Calista glanced around. The opulence of the space she was in came into slow focus, reminding her of where she was and all that had happened. The muted light falling through the high windows suggested it was early evening, which had to mean she’d slept for a couple of hours. She scrambled to her feet as another knock followed and quickly pulled the door open to find a very severe looking Mr. Donahue staring back at her with a frown – a frown that deepened as those dark mocha eyes of his studied her with increased focus.
Only then did she consider her appearance, but it was too late to worry about that now. “I’m fine.”
His gaze swept over her face with apparent disapproval, before roaming the rest of her body. “You haven’t bathed or changed your clothes.” He leaned in slightly, peering at her in a way that prompted her stomach to flop about like a fish out of water. But when he spoke again, it was with a strained whisper that somehow soothed her nerves. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” She did not want to reveal what Mr. Thompson had told her, or the subsequent tears she’d cried. She did not want him to see her the way she presently saw herself, as weak and pathetic.
His expression eased into more relaxed lines. He even gave her a gentle smile. “Please don’t lie to me, Miss Smith. I can see the tear stains on your cheeks. Remember, you’re my guest now, so if there’s an issue, I’d like for you to confide in me so it can be dealt with.”
Torn between stirring up trouble and answering the one man who’d shown her kindness since her arrival in London, Calista hesitated before informing him, “Mr. Thompson refused to have hot water brought up.”
“Did he say why?”
Her heart thumped nervously against her breast. She swallowed and quickly shook her head, unable to repeat what Mr. Thompson had told her.
“Hmm…” Mr. Donahue considered her for a long moment, then took a step back. “I’ll see to it myself then.”
“Oh no. There’s really no need. I can easily—”
“Miss Smith.” His firm tone brooked no argument. “Your bath will be ready within half an hour.”
Defeated, yet oddly relieved, Calista watched Mr. Donahue stride away before retreating to her room once more.
8
Bloody bollocks!
Furious in a way he had not been in years, if ever, Steven bounded down the stairs toward the kitchen. Since seeing Miss Smith – or whoever she was – to her room, he’d spoken with Mr. Greene at great length, before finally making the drastic decision to sack him without further ado. This had prompted the manager to reveal the censure and ill-treatment Miss Smith had faced from other staff members. Like the spineless bastard he clearly was, Mr. Greene had decided to take the rest of the awful people in Steven’s employ down with him.
Steven was grateful, though his muscles now itched for a fight. He dearly wanted to put Mr. Grant’s head through a wall, bloody his nose, and break his bones for what he’d put Miss Smith through. And she’d borne it, without a single word of complaint.
The very idea made him sick. Her upper class station aside, no woman deserved to be treated thus. The fact that it had occurred beneath his roof made him want to do bloody murder. He landed at the bottom of the stairs and strode forward with menacing darkness emanating from his person. When he’d seen her just now – noted the tears and rumpled dress, the haphazard locks in complete disarray – he’d instantly known her request for a bath, perhaps even food, had been ignored.
Worse, he suspected Mr. Thompson had said something truly awful to prompt the tears and the hopeless look he’d seen in her eyes. What, he could not imagine, though he reckoned whatever the comment had been, it had sprung from a place of jealousy. Miss Smith was being favored. Instead of sacking her, Steven had put her up in a bedroom intended for only the most important of guests, right next to his own and…
He came to an abrupt halt as realization dawned. He glanced back in the direction from which he’d come as a dreadful suspicion crept over his bones. Christ. He’d not explained his reasoning to anyone, he’d simply acted. Which made it look as though…
He swallowed, did his best to accept the magnitude of his own stupidity and how it affected Miss Smith. To anyone unaware of the facts, it looked like she’d propositioned him – offered herself to him – in exchange for him letting her stay on and as a means by which to improve upon her situation.
Damn!
He drew a deep breath. Nothing to be done now. He certainly wasn’t about to make excuses or divulge his reasoning to his staff. To do so would be beneath him, and at this point he wasn’t convinced it would even alter the manner in which the staff treated Miss Smith. But something else would, he was certain of it.
“In case you’re unaware,” he told the servants he found in the kitchen, “Mr. Greene has been dismissed, so until another manager can be hired, you will be answering directly to me. Is that clear?”
A murmur of agreement filled the air. Steven glanced from one servant to the next until he spotted Mr. Grant. His hands curled into fists as renewed anger shot up his spine. He took a deep breath and tamped down the urge to cross to where the waiter stood, grab him by the throat, and slam his head into the nearest counter. Instead he spoke past the tightness in his jaw. “Mr. Grant, you may pack your things. I never want to see you again.”
“But—”
“The same goes for you, Mr. Thompson,” Steven said, locating the first footman. “Get out. Both of you.”
Mr. Thompson sent him a scathing look which he returned in equal measure. He waited until both men were headed for the stairs before saying, “As for the rest of you, Miss Smith is now a guest here. You will answer her calls and treat her with the respect she deserves. Should you not wish to do so, you may seek employment elsewhere. And if I hear one more word about anyone here abusing another servant in my employ, you’ll be sacked on the spot without pay. Is that clear?”
Heads bobbed up and down in accordance with several strained yeses. Steven scowled at the lot of them. “I’ll trust you to pass the message along to anyone who isn’t here at the moment. Now help me carry some pails of hot water, Jimmy,” he told one of the water runners. The pipes Steven had installed during the hotel’s build were only capable of providing cold water at present, so he employed a team of young men whose primary job it was to carry hot water up to the rooms. “I promised Miss Smith her bath would be ready shortly.”
Silence followed as Steven shucked his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves. “Well?” he prompted. “Get on with it, then.”
Everyone jumped into action at once. A couple of maids rushed to the stove where they grabbed the kettles and started to pour hot water into pails while Jimmy fetched fresh water from the pump. Cook stirred the contents of a pot with increased vigor while a waiter snatched up a couple of ready dishes and hastened from the room.
Jaw set, Steven grabbed the first two pails and started for the stairs. He had a four story climb, which wasn’t much when they were taken empty handed. Weighed down by two large pails filled with water, however, he gained a new appreciation for the servants who readied at least twenty baths per day. Not that he minded the exertion. Indeed, it actually felt really good to use his body more than he did on an average day. Ordinarily, his weekly exercise consisted of a Saturday morning ride and boxing on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, whenever his schedule allowed.