“We'll be pushed to deal with them as well as running the tea room,” Aoife banged a wicker basket on the table, shunting the ledger several inches sideways. “How about a waitress or two?” She splayed her fingers inside a pair of gossamer fine white gloves, her head tilted to admire them; a gift from Grace to celebrate the opening of the tea room.
“Some extra help in the kitchens would be welcome,” Leon said, appearing at the door of the storeroom, his jacket slung over an arm. “I wouldn’t mind getting off on time on occasion.”
“Noted, Leon and thank you for all your hard work.” Grace pointedly shifted the ledger back to its original position.
“Good night then, Grace. See you tomorrow, Aoife.” Leon touched his hat to both of them before he disappeared through the back door.
“One more waitress then, and a kitchen hand. I’m surprised you get on so well with Tilly,” Grace said. “I would have expected you to be less tolerant of the way she flirts with Leon.” Their cook had taken one of his rare evenings off, so Grace felt comfortable enough to mention his name. Usually when that happened, he would pop up from wherever he was hiding and catch her.
“And just about every other tradesman who walks through the kitchen door.” Aoife sniffed. “Ach, she’s such a mouse, and don’t have the nose for a good spat. It’s only worth doing if they fight back.”
“Hush, Aoife, Leon might be out, but Tilly is upstairs. You know how sensitive she is to criticism. You look lovely by the way.” Grace smiled as she took in Aoife’s dress with its marigold colored skirt overlaid with primrose moiré silk that floated as she walked. “Are you off to this basket social with Jake?”
Aoife recently began attending the Catholic St Dunstan’s in Great George street, less for its spiritual life, Grace suspected, and more because the Irish youth of the area congregated there for social occasions.
One evening she brought back to the hotel a young man whom she introduced to Grace in a way which revealed she longed for approval. She need not have worried as Grace took an instant liking to Jake Brennan, a stocky young man unable to sit still. He either jiggled his knee or drummed his fingernails on a table top. Keen brown eyes shone in his cheerful, bronzed face shadowed by the peak of his ever-present cap.
He always leapt to his feet whenever Grace appeared and addressed her as ma’am, or Miss Grace, though she told him repeatedly that both made her feel old.
His father had worked on the fishing boats and was taken in the same hurricane which took Marge's son, making him the main provider for the family.
“I am, but don’t you go reading anything into it,” Aoife insisted. “Jake’s a friend and he’s going to stay that way.”
“Marrying your friend is often the guarantee of a successful marriage.”
“Mebbe, but it helps to have a man who’s worth looking at too.”
“I know what you mean.” She nursed a secret smile as an image of Andrew Jardine jumped into her head.
“Is that another letter from Miss Montgomery?” Aoife indicated the corner of an envelope that peeked out from beneath the accounts book.
“It is. She's invited me to visit her in Cavendish. Maybe a day beside the sea would do me good.”
“We are beside the sea; it's only a block that way.” Aoife cocked her head towards the street.
“I meant long deserted beaches and wide open countryside.”
“Then you should go, Grace. You’re all work these days and don’t have any fun. You wouldn’t even come to hear the band play at the Queen square bandstand last night with Jake and me.”
“I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I enjoy working here with all of you. The Grace and Favor is my life.”
“Well it shouldn't be. It will do you good to take some time away. The only letters you get apart from supplier's bills are from Miss Maud.”
‘Who else would write to me? You know I have no family,’ Grace replied, mildly irritated.
Aoife had a point. Were all her friends destined to be passing acquaintances like the Cahills, or people she employed? Aoife was young, so there was every chance she would seek another life before long. Perhaps with Jake Brennan. She was too much of a free spirit not to.
‘You must have friends,” Aoife persisted. “People you knew in London. Don’t they want to know how you go on?’
“Possibly.” Though at that moment Grace couldn't put a name to anyone she could regard as a real friend. “They have no idea where I am.” Not that she dared write to anyone in case it alerted them to where she was. The shadow of Angus MacKinnon still hovered on some days.
She refolded Maud's letter and returned it to the envelope. She couldn't explain why, but lately she had begun to miss England. Not her father-in-law or his self-obsessed wife, or his fussy sisters, but the village where she spent most of her life. She even missed Frederick on occasion. The sound of his laugh, which had been all too infrequent, reminded her that one person cared about her. Once.
“Incidentally, what exactly is a basket social?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I didn't know either until Jake explained it,” Aoife wandered to the mirror above the sink and pouted at her reflection. “All the girls take a basket full of their best home-cooked food which is auctioned off. Only the men don't know which basket belongs to which girl. Whoever bids the highest amount gets to eat the food with you.”
“Suppose you don't care for the man who wins your basket?”
“Don't you worry, I shan't be leaving anything to chance. Jake will know which is mine.”
“And if a person bids higher than Jake?”
“Huh, he won't let that happen. Not if he knows what's good for him.” She hung the basket over her arm and headed for the back door. “I’ll be back by ten so don’t lock me out.”
Grace took Maud's letter out again and re-read it, hearing her friend’s voice inside her head, the only sound in the room the tick of the stove as it cooled.
Uncle Leander informed me that unlike most years, he won’t be bringing his family to stay with Grandmother and me this summer. I tried to appear sad, when he told me, but he cannot imagine my relief. He has spared me having to cook, clean and tend to my boisterous cousins, not to mention aunts and uncles for days on end. My days shall be so pleasant and peaceful I feel quite amiable. It would be a perfect time for you to take advantage of my altered mood and come to stay.
Do tell me you will come, Grace. I should love it if we can spend some time together before winter closes in and I become isolated again. If this winter is anything like the last, I should surely expire. The snow was as high as the roof and the house gloomy as dusk all day. We didn’t leave the fireside for weeks.
I am so glad to hear the hotel is doing well even if I cannot be there.
Your true friend in spirit.
Maud
Grace replaced the letter in the envelope and stowed it away safely in the box in her room where she kept all of Maud's correspondence. She returned to the kitchen and her invoices, receipts and lists of supplies, one eye on the bell board for any guests who might require a late night drink or more towels.
The desk in her sitting room had been arranged as a private place to work, but she preferred the kitchen with its atmosphere of activity and sociable chatter and enjoyed Aoife’s cheerful banter with the guests, or her gentle teasing of the shy Tilly, while Leon entreated them to try another of his recipes.
The clock in the hall chimed ten. Grace closed the ledger with a thump, her arms stretched over her head, frowning at the fact Aoife was later than promised, which was unlike her. Grace put the kettle on the hob to boil water for tea, then took some old newspapers into the yard. She was about to come back inside when the sound of raised voices reached her.
She eased open the gate and peered round the jamb to where three people stood talking in the lane. The figure in a pale dress was recognizable as Aoife, the one beside her was undoubtedly Jake. They stood with another man Grace did not recognize. She could
n't make out their conversation, only the timbre of their words which was clearly confrontational. Had something happened at the church to upset them?
Aoife wagged a finger in front of the second man’s face but was immediately pulled away by Jake.
The man turned and moved off down the lane, though he appeared to be in no hurry.
Aoife called after him. Her words sounded as if she was casting doubt on his parenthood before Jake grasped her by the shoulders and propelled her towards the gate.
Before they saw her, Grace darted back into the kitchen, just as the kettle boiled. She busied herself making tea when Aoife stormed into the room, scowling at Jake who followed her in.
“Did you have a nice time?” Grace asked, frowning as she watched Jake carefully lock the door.
“You didn't have to haul me away like that.” Ignoring Grace's question, Aoife dumped the basket onto the table and turned furious eyes on Jake.
“You shouldn't have been quite so sharp with him,” he replied. “Doesn't do to upset the likes of him.”
“The likes of whom?” Grace asked, pouring hot water into a teapot.
Aoife shrugged. “No idea who he was. But he had a brass neck.” She nodded at the basket. “How much do you suppose I got for it?”
“The basket?” Grace raised an eyebrow. “By the look on your face, I would say you did very well.”
“That I did, I got Jake to bump up the price to four dollars.” She hooked a thumb at the young man who hovered by the door. “Then I passed out some of Leon's leftover pastries to those who hadn’t brought along any dessert. Told them where to get them, too.”
“You'll have Leon selling them out of the back door at this rate.” Grace smiled, wondering how she could ever manage without Aoife. “This man you were talking to. Was he the same one hanging around outside the tea room the other day?”
The man Grace spotted on opening day had come back several times since.
On one occasion Leon took off across the road to demand what he was doing, but he wasn't fast enough, and the fellow slipped away before he got there.
“No, it weren't him.” Aoife shook her head. “This bloke was younger. He had the cheek of the devil too.” She pronounced it ‘divil’. “He wanted to come inside to talk business, or so he said. I told him to sling his hook.”
“What did he want to discuss?” Grace asked, filling three cups with strong tea, mainly to stop her hand from shaking. She had a fair idea of what the man wanted to talk about but hoped she was wrong.
Aoife bit her bottom lip and Jake flushed and looked away.
“If it has anything to do with illicit liquor, you were right to send him away. I'm not interested,” Grace said.
“Not his liquor, Miss Grace,” Jake interjected. “He’s a messenger working for someone else.”
“Who?” Grace asked, the name on the tip of her tongue
“Does it matter? Whoever he is, it doesn’t do to upset the likes of him,” Jake warned.
“Most of my guests are ladies.” Grace filled a jug with milk and set it on the table. “The few gentlemen who come here don’t seem like hard drinkers. I doubt I’d be able to sell much even if I tried.”
“Some places just sell it under the table and pay the fines,” Aoife said. “It’s worth the risk to some.”
“Well, I don’t intend joining them,” Grace said. “I‘m still an outsider here and don't wish to draw unwelcome attention to myself. They can keep their rum and sell it elsewhere. From what you say there are plenty of people willing to do so.”
“There are, but you should still watch out,” Jake said. “The rum runners might have accepted your refusal for now, but they're the types not to take no for an answer. When they can see a lucrative outlet, they are reluctant to give up and American money is a huge draw.” Jake picked up two of the cups and handed one to Aoife.
“You seem to know something about it, Jake?” Grace said. “Are you trying to persuade me?”
“Not me, Miss Grace. I'm just warning you. He might not take kindly to a second refusal.”
Grace gulped a mouthful of tea which burned the roof of her mouth. Jake's words sounded too much like Keogh's for her liking.
Was she being naive to think she could avoid the bootleggers forever?
Chapter 20
Grace made a concerted effort to banish Andrew Jardine from her mind by burying herself in work at the hotel. The rooms were continually full, so much so that Grace turned people away. Leon was busy all day producing cakes for the tea room and gourmet dinners for their discerning guests at night. Never much of a cook, Grace even learned how to make Mrs M's molasses cookies which proved very popular with the customers taking morning coffee.
She employed a new chambermaid who came in each morning to make up the bedrooms and a middle-aged woman to keep the kitchen and storeroom as clean and tidy as Leon demanded. Aoife had graduated to the front desk where, under Grace’s tutelage, she greeted guests and kept the bookings in order.
The hot July days were exhausting and after a particularly busy morning, Grace handed over the afternoon customers to Aoife and went for a walk to clear her head.
“I'll be back before the dinner service,” she called through the kitchen door as she left.
Avoiding the bustle of Queen square where families gathered to listen to the band on a summer day, she headed to the quieter, less aesthetic Rochford square with its open spaces and haphazard arrangement of trees. She chose a bench beneath a low hanging branch of an ancient oak where she settled down for a quiet read of her copy of Elizabeth and her German Garden, the book she had bought at Maud's urging. The smell of freshly cut grass and meadow flowers added to the atmosphere.
Before long she was immersed in a charming story of a woman's love for her garden to the exclusion of all other company apart from her children.
The author's frustration showed through when unwelcome callers unanimously viewed her as being a wife abandoned by her husband to rot in the country, too loyal to him to complain.
Grace giggled at the writer's rejection of her German gardener’s insistence to plant flowers in straight rows, ignoring all her instructions for a wilder arrangement.
Leaving the square, she planned to collect a picture from the stationers on the way back to the hotel. Haszards had made a wonderful job of framing the botanical drawings she found in the house, which were now displayed proudly in the dining room. However, one of her first guests, the silent couple from New York, removed one from its hook for a closer look and dropped it, smashing the glass.
“I’ll wager she threw it at him,” Aoife said when she saw it; thus condemning their marriage to a swirling maelstrom of discontent. Grace reached the corner of Dorchester and Pownall streets when a shout alerted her to a commotion ahead. A small crowd gathered at the corner. With the intention of offering help if she could, she eased her way to the front, just as she heard a strangled voice call her name.
“Grace. Oh, Grace, thank goodness you’re here.” Mary Jardine crouched beside her daughter. “Please help. It's Isla.”
Isla Jardine lay on the boardwalk, pale and semi-conscious but no injury as far as Grace could see. Her face was flushed, each breath accompanied by a strangled croaking noise.
“Poor little thing,” said a matron who stopped to assist them. “I think she needs to be taken home, dear, and put to bed.”
“What happened?” Grace bent beside Mary. “Is she hurt?”
Mary shook her head. “She had a sore throat this morning, that's all. I was taking her for ice cream to cheer her up, but she just collapsed onto the road.”
Grace eased Isla into a sitting position, hoping it might make the child's breathing easier. “Isla, can you hear me?”
“I don't think she can!” Mary’s bottom lip quivered. “She doesn’t seem to know I'm here. I need to get her home and send for a doctor, but I can't see a cab anywhere.” She gazed along the street filled with tradesman's carts and buggies, though no ha
nsom or a hackney in sight. “There could be one in the next street, it's busier than here. Could you go and look for me, Grace?”
“Where's the nearest hospital?”
“What?” Mary's eyes widened. “Why, what's wrong with her?”
“There’s a crackle in Isla's breathing. We need to get her medical attention.” The words “before she stops altogether” Grace left unspoken.
Mary covered her face with her hands, not moving.
“The hospital, Mary, where is it?” Grace urged.
“There's the new one in Kensington Road.” The helpful matron pointed to the road behind them.
Grace lifted the child into her arms. Isla lay limp, her head thrown back, and her arms flung out to her sides. For such a small figure she was heavier than Grace anticipated.
“No, the Catholic Hospital on Haviland street is closer.” Mary gathered herself and clambered to her feet. “It's only a few minutes from here. We can walk there.” She swept her bag and Isla's hat from the road where they had fallen. “We aren't Catholics, but I trust the Sisters of Charity. They looked after Andrew's mother during her last illness.”
Though only a few minutes away, the frantic walk to the hospital felt like an age with Isla's limp form growing heavier with each step. Mary hurried alongside clutching the child’s hand which made progress more hazardous, though to ask her to step away would only distress her more.
“Here it is.” Mary pointed to a square white clapboarded building which looked more like two ordinary houses knocked together than a hospital.
Grace mounted the five shallow steps, turning sideways to push through the double doors into the entrance hall where, breathless, she halted.
“Could we have some help please?” she gasped to the grey-garbed nun seated behind a desk.
The nun did not hesitate, and gestured to another, younger nun who entered through a side hall, possibly in response to Grace’s frantic plea.
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