“Good morning.” Garret came into the room, tossed his hat and leather gloves onto the shelf and shrugged out of his jacket.
“You’ve been outside already?”
He nodded, rubbed his hands together briskly, then sat in the chair. “For a couple of hours.”
“Whatever for?”
He tugged at one of his boots. “I had to shovel a path to the station in case the passengers want to come to town.”
“You! Where is your help?”
He tossed his boot onto the small rag rug, rubbed his foot and looked up at her. “Blake Latherop—he owns the general store next door—and Pastor Karl helped me.”
She stared. Last night he’d looked like a businessman who might be welcome in her father’s club. Today, in a coarse-woven blue cotton shirt with a narrow band for a collar and a placket with buttons—one missing—he looked like a laborer. If a handsome one. “I meant your hired help.”
He pulled off his other boot and stood. His brown twill pants were damp from midcalf to his knees. “Whisper Creek is a town in the making, Virginia. There is the general store, my hotel, an apothecary shop and soon-to-be doctor’s office, the church and a sawmill so far.” He came to join her on the hearth, held his hands out to the fire. “I suppose you can add in the railroad station and the laundry a Chinese family has out in the woods, though they’re not rightly part of the town. The point is, the owners run their businesses. There’s no one in town to hire. Mitch Todd—the sawmill owner and town builder—lures his construction workers from the railroad crews passing through.” He grinned, obviously amused at Mr. Todd’s ingenuity.
Uneasiness spread through her, made her stomach flop. There’s no one to hire.
“Fire feels good. Is there coffee?”
“I don’t—” The unease turned to full-blown apprehension as understanding dawned. She took a breath and shook her head. “I thought you had a maid.”
Anger swept over his face like a cloud and settled in his dark blue eyes. “Millie Rourk was to cook and clean for a wage, in addition to a good home and living.” He blew out a breath, shoved his fingers through his hair and fixed his gaze on her. “It’s getting late and I haven’t shown you around the hotel yet. I’ll make coffee when we come back. Have you breakfasted?”
“No. But I can wait until—”
“Follow me.”
He headed for the kitchen. She looked down at the poker she’d been gripping, put it back in its place and trailed after him. Guilt tugged at her. He was right; Millie would have been the perfect wife for him. She on the other hand—
“Have a seat.”
He motioned to the table and chairs along the back wall she’d noticed last night, pulled out an end chair and held it for her. He’d turned up the oil lamps hanging above the massive table in the center of the kitchen. The light gleamed in the polished wood of the bare table in front of her. She glanced up at the window—also bare.
“Here we are.” He set two small plates, napkins and flatware on the table, left and returned quickly with two glasses of water and a towel-covered basket. A small crock dangled by its bail from his little finger. “I’m sorry there’s not time to have a real breakfast, but this is delicious bread. Ivy Karl bakes it, and she’s kind enough to sell me some.” He handed her the basket, then sat in the chair at the other end of the table.
She unfolded the towel, and a mouthwatering aroma of freshly sliced bread rose. She placed one of the slices on her plate, handed him the basket and picked up her knife to dip into the butter in the crock he’d opened. The first bite of bread was better than the smell. She took another bite.
“Be careful of the water. It’s from the waterfall and icy cold.”
“There’s a waterfall?” She took a tentative sip from her glass and shivered.
“On the mountain out back.” He took another bite of his bread and nodded toward the window. “That’s why John Ferndale located the town here in this valley. If you like, I’ll take you to see it one day when the weather warms.” He took another bite of his bread and glanced at her plate.
He was in a hurry. She applied herself to finishing her slice, wished she had time for another. “I’m ready for the tour of the hotel.”
“Time is getting short. We’ll leave these dishes here.” He rose and came to pull out her chair. “I’ll show you what you need to see for today. The rest can wait until later tonight or tomorrow. We’ll go through the kitchen. This dining table is for the help—when I have some.” His lips curved in a wry grin that tugged her own lips into a responsive smile, even while her stomach sank. She had ruined Garret Stevenson’s plans.
“This room is huge.”
“It will need to be when the hotel is full. There are twenty-six rooms. Add in mates and children, and that’s a lot of people to be fed.”
It was indeed.
“And then, of course, there will be those who come only to dine. Passengers first, but residents, too, as Whisper Creek grows.”
He would need to hire a cook. And meantime...her stomach tensed. He ushered her to the door she’d peeked through last night, and they entered a large dining room. She caught her breath at the beauty of the Hepplewhite servers, tables and chairs. A corner cupboard, painted a darker gray than the dove-gray plastered walls, stood on the outside wall on her left. A long banquet table and evenly spaced small tables filled the room. Extra chairs sat in the corners. Red-and-white patterned china and a pewter chandelier and sconces added bright touches that caught the eye. But it was the paneled fireplace wall that held her gaze. The workmanship quality was equal to that in her father’s library. “It’s a beautiful room, Garret.”
Pleasure flashed across his face. “I studied some of the best hotels and restaurants before I left New York. I want people to be so comfortable in my hotel they don’t want to leave.” He pushed open one of the doors flanking the fireplace and stepped back.
She entered the hotel lobby and looked around to orient herself. In a cozy corner on her right was a game table and bookshelves. On her left was the fireplace with two padded chairs facing it. Beyond that was the hotel entrance. An aura of welcome and comfort impressed itself upon her.
She moved ahead to stand by the long paneled desk, her hems whispering across the polished wood floor.
“Are you familiar with the procedure for staying at a hotel?”
“I know one must register and pay. I’ve never done so.”
He gave her a measuring look. “Your maid registered for you, while you were escorted to your room by the concierge.”
She treated his statement as a question. “Yes.”
His face went taut. “This is where the guests sign their name and address. Like this...” He opened a leather register resting beside a bell and a pewter pen and ink holder, and turned it so she could see.
She glanced at the few names entered and nodded.
“The fee is one dollar and a half per night. When they pay they are assigned a room, their money is placed in the till on the shelf under the counter, and they are given the key to their room. The keys are there.” He pointed behind the desk to numbered cubbyholes holding keys. “Duplicate keys are in my office—through that door under the stairs.”
“Your office also has a door from the hall in your private quarters.”
“Yes. It’s convenient to be able to enter or exit from either side. Now...any additional charges for the guest are noted beside their name in the ledger, and a note specifying the charge is placed in their box. Also,