Then she looked back at her old friend and said, “By the way, I hope I do see you again, whether here or in Bath or Brighton. And if I do, I shall definitely stop to talk.”
Kitty grinned. “I shall hold you to it!”
After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Fenchurch, Rebecca went to join Lady Fitzhoward, who stood at the desk of the maître d’hôtel. The older woman gave Rebecca’s appearance a pursed-lip look of approval.
The dining room was soon crowded with hotel guests, including Mr. King, the mother-daughter pair, and the middle-aged couple, along with several visitors, like the Fenchurch family.
Sir Frederick and Thomas Wilford nodded from their usual table, and Miss Newport fluttered a girlish finger-wave.
At a quarter past seven, Rebecca looked over, but Mr. Oliver did not appear. Several others watched as well, likely having come to Swanford Abbey to see the famous author.
There was no sign of Mr. George—or was it Sergeant George?—either.
A few minutes later, Mr. Edgecombe entered alone, smiling around the room at the other diners with uncharacteristic cheerfulness before sitting down and ordering, Rebecca noticed, a bottle of champagne.
“Someone’s pleased with himself,” Lady Fitzhoward observed.
“Yes,” Rebecca murmured in agreement. But for some reason, the sight of the cheerful publisher filled Rebecca with misgivings.
When Mr. Mayhew made his nightly round, making sure all his guests were well satisfied, Lady Fitzhoward asked, “And where is our illustrious author tonight?”
“Ah.” Mr. Mayhew stepped closer and said in conspiratorial tones, “I have it on good authority that Mr. Oliver has hit upon a new book idea at last. According to his publisher over there, he is in his room working away feverishly. He asked for a tray to be sent up instead of coming down for dinner. Mr. Edgecombe, as you see, is a happy man. He even decided to take a room here.”
Rebecca looked over as Mr. Edgecombe took a long sip of champagne, and her stomach soured at the sight.
“Jolly good for him,” Lady Fitzhoward observed, “but some of your other guests do not look as pleased, no doubt hoping for a glimpse of the celebrated scribe.”
The three of them glanced around and saw a few disgruntled-looking diners.
He said, “True. Alas, I cannot control the great man any more than his publisher can. Enjoy your dinner, ladies.”
Later that night, after Mary helped her undress for bed, the young maid again lingered in the passage with John, giving Rebecca time to wash her face and clean her teeth before climbing into bed.
After a few minutes, John knocked softly and let himself in, closing the door quietly behind him.
“It’s all right,” Rebecca whispered. “I am awake.”
“Don’t stay up on my account. Get some sleep, Becky.”
“Are you sure you will be all right on the chair?”
“Yes, as I assured you earlier.”
“Will you not take off your coat at least? If you are cold, you may have my counterpane.”
“Don’t fuss so, big sister,” he said lightly. He slouched in the armchair and spread the blanket Mary had given him over himself. “Good night.”
“Good night ... R. J.,” she said, using his pen name.
She heard his low chuckle and closed her eyes, expecting him to begin snoring any minute.
