“You’re giving me their room?”
“No, but there’s another one available. I assure you it’s clean and comfortable.”
“I’ve been traveling in a private car that was clean and comfortable.”
“Well, perhaps you’d like Frankie to take you back to the station. Your car is still there, isn’t it?”
“On a side track.”
“Then...?”
“If I’d wanted to stay there, Mr. Butterworth, that’s what I would have done, but it’s the middle of the night, I was looking forward to a bath—your suite does have a bath, I hope—and sleeping in a bed bigger than a coffin.”
“The suite does indeed have a bath, but since you won’t be able to use it until the Mastersons leave, I can arrange for a tub and hot water to be carried up to your room.”
“Wooden tub? I’ve seen pictures.”
“Copper with a muslin liner. I believe you’ve seen old photographs. The Butterworth is a modern hotel.”
Victorine offered a bland smile. “If modern means quaint, then it certainly is.”
Abe Butterworth opened the registration book and pushed it toward Victorine. He held out a pen. “If you intend to stay, I need you to sign the book.”
“When is that family leaving?”
“The day after tomorrow. In the morning if the trains are running on schedule.”
Huffing softly, she took the pen. “Then it could be a weekor more.” She signed her name. “I expect to have that suite as soon as it becomes available.”
“You will, Miss Headley. You have my word.”
“I thought I already had that,” she said, trading the pen for the key he held out. “I’ll expect my trunk shortly.”
Mr. Butterworth nodded and watched her go. Behind her back, he gave Frankie Fuller a significant look meant to convey equal parts sympathy and dismay. Frankie grinned and clasped his hands, holding them about six inches forward of his belly, then he picked up Victorine Headley’s cases and followed in her haughty wake.
Abe’s good humor returned. He supposed that the boy had a good point. Miss Headley’s ill temper was likely related to her condition.
•••
Victorine slept until noon. That was why Roen didn’t see her in the dining room when he went to collect his lunch at the Butterworth. He left alone for the location he had mapped out. It was out of the question that Lily could join him when she’d ticked off all the things she had to do that day. Roen noted that once again none of the seven things included finding a housekeeper. He had considered asking Ellie for a recommendation but bit back the question in the event that Lily changed her mind. The decision had to be hers, and what seemed so logical, even natural, when they first struck the deal might be giving her second thoughts as time passed.
He missed her, though, and had every day since their initial excursion. She was a restful and conscientious companion. She asked thoughtful questions, followed directions, and listened. If he could have glimpsed into her mind, he was sure he would have seen an elaborate arrangement of cogwheels turning furiously. She was a quick study, and it was further confirmation that Clay took after her.
Roen’s chuckle made his horse nicker. He leaned forward and patted the animal’s neck. “That’s right, boy. She’s a fast learner. Cautious, too. But neither of those is helping her see that she’s standing on the tracks and this train is barreling down on her.”
•••
Martin Cabot also slept late. Victorine had been stubbornly opposed to him taking a room at the Butterworth; therefore, he showed up at Mrs. Brady’s boardinghouse in the middle of the night and considered himself fortunate to share a bed with only one other occupant. The man woke long enough to introduce himself as Clark Bennett, laid claim to the left side of the bed, and promptly returned to sleep. Martin never heard him leave in the morning, so there was no time to learn anything about Mr. Bennett. Martin did that after he woke, going through the man’s possessions to determine the man’s trade, the depth of his pockets, and whether or not he carried weapons. Martin Cabot’s own pistol fit neatly in a leather holster strapped to his chest and was virtually invisible under his jacket. If Bennett had something similar, he was certainly wearing it. Martin wasn’t worried. He could sniff that out. He was also able to conclude that his bedmate was a salesman, in this instance a hawker of medicines. There was no case to examine, but plenty of sample bottles lined the top of the dresser. The man’s clothes were modest but of decent quality, leading Martin to the opinion that Bennett was moderately successful at what he did.
It could be worse, Martin concluded. These drummers moved on and then he would have the room to himself. It would cost Victorine, and she would fuss about it, but she would pay in the end. She’d have to; otherwise he would be moving into the Butterworth. Her edict that he keep his distance be damned. It did nothing but make his job more difficult anyway.
Because he rose late, Mrs. Brady was no longer serving breakfast. She never served a meal in the afternoon and told him if he wanted dinner, it arrived at the table promptly at six. There were currently seven other boarders, five of whom regularly appeared at dinnertime. Mrs. Brady was tall, angular, and carried herself with military bearing. Without saying as much, she managed to communicate that she expected to know his intentions. Martin’s response was polite but noncommittal, and he left without making a distinct impression, which was always his goal.
Martin arrived at the Butterworth thirty minutes later after he’d taken a brisk walk around the town. He stopped in several shops and looked around but never introduced himself and bought nothing except a newspaper. He smiled pleasantly at those who looked in his direction. He even ran into Clark Bennett trying to sell his wares at the druggist’s. Mr. Bennett didn’t recognize him, which pleased Martin.
The Butterworth’s wraparound porch was an appealing feature. He counted ten rockers across the front and imagined there were more along the side. Snow dusted all of them. It was too cold to sit outside, but he could picture people using them in every other season. If he wasn’t tortured by boredom first, he could see himself settling in Frost Falls.
Victorine was not in the dining room. Either she had risen early and already been, which was unlikely, or she would appear sometime while he was enjoying his meal, which would ruin it. A third possibility was that she would have breakfast in her room, but the Butterworth did not strike him as an establishment that would offer that amenity. He hoped he was wrong.
