Now ’tis his cheeks that burn. “No, no. I’m not saying she sees you as I do. She values you and your work. She’s fond of you.”
“Oh? And you see me different? How is it that you see me?” God help me, I’m so brazen I shock myself.
His fingers curl around mine. He’s done that a few times, and every time it sets my hand on fire.
“Let’s have supper tonight,” he says.
That means he’ll be stealing from the kitchen again. I’ve warned him against doing it, but he’ll not listen. He’d rather see my face when he brings something for us to share under the streetlamp. I should stop him, but I’m content when we are together. And when he shares that food, from beef to chicken to even salmon one night, I couldn’t be happier. So I say yes.
We pause outside the hotel’s staff entrance. “I’ll bring you something you’ll like,” he promises, then he leans in, kisses my cheek, and vanishes down to the kitchen before I can object.
Not that I would.
I am beginning to think I should visit Father William. I don’t like the man. He’s a right pup, with his weaselly face. I don’t like his smell, and I have never made it through one of his sermons without daydreaming. But he is the priest of the community. He is the one I must speak with about my feelings for Damien. I shudder, thinking of facing him over this.
The tickle of Damien’s lips on my cheek stays with me as I go downstairs and change into my uniform. Before I begin my day, I stop in to see Mrs. Evans. It is surprising to me how close she and I have become. ’Tis not like a regular friendship, because she is about twenty years older, and besides, we cannot gossip. Do you know, since I’ve started working here, I’ve realized that gossip makes up more of a conversation than you’d think. Other than that, I’m not sure what to talk about. What does that say about us? Still, safe to say, me and Mrs. Evans have a sort of understanding between us.
“How’s your granny?” she asks. She’s told me before that she had a nanthat sounds much like mine. She’s not around anymore, but Mrs. Evans likes to remember her when I speak of my own granny.
“She’s the same as she always is,” I say, recalling the scene. “I bought her a sweetie with my tips yesterday, and didn’t her face go sour when I handed it to her. ‘Ah, ’tis evil of ye, bringin’ me sugar like this,’ she said, but then she sucked on the thing for as long as she could, not saying another word.”
Mrs. Evans smiles with nostalgia. “You’re a good girl, Rosie, bringing her gifts. She won’t be here forever.” She tilts her head. “What’s on your mind? You seem out of sorts, and that’s not like you.”
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Evans. It’s only I’ve a friend who’s been asking if I could get her an interview with you.”
Her face tightens into her business mask, all straight lines. “I see. She wants to work here as you do? Should I hire her?”
“?’Tis not for me to say, ma’am.”
“Would she work hard? Be a good employee of the hotel?”
“Maybe she would, but I’ll not swear to it. Still, she’s a lovely girl, and she’s been my friend all my life.”
“That’s not an answer to either of my questions.”
I exhale. I’ve been dreading this meeting for days now, ever since I told Bianca I’d ask. I have already prepared what to say, and Damien said to just tell her the truth, so I bring the words from my brain to my mouth. Mrs. Evans regards me closely as I do, her long fingers steepled in front of her nose.
“Bianca is a little younger than me and has loads of energy, ma’am. She keeps her mother’s house clean, there’s no question. She tends to eight little ones all day long, which I’d say is a test for the most patient of us. But you’d know better if she’s suitable. Would you meet with her, please?”
Mrs. Evans studies me. “I’d like to know why you are hesitant.”
“?’Tis only I wouldn’t want to tell you one thing when your mind’s on another.”
She is unconvinced. She is trying to read my mind while she taps her fingers on her desk. “Tell her she can come tomorrow at eleven o’clock, and not a minute later.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Evans.”
“Now, Rosie, I’ve another matter to discuss with you, since we are speaking of people’s characters. I’ve seen you of late with that charming young waiter, Mr. Walsh.”
Heat rushes into my face. “Aye, he’s a good friend.”
“I’d like to warn you away from him.”
My face tingles at that, like it doesn’t know whether to smile or scowl. His lips still press against my cheek.
“But why, ma’am? He’s a fine young man, and he’s good to me.”
“That may be so, but there’s scuttlebutt that Mr. Walsh is doing extra work outside of the hotel, and his other boss is of unlawful character.”
