Overcome by guilt and disgust, Steven stupidly asked Miss Smith, “Is this it?”
“Yes.”
Her confirmation sparked a dangerous desire within him – a need to seek satisfaction on her behalf. Lord help him, he’d never been the violent sort, but damn him if he didn’t want to hit something right now.
Tamping down the instinct, he went to pick up her trunk. “We’ll go back the way we came.”
She left the pantry without a word while he followed in her wake, like a pallbearer at a funeral. Spotting him, one of the footmen rushed forward, his hands outstretched. “Allow me to assist you with that, sir.”
“Get out of my bloody way,” Steven growled. He only regretted the footman’s shocked expression for a split second, until he saw the resentment with which he too regarded Miss Smith.
Setting his jaw, Steven decided it was time to give all his employees a thorough dressing down. If they were unwelcoming and unkind to any member of his staff, it could only lead to disharmony and stray hairs in his customers’ food. Clutching the trunk with unforgiving force, he trudged up the stairs behind Miss Smith. He would not tolerate insubordination or worse, deliberate sabotage, from anyone.
“Exit through that door,” he told her when they reached the second to last floor. She held the door wide, then waited for him to show the way. He strode along the familiar hallway. A plush burgundy runner crisscrossed with gold thread dampened his footfalls. The light from the gilt wall sconces cast a bright yellow glow, illuminating the white wainscoting on the walls as well as the landscape paintings he’d selected for this part of the hotel.
Steven drew to a halt immediately before they reached the end of the hallway. He set the trunk down and retrieved the key he’d brought with him. With deft movements he turned the lock and pushed the door open, then stepped aside and glanced at Miss Smith. “Your room, for the remainder of your stay here.”
7
Calista stepped inside the room and gaped in wonder. Lavishly furnished with pale blue silk, the sitting room she stood in was dressed in utmost luxury. A door, standing ajar at the opposite end, hinted at an equally extravagant bedchamber. Creamy limestone flooring covered by the occasional rug added warmth while gorgeous paintings of floral bouquets provided a tasteful splash of color. To be sure, the suite rivaled all other rooms she’d seen before.
She turned to Mr. Donahue, whose expression remained a mask of impenetrable sternness. “Are you sure?”
“Without a doubt. If you need anything, feel free to use the bell-pull over there. I would suggest a bath to start, considering where you’ve made your bed in recent weeks.” He winced. “My sincere apologies. I can assure you I will have terse words with Mr. Greene on that score.”
“Thank you, Mr. Donahue, but I don’t believe the servants will be willing to—”
“They will do as they are told, I can assure you.”
Not happily, Calista thought. She hated the idea of sending for them, of issuing orders and making demands. Perhaps it was foolish. Other young ladies in her position would likely relish the chance to seek revenge, but Calista wasn’t like that. She had no desire to face the people who’d made her life miserable, ever again. She simply wished to pretend it never happened and move on. But avoiding them would not be possible if she remained here. At the very least she’d have to interact with them when they served her meals. And Mr. Donahue was right – she could do with a good wash.
With this in mind, she straightened her spine and resolved to bury her apprehension. “Thank you, Mr. Donahue. Your hospitality and kindness are much appreciated.”
He gave a soft snort and bowed his head before taking his leave.
The door swung shut, leaving Calista alone. For the second time, she took in the room where she would be staying until she left England, then glanced at the trunk. She’d only one gown left – the one she’d arrived in – and while it was cut from fine linen, it now seemed ridiculously modest. Nevertheless, it would have to do. But first, the bath Mr. Donahue had recommended.
Ignoring the nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach, Calista crossed to the bell-pull and rang it.
Five minutes later, Mr. Thompson, the first footman, answered her summons. He stared at Calista with unfeigned shock when she opened the door.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like a hot bath please.”
“Is this a joke?” he asked while looking past her as if expecting a crowd of people to mock him the moment he agreed to do as she asked.
“No. It is not.”
He gave her a contemptuous look. “You’ve been putting on airs since the moment you got here, talking and acting like you’re so much better than all the rest of us. But you’re not, Jane. You’re a scullery maid, nothing more. So if you’re up here now, bedding down in grandeur right next to Mr. Donahue’s room, I can only assume you offered to give him what you’ve been refusing Richard, in exchange for him letting you stay.”
Calista gasped. “You think I’m—”
“See to your own damn bath.” He leaned in, so close she could clearly make out the darker lines of near black in his cedar colored eyes. His upper lip curled in a sneer. “I don’t serve whores.”
Ice drove into Calista’s heart, nearly freezing it in place. Her mouth fell open, but no words would form. She’d never been so harshly accused by anyone in her life, nor more offended, yet she could not figure out how to react. So she stood there, mute, dumbfounded and, she acknowledged, foolishly hurt, while Mr. Thompson straightened and offered her one last withering glare before striding away.
With air caught in her throat and her body shaking with humiliation, she backed up a step and closed the door. A tremulous exhalation eased the pressure lodged in her lungs. Sagging against the door, she slid to the floor with a sob that pushed its way through until her eyes welled with hot tears. She’d kept her composure when she’d arrived in London to learn that her hope of marrying Peter and helping her father out of his debt had been shattered, when the money she’d brought along had been stolen, and even after Richard had tried to force himself on her.
But Mr. Thompsons’ words were the final drop in her dismal puddle of despair. She could no longer stop it from overflowing and since she no longer wanted to try, she surrendered to it instead. Wracked by heartache, dejection, and futility, she cried while hugging her knees. Until she was so worn out she was sure she’d never be able to get up again.
Her stomach ached too from an onset of hunger. Through blurry eyes, she glanced toward the chorded bell-pull and gave a miserable laugh. What would be the point of ringing for food when no one would serve her anyway?
She’d be better off finding a nearby shop and spending some of her hard-earned wages on a bread roll or an apple. Whatever she could find. But since she lacked the energy to move, she remained where she was, slumped in a pitiful mess on the floor of the loveliest room she’d ever seen.
A knock vibrating the wood at her back made her start. She opened her eyes, stunned to realize she’d fallen asleep, and blinked in rapid succession. The knock came again, jolting her senses.
“Miss Smith?” Mr. Donahue’s voice spoke with clear efficiency. “Are you all right in there?”