The Typewriter Girl (26 page)

The unintentional result seemed to be that denial created demand. More than one telegram urged her to name a date; it would be accepted. It excited and frustrated her, and Betsey’s hopes were swift, unruly children, scrambling out of bounds the moment she relaxed her supervision. She pictured three or more excursions a week, a season at Christmastime, figured commissions in her head before she remembered her hands were bound until the meeting, and possibly afterward, too.

Following Mr. Seiler’s direction, she made herself useful in the offices, frequently assisting with correspondence and, of course, type-writing. The complaint-book meetings became a favorite part of her workday. Each department of the hotel maintained a record of the complaints it received, submitting it daily to Mr. Seiler, who came to his office at half-two for the purpose of reading the latest entries and having two cups of the blackest coffee Betsey had ever seen.

Between sips, Mr. Seiler read the complaints aloud and considered suggestions from the submanagers. Betsey remained an observer to this process, alert and studious, anticipating how the complaints might be resolved. Inviting a dissatisfied guest to pack more thoughtfully in the future or to stay at home next summer was never the proper response, no matter how frivolous the complaint sounded to her, but with each meeting, she learned some
useful method of appeasement. It might be sending to London for a particular blend of tea, shifting a chambermaid from one set of rooms to another for a few weeks, directing a stern word to a surly stable hand.

Sometimes Mr. Seiler’s voice would dwindle down to a rough purr as he read the complaint aloud, and then he would take a sip of coffee and say, “
Für mich.
” This generally meant a personal word with the complainant. He made it seem effortless, even spontaneous, meeting guests as they passed through the vestibule or as he offered to secure them a special table in the tearoom. A simple, sympathetic inquiry from Tobias Seiler generated more forgiveness and goodwill than any size bouquet might.

If he did not see to the resolution himself, Mr. Seiler assigned it to one of the submanagers. Or, increasingly, he said, “Miss Dobson?” and passed the task to her. Small things, jobs that could hardly be bungled even if one tried, but they were chances to prove herself, and Betsey welcomed every one.

•   •   •

As the board meeting drew closer, she practiced her address in the evenings, speaking to Thief or out to the night, perched on the roof. She was there two nights before the meeting when she heard Dora Pink’s firm rap at her door.

“Mr. Jones says for you to come down.”

The lordliness of this demand could have been Dora Pink’s as easily as Mr. Jones’s. Either way, she let a defiant ten minutes pass before she presented herself in the parlor. Mr. Jones, at a game of dominoes with Charlie, at first appeared to be waiting patiently enough, but as soon as he saw her, he stood.

“Let me hear your speech.”

Sarah and the boarders smiled at her, their evening’s entertainment.

“Mr. Seiler has approved it already.”

He nodded. He found this interesting or perhaps as he expected, but no reason not to hear her all the same.

“It’s not even a speech, really, it is only going over numbers, and why should I bore everyone here with that?”

Because the practice was good for her, he said. Because Sarah and the others were curious. Because she wouldn’t wish to disappoint Charlie. Because, in short, he wanted her to, and she saw he was dug in until she appeased him. She retrieved her notes from her room, eager to have it done.

Whatever disappointment Charlie experienced resided in his interrupted game, for he was absorbed in stacking domino pyramids before the third sentence was out of her mouth. Sarah and the boarders listened as though she sang music they appreciated but could not love, and their applause at the close was both affectionate and dutiful.

It didn’t matter. Mr. Jones mattered; just like the day at Iden Hall, it was to him she looked for approval and truth. His brows remained crooked in concentration. Charlie knocked down his pyramids and shuffled, inviting her to a game. Betsey accepted but mainly for the opportunity to murmur to Mr. Jones, “Well, what was the matter with it?”

His brows crooked deeper. After a moment, he sprang up, snatched Miss Everson’s mending scissors from her, and returned, making Betsey gasp as he jerked her chair into a position to face his own.

He snicked the scissors. “Come, you. I will give you a trim.”

Laughter filled the parlor. Mr. Jones ignored it. Sarah cautioned, “John, if you should make a mistake—why, she must stand before all those men in a few days!”

Only then did his intention seem to waver. His grin, both lush and abrupt, already forgave her if she refused.

Miss Everson warned her to keep her distance, but in Betsey’s mind hovered Mr. Jones’s drawing of the new office arrangement, all those precise lines. From the table, she took a newspaper page, spread it over her lap, and edged forward, her knees between his.

His grin fell away, and she closed her eyes, felt the cool slide of metal against her forehead, needles of hair on her nose and cheeks. His breath touching her lips.

He went slowly. The conversations in the room recommenced. His thumb passed over her skin, brushing away hair.

“There’s good,” he said.

Betsey tested the edge of the fringe with her fingertips, then opened her eyes to see his throat contract with a swallow, a ripple of flesh at his collar.

“Your brows show again,” he added.

“Is that what was wanting?”

“Cannot hurt.” To Charlie, he instructed, “Get Animal Grab.”

“I don’t play that anymore.” But Charlie was fetching the cards even as he protested.

Mr. Jones lined the cards faceup on the table. “Here, girl. Your board of directors.”

Betsey held up the donkey card. “Sir Alton?”

Charlie hooted, and Mr. Jones laughed, too, but placed the card back in line. His broad finger touched a different card. “Sir Alton.”

The brown tabby rested a composed gaze on the viewer, one paw poised above a ball of blue yarn, the same blue yarn tied in a bow around its neck, a depiction so ideal it lacked any sense of vitality. “I see,” she said, and he sorted the cards into groups, alliances, giving her names and motivations and histories. He brought the dominoes in as shareholders, explaining the structure of a joint-stock company.

Bored, Charlie wandered off. Betsey scarcely noticed, her mind engaged with the puzzle of making use of this information, her heart puzzling over Mr. Jones. He was uncommonly bad at seduction if he thought talk of common capital and incorporation would do the trick, but she could think of no other reason he would lavish her with such time and care.

Except the impossible one: No motive but to help her. Such purity didn’t exist, though. If it did . . .

If it did, he’d be a dangerously good seducer.

He paused thoughtfully. “Your address is clear, convincing. Nothing wrong in it.” He swept the cards into a stack and looked up, his eyes grave. “Only you have made it all about money.”

Betsey repressed a laugh at this unexpected criticism, repressed the sarcastic suggestion that she might also share her fish cake recipe with the board. There was something so potent in his earnestness; she did not want to sully it.

She said, “The company may earn more money or less—what is there beyond that?”

“Any of us would be richer if money was all there was to it. Still type-writing in London, you’d be, if money was all. A man doesn’t choose a business venture for profit and nothing else. These shareholders—” He caged his hand over the dominoes on the table. “We invested in something past dividend promises. If it were all for money, a man would never buy a ring he happened upon in a shop window, do you see?”

She saw. She did not believe. Wasn’t he the one with grand ambitions, the one who’d sat on Castle Hill and told her how he dreamed of wealth? She wanted only to be safe and not owe anyone anything. Where he’d come by the notion she’d come to Idensea for anything but money, she had no idea.

“Sir Alton will not be speaking of money, girl. You think that is your advantage, and it is, no mistaking, but he does not go empty-handed. He has a vision to give them.”

•   •   •

Sir Alton’s dining room was not the most orthodox location for a meeting, but in season, the board members preferred to move the meetings from London to Idensea in order to have the opportunity to see their investment at work. Betsey arrived with Mr. Seiler a few minutes early, edgy as a pocketknife, and nearly snapped under Sir Alton’s gaze, it was so unusually expressive. A full brow-rumpling frown, and all for her.

His secretary, Mr. Walbrook, was soon at his side with a whisper that ironed his brow. Her name, Betsey realized, allowing a strangled, nervous laugh to escape at the idea that Sir Alton hadn’t given her a single thought in the fortnight since she’d stood by his
arm and shown her books to him. The excursion scheme might have concerned him, but she personally—no.

Mr. Seiler murmured something. It was in German and it sounded to her like stones settling together; either he meant to brace her or warn her off giggling. He’d not noticed Sir Alton so much as the general shift in the room, a room filled with men, a little world experiencing a disturbance. The meeting had not yet begun, and many of the board members carried on with their conversations, oblivious to her and Mr. Seiler’s arrival, but enough had paused, looked, and tried to make sense of a woman without a tray that the energy in the room had changed.

One man approached, a greeting for Mr. Seiler in his upraised hand, but Mr. Walbrook reached them first. He was apologetic; the board intended to begin privately, the drawing room would be a comfortable place to wait until it was time . . .

He stopped when he realized Mr. Seiler meant to accompany her to the drawing room. He believed—he was fairly certain, in fact—that Mr. Seiler was to remain, that he was wanted for the report on the hotel . . .

“I shall send when the time comes,” Mr. Seiler promised, and Betsey thought it was probably for the best, that she would have someone in the meeting to make sure she was not forgotten.

Mr. Walbrook escorted her to the drawing room, an unnecessary courtesy, for she and Mr. Seiler had scarcely crossed the threshold into the dining room. In his diffident manner, he encouraged her to ring for tea if she wished, as he feared it might be a bit of a wait, and invited her to sit anywhere, just anywhere at all she liked, but he looked toward a padded bench along the wall next to the doors as he did, and when he returned to the dining room, he pulled the pocket doors only partway together.

The meeting began. Betsey moved to the very edge of the bench and turned toward the doorway, leaning forward as far as her corset would allow. Everything except Sir Alton’s voice she could hear well, even though the room went pin-still whenever he spoke. He
could shush a room, draw people toward him with the soft sway of his voice, just as if he’d lifted a baton before an orchestra.

A half hour or so later, voices from the opposite end of the drawing room prompted her to straighten and sit properly. It was Mr. Jones, ushered in by Lady Dunning, whom Betsey recognized but had never yet met. The two paused inside the doorway as Lady Dunning insisted he was due for dinner again soon, or perhaps when the season was over, as she imagined him frightfully busy now. And if it were possible to do so discreetly, could he let Sir Alton know she would send Noel in the moment he arrived?

Then she sighed, resigned. “He was due from London last night. I fear he has forgotten he promised to come.”

Betsey ought to have made her presence known. Instead, she watched them exchange farewells, and then Mr. Jones fished his necktie from his pocket and hurried it into position in motions too quick to follow.

She had remembered their conversation on Castle Hill imperfectly the other night. Children and dogs and the freedom to come home in the middle of the day and have sandwiches, if he so desired. That was what he’d dreamed of, not just money.

He paused before a mirror between two enormous vases and passed his hands over his hair, to little effect. Then he started for the dining room and discovered her sitting there.

Too lovely, the pleasure in his surprise, as though she were a coin in the pocket of a coat he’d not worn for a year. She nodded at him.

Closer to her, he frowned and inclined his head toward the dining room.

“I was instructed to wait here until I was wanted,” she explained, keeping her voice low.

His lips parted, then met again in a line of grim understanding. He looked at the empty space on the bench beside her, then selected a chair from a separate grouping of furniture, moving it so they would face each other. Very appropriate.

“I’m sure
you
are meant to go right in.”

He sat down, defiant, needlessly loyal, faintly ridiculous, for the chair was dainty and he was not. Betsey bit the inside of her cheek.

Inside the dining room, the topic had turned to ordinances and the county council’s hesitation in limiting the number of licenses issued to entertainers.

“Why does it matter?” she whispered to Mr. Jones.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, the distance he’d put between them unwieldy for a hushed conversation.

“’Twill be competition for the Kursaal, when it finally opens, so some think. And atmosphere, too. Sir Alton will take that pulpit in a moment, how it lowers the tone of the entire town to allow a license to any jack with three pounds and an instrument or a trained animal.”

And indeed, in another moment, all the other voices died away and the room took on that stillness Betsey recognized as Sir Alton speaking. She couldn’t make out a single word, but she knew Mr. Jones had predicted aright and stifled a snicker. Mr. Jones chuckled aloud.

A number of voices started all at once, and the discussion seemed to fragment. Mr. Jones’s gaze shifted, and following it, Betsey saw that Sir Alton stood in the doorway. He returned Mr. Jones’s greeting, but his gaze scanned the drawing room. Her bench next to the doorway behind him was the last place he looked, and again, Betsey felt his confusion:
Who in the hell is that?