“An exceptionally wealthy real estate developer and race horse breeder.” When Mr. Donahue raised an eyebrow in question she said, “He’s in his fifties and has already outlived two wives, neither of whom was able to grant him the heir he desires.”
“I begin to see where you come in and why you might be averse to the match, but surely you could have found a better solution for yourself than Mr. Westchester.”
She would not mention the debt her father was in. To Mr. Thorkilson, of all people. Or how the man had demanded her hand in marriage in order to clear it unless her father returned what he owed. Her father had done what he could to gain extra time and had been allowed a four-month extension while Mr. Thorkilson travelled to California on business. When the first month came to an end though, Papa had told her he’d not given up on trying to find a solution, but that it might be prudent of her to prepare for the worst.
By then she’d already been corresponding with Peter for nearly a year, following a notice he’d placed in the Times, requesting responses from American women who’d like to marry a British gentleman. Calista had found the idea intriguing so she’d responded without much thought. During the time in which they’d written each other, she’d developed an undeniable fondness for him though she worried his affections for her were far greater, based on the tone of his letters.
The last thing she’d wanted to do was deceive him with notions of love. And yet, she feared she might have done precisely that in her effort to save herself from what she believed to be a worse fate than marrying a man she’d never met.
“There was no better option for me,” Calista said. When she’d mentioned Mr. Thorkilson to Peter and told him why she must marry him, he’d assured her he’d settle her father’s accounts himself if that was what it took for her to come to England. He’d promised he could afford it and she still believed that was true, though it made little difference now. Peter was dead. Her father still owed Mr. Thorkilson five thousand dollars. And her attempt at helping her father and herself had been a terrific failure.
Mr. Donahue downed the remainder of his drink and set his glass on his desk with a clank. “Well, you cannot go back to the kitchen now that I know you don’t belong there. For now, you’ll be shown up to one of the spare bedchambers while I look for someone to see you safely returned to New York.”
“So you’re not turning me out?” she asked, stunned by how the expected outcome of this conversation had changed.
“Not a chance.” He retrieved a key from his desk drawer and crossed to the door. “Come on, Miss Smith. Let’s get your things.”
6
Steven exited his office, glad to find Mr. Greene absent for once. The manager did an excellent job of running the Imperial, but his personality left much to be desired. Explaining Miss Smith’s continued stay and rise in status within these walls was a conversation Steven preferred to leave for later, after Miss Smith had been properly settled.
When Steven stopped by Mr. Greene’s office some weeks ago, the note of desperation he’d heard in her voice had squeezed his heart. Muffled though it was on account of the door, Steven had not taken note of her diction however, so when Mr. Greene had brought up her lack of qualifications, Steven had told him to give the poor woman whatever position Mr. Greene thought appropriate.
Scullery maid had apparently fit that bill.
Heaven help him, he’d had a clear vision of how his meeting with her would go, and yet here he was with her now as his guest. Because it was obvious to him that she was a gently bred woman. As such, he could not let her fend for herself any more than he could kick a puppy. If anything bad happened to her he’d be to blame.
No, the only option he saw was the one he’d suggested: to help her get back to her family in New York with as little fuss as possible.
He led the way to the servants’ stairs and held the door open for her. Her arm brushed his in the narrow space – an unavoidable occurrence, though one that sent a peculiar jolt of awareness through him. He stilled for a moment and frowned while Miss Smith began descending the stairs, then shook himself free when he realized she was heading in the wrong direction. “Where are you going?”
She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder, her expression puzzled. “To the kitchen.”
He knit his brow. “May I ask why?”
“You said you wished to get my things.”
“Yes. Which is why I imagine we ought to be going that way, toward the bedchambers in the servants’ quarters.” He indicated the stairs leading up.
A funny smile touched her lips – the sort that foreshadowed a dark revelation. Steven’s gut twisted as foreboding settled within him. And then she said, “I do not have a bedchamber, Mr. Donahue. Only the pantry.”
Her words slammed into him with the force of a bareknuckle punch to the chest. Air whooshed out of him and before he could stop himself, he’d reached out and grabbed her arm. He met her gaze with steely determination. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see,” she said and pulled her arm free. Turning away, she continued her descent.
Steven reluctantly followed though he was beginning to think he’d rather not know the extent of her ill-treatment under his roof. Yet he had to. This was his place of business, his responsibility. If any servant was being abused he had to be made aware, whether he wished it or not.
So he followed her down the rest of the stairs and through the short hallway beyond. They arrived in the kitchen, where Mrs. Elkins was kneading dough while issuing instructions to her two assistants. Meanwhile one of the waiters, a Mr. Richard Grant, was collecting some dishes prepared by a third assistant to Mrs. Elkins.
Mr. Grant glanced at Miss Smith and smirked. “Looks like she finally got her marching orders.”
“What business would that be of yours?” Steven asked. A perverse sense of satisfaction expanded his chest when the other man flinched. “Mind your own affairs or you might be next.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Grant dropped his gaze and quickly picked up the plates before hastening from the room.
When Steven glanced over his shoulder to watch his retreating form, his eyes met Mrs. Elkins’s. The satisfied gleam in her eyes as she watched Miss Smith plucked at his nerves. “You too. There’s a French chef clamoring for your position in case you weren’t aware.”
The cook immediately dipped her head and began kneading faster.
Steven made a mental note to address his staff’s potential shortcomings with Mr. Greene. He did not like the eagerness with which they seemed to hope for Miss Smith’s downfall – like a pack of hunting dogs descending on a wounded rabbit.
Irritated, he followed Miss Smith into the pantry and froze. A pallet was stacked against one wall with a sheet draped over the side. Next to it, pushed into a corner, stood a travelling trunk. A chill swept through him now that he had a clearer image of what Miss Smith’s existence here had been like. Anger began taking root, straining across his back and drawing his muscles tight. Even if she’d been an unschooled scamp born in the gutter, this was no way for her to be treated.
“Bloody hell.” He’d always prided himself on the excellent salaries and comfort with which his employees were compensated. Mr. Greene had always assured him… By God, he would murder that man where he stood once he found him.