The foyer of the hotel was deserted, and when she looked through into the dining room it looked as if nothing had been cleaned or moved since the morning. The great chandeliers hung unlit and palely gleaming in the crack of light showing from beneath the kitchen door, but the place was eerily quiet. A single lamp shone forlornly on the registration desk. Caro revised downwards her chances of a gracious meal in the dining room that night.
There was a muffled roar of laughter from somewhere beyond the hotel walls and she remembered the public bar that she had passed earlier in the day, the one that Aunt Charlotte had told her that Mr Thwaites ran. Well, that at least sounded like a thriving business. They would probably have a fire going there. Maybe even something to eat! It was snowing again and she stood for a captivated moment on the veranda, watching the fluffy flakes twirling delicately in the air. Light from the long windows of the bar streamed out over the ground, illuminating the white layer of snow, giving a fairytale appearance to the otherwise mundane street.
She knew she had made a mistake the moment she set foot over the doorstep. The bar was much bigger than she had thought, and filled with men. Dozens of them. One by one they stopped laughing and shouting and put their drinks down to stare at her. The heat and smell of alcohol hit her face like a blow.
However, it was too late now to back down.
She wove her way between the tables, ignoring outstretched hands that would have detained her, to the bar, where a scruffy-looking individual in shirtsleeves was wiping out glasses.
‘Sorry, lass, can’t serve you,’ he said shortly before she even reached the bar.
‘Aw, go on with you, Bill,’ someone very drunk bellowed behind her. ‘She looks like she needs a little servicin’!’
The coarse male laughter gripped Caro’s insides with terror, but not for the world would she have shown it. She rested the tips of her fingers lightly on the bar to stop their trembling.
‘I’d like to see Mr Thwaites if he’s here, please,’ she said quietly enough, but as for the anticipatory hush in the room she may as well have shouted the words.
The bartender’s eyes travelled down assessingly and up insultingly. ‘’Fraid you can’t, lass.’
‘Is he here?’ she persisted, dreading the thought of having to brave the male barrage alone on her way out.
‘Maybe.’ He lifted his lips in something between a smirk and a sneer.
‘Then I’d like to see him, please.’
‘’Ere, me darlin’.’ A red-faced little man nudged her elbow as he fumbled with his trousers. ‘Why don’t you see me instead, eh?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she began blankly, wondering what conceivable interest the little man thought she would have in his belt. A second before his trousers dropped to his knees a tall body interposed itself between them.
‘I think, madam, you should leave.’
She looked up to an unshaven, weary face of indeterminate age.
‘I’m here to see Mr Thwaites,’ she said tersely, resenting the light pressure being exerted on her upper arm. She was not used to being manhandled.
‘Then I suggest another time, madam. In the morning, perhaps.’ He turned her around to face the door, raising his elbow as he did so and accidentally jabbing the throat of a man who was about to lunge at her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said politely as his victim staggered back with a yelp. ‘Very careless of me.’
There was a grumbled chorus of disappointment as she was marched to the door, but no one impeded their progress. Within seconds she was back out on the veranda, rigid with rage and the cold.
‘I’m not going to thank you, you know!’ she snapped.
‘I wouldn’t dream of presuming that you would, madam.’
‘I only went in there to see someone,’ she went on, cross with herself that she had to somehow justify what was now apparent as recklessness.
‘I think you were about to see quite a lot for a young lady,’ he said evenly. Despite her humiliation and anger his voice intrigued her, with its clipped perfect enunciation that she had only ever heard before in the Governor-General’s residence in New South Wales. Her mother would have been most impressed.
But not if she had seen him. His clothes were old and worn, his hair was unkempt and—Caro could not help but wrinkle her nose—he smelt, mostly of drink. I should feel sorry for him, she reminded herself, but that was impossible. Someone who looked like a tramp had no right to the irritating mannerism of sounding apologetic when he plainly was not. She met his gaze squarely and then rather wished she hadn’t. There was a deadness in his brown eyes that chilled her. She found herself wondering if he was really even seeing her.
‘Well, I suppose I should thank you,’ she began indifferently, but already he had turned on his heel and returned to the bar with only the most cursory of nods. Incensed by his rudeness, she thought for a moment about following him back in and telling him what she thought, before common sense prevailed. Drawing her shawl tightly against the cold, she turned back into the hotel.
The foyer was still dimly lit, but no longer deserted. Charlotte was there, talking in rapid, hushed tones to a tall, well-dressed man in his thirties who was leaning nonchalantly against the desk, apparently listening to her with only half his attention. His pale eyes swept over Caro with the appreciation of a connoisseur as she made her entrance in a flurry of snowflakes.
‘Well, well, well. Now, you must be the niece,’ he said softly as he straightened up. ‘There’s no mistaking the resemblance.’
‘Oh, Caroline, there you are!’ Her aunt seemed flustered, her fingers working nervously at the fine silk shawl clutched around her shoulders. ‘Come and meet Harold, darling.’
‘Miss Morgan,’ he murmured, extending his hand. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. Although I’d never expect Charlotte to have a niece who wasn’t utterly lovely.’ Caro was well used to flattery, and this man was obviously a close friend of her aunt’s, but still she hesitated before offering her hand to him. When he brought it to his lips she had to make a real effort not to flinch away. She wasn’t sure why she should react to him so—perhaps it was his boldness or air of absolute confidence. He seemed to mistake her unease for shyness and he held her hand for much too long, amusement lighting the etched lines of his face. The word ‘dissolute’ flashed into Caro’s mind.
‘Where have you been?’ Charlotte said to the man beside her with just a trace of reproach in her voice. ‘I couldn’t find you in your room when that dreadful Oliver was threatening me…’
‘Come now, Charlotte,’ Harold said in tolerant amusement. ‘He merely told you he was leaving your employment.’
‘But it was the manner in which he told me! He was so rude, Harold—you’ve no idea!’ She pouted prettily.
‘You should try paying your staff, my dear—then I can guarantee they won’t be rude to you.’
‘Oh, don’t preach so. You know I hate it.’ She looked up at him appealingly. ‘Now what shall I do? There’s only the cook and that silly chit of a girl left now—and goodness knows how long they’ll stay. I’ll have to shut the hotel down soon!’
He shrugged as if Charlotte’s problems were entirely trivial. ‘Let’s talk about it over dinner, shall we?’
‘I’m sure I could find something in the kitchen,’ Caro began uncertainly, but Harold and her aunt turned to her with looks of genuine surprise.
‘We’ll eat elsewhere, tonight,’ Harold said firmly. ‘We can’t have you cooking, Miss Morgan. That would never do.’ He held out an