“We have to hunt down Clem anyway,” Rhoda added, peering through the crowd. “She’s spent the evening charming pledges of support from anyone who will listen.”
Winnie snorted. “Clem would rather be hogtied than give up the scent of a high-paying patron.”
Rhoda’s winged eyebrows drew together. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
“Quickly, now,” Olive interrupted. “Isn’t that her heading toward the coat room?”
“Go, go, go!” Rhoda hustled away, Winnie on her heels.
Olive let out a relieved sigh. She adored her friends, but all she wanted was a quiet moment alone before thanking her host and departing for the evening. She took a glass of tepid apple cider from a refreshment table and found an unoccupied chair in the corner of the room where, hopefully, no one would approach her.
Sipping the cider, she listened to the swish of silk and taffeta. The tinkling glassware and raucous laughter. A few discordant keys before the would-be pianist was dissuaded from playing more. She’d always found comfort in this simple pastime—observing, listening, drifting among the layers of sound and texture others ignored.
But now, an ache stirred beneath her breast, something raw and unfamiliar, a discord between herself and the life she knew. To her surprise, she found herself wondering what it would be like to join in the revelry, to be swept up in the pulse of joy others grasped so easily. The notion was ridiculous; the limelight always proved unpredictable and precarious.
A sudden lull swept through the salon. She glanced up, and her hands tightened around her cup—Mr. Anderson had entered the room. She could still feel his firm hand on her elbow, his animal heat permeating her sleeve as he held her immobile. The rumble of his deep voice still echoed in her ear, and his scent, a combination of crisp aftershave and vanilla whiskey, still clung to her nose.
He strolled through the salon as if he owned it, his perfect dark locks gleaming beneath the chandelier. His presence was noted with varying degrees of admiration and covetousness. A few brave souls hailed him, but he didn’t pause, merely gifted them a polite nod or a bright, phony smile that inexplicably worked wonders. His gaze roved the clusters of women, and she had the unsettling sensation he was searching for someone in particular.
God forbid it be her.
She set her cup down on the empty chair beside her, already scouting the salon for the best route of escape. Couldn’t go back to the ballroom—that path was a quagmire full of well-meaning Society matrons who would never let her pass unnoticed. She glanced the other way. Perhaps the back exit? The path was clear, but who knew what lay on the other side? It was a risk she’d have to take. She rose, ducked her chin, and scurried out.
An empty corridor greeted her. She rushed toward the doorway at the far end, the thick, ruby red carpet muffling her footsteps. But as soon as she’d breached the doorway, she was halted by a blast of cool wind and an impatient guest shouting at a bellhop. Oh no. She’d found the hotel’s busy entrance foyer. What if she ran into an acquaintance, or worse, someone she worked for? She had no coat. No chaperone. The risk was too great.
Biting her lip, she backtracked. There—two doors! How had she missed them? Shaking her head, she tugged at the first door handle. It was locked. Spinning around with mounting panic, she tried the second. It opened, and she peeked inside. It was dark, quiet, and empty. With a sigh of relief, she slipped into the room, shut the door, and shoved the lock into place.
Safe at last.
Resting her forehead against the white panel door, she drew deep breaths. When her heart stopped racing, she lifted her head and squinted around the darkened room. There was just enough corridor light seeping through the door cracks to make out a small table and candelabra. Gingerly, she felt around the table until she located a matchbook. The pungent smell of sulfur was welcome; the light even more so.
She seemed to have stumbled upon a service area the size of a large pantry. Narrow worktables lined the walls, neatly stacked with fresh linens, polished silverware, and gleaming wine glasses. Nothing out of the ordinary…except for the faint but pleasant aroma drifting from the dumbwaiter on the far wall.
She took a step forward, then halted. Was it wise to poke her nose into something she shouldn’t? The risk was low—she’d locked the door herself. Temptation tugged at her, the rich scent behind the panel mingling with the knowledge that no one would know. She hesitated, the sensible part of her whispering to leave well enough alone. But for once, her curiosity was stronger than caution. She lit the remaining candles, then tugged open the dumbwaiter door with a quiet thrill.
Inside, the cabin hung suspended between floors, frozen in place by a damaged guide rail. Three gleaming silver trays sat on shelves, their surfaces still warm and laden with dishes. She could imagine the bustling kitchen below, unaware that their trays had never left the shaft. With cautious fingers, she peeked inside each dish.
The top tray held an array of delicate puff pastries, each golden and perfectly crisp. The second tray showcased a spread of roasted vegetables, their earthy aroma mouthwatering. But the third tray was what set Olive’s stomach growling. A roasted ham, its skin perfectly crisped and glazed, sat in a pool of juices as though it had only just been carved.
Her stomach let out a plaintive growl. She could only imagine how delicious and nourishing the ham was. How perfectly it would improve her mother’s watery stew. How her little brother needed meat to grow big and strong. How, if the Beckets didn’t buy meat scraps this week, there would be extra coins for coal on the coldest nights. Her hand was already removing a handkerchief from her pocket before she realized what she was doing. She scooped up several slices of meat and wrapped them with a swift efficiency that left her breathless.
For the first time in her life, she was truly a thief.
She blinked back furious tears, the once-safe room now as small and tight as a mousetrap. She spun around, then grunted in pain as her hip collided with the worktable. She watched, agog, as a box of silver serving cutlery teetered, then crashed to the floor. Ladles, tongs, and sugar spoons clattered across the floorboards like fledgling ice-skaters, colliding and careening out of control. She cringed, certain someone would pound on the door and demand an explanation. But nothing happened.
“Quickly, Olive,” she whispered. “Fix this and go home.”
Tossing the handkerchief full of ham on the countertop, she knelt on the floor and scooped up the fallen silver. She was on the verge of standing when she spotted an ornate cake server and serving spoon wedged in the slim gap between the wall and the worktable. For half a second, she debated leaving them behind, but she hated to think someone else might be blamed for her mistake. With a grumble, she crawled under the worktable and freed the errant pieces.
Shuffling backward with her hands full, though, proved difficult. Her knees tangled in her skirts, and the crown of her head scraped painfully against the underside of the table. She paused to think, then slid the spoon into one sleeve and the cake server up the other. She had just crawled out when the door—the locked door, for pity’s sake—opened with an accusatory creak.
“What are you doing?”
No.
Not that voice.
Not the voice that made her toes curl and her breath catch.
