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“If I told you, it would take all the fun out of finding out. Fun for me, that is.”
He flashed a grin, but it quickly faded. “Since we only have a few moments to ourselves, I’ll get straight to the point. I’d like the opportunity to explain.”
“Please, Mr. Miller. It’s not necessary.”
“It is. I don’t want you forming an opinion of me based on rumor.”
“I haven’t. I make up my own mind about people.”
His face lifted. “Oh. That is a relief to hear. Then…may I ask, what opinion do you have—”
“I should stop you there.”
“—of Walt Whitman?”
I laughed, relieved. Then I stopped as I realized his question meant he didn’t know I’d returned the book. Either it had got lost among the parcels at the post desk or he hadn’t checked his mail since I left it with Terry.
He leaned closer and lowered his voice to an earnest whisper. “I don’t really care what you think about Whitman. What I really want is the opportunity to explain. May I take you to lunch tomorrow?”
“I can’t, sorry. I have to continue with my investigation. It’s at a crucial juncture and I’ve spent enough time away from it today.”
The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He was miffed that I’d placed the investigation higher than him in the pecking order. His reaction made me feel less guilt over my decision to reject him.
Uncle Ronald spotted Mr. Miller speaking to me and broke away from his companions. He advanced across the room, collecting Floyd as he passed him. I’d never thought they looked alike, but with their flared nostrils and matching bullish frowns, the family resemblance was clear.
The dinner gong saved us. Mr. Miller moved off to find the lady he was assigned to escort into the dining room, and I turned on a bright smile for my uncle and cousin.
“Ah, the cavalry has arrived. You’re a little late, but never mind. You can scowl at him from across the table all night, if you like. I’m sure he’ll get the message.”
My uncle gave me a baffled look before going to find my aunt.
Floyd put out his arm to me. “Apparently I’m escorting you.”
I took his arm and we waited in the queue to enter the dining room.
“What were you and Miller discussing just now?” he asked.
“Walt Whitman.”
He huffed. “If you’re planning on running away with him, I advise you to think seriously first. My father will cut you off completely.”
I turned to face him properly. “Do you honestly think I’d elope with Mr. Miller?”
He sighed deeply, and I could feel the rigidity leave his body. “No. I know if you’re going to run off with someone inappropriate, it won’t be him.”
Saturday’s weatherwas perfect for a picnic—sunny and calm. Unfortunately, the picnic went ahead without us. The hotel was in chaos. Cobbit and the other coachman and grooms had gone on strike, meaning cabs needed to be found for those guests leaving the hotel. That wouldn’t have been a particularly difficult task ordinarily, but the striking staff had sat down on the road, blocking it. Traffic was at a standstill and no cabs could stop close to the hotel entrance. Not only that, Frank was still not speaking to guests, and he refused to signal to cab drivers that they were needed. He’d also managed to enlist the other doorman in his protest, so it was left to the porters to manage the luggage as well as hail taxis, whose drivers were not inclined to stop and cause even more congestion.
Mr. Hobart and Peter did their best to soothe anxious guests who were worried about missing their trains, while the angriest guests were left to members of the Bainbridge family to placate. Since Aunt Lilian, Flossy and Floyd were all still in their rooms, Uncle Ronald and I were kept busy.
I didn’t even have a chance to telephone Harry. I filled the single momentary lull in the chaos by speaking to Frank and the other doorman, but neither would give in. They opened the front door, but that was the sum total of their tasks.
“Frank, you are not going to sway my uncle this way,” I told him after one of the cab drivers ordered me to get out of his way.
“You don’t reckon, Miss Fox?” He nodded at Uncle Ronald attempting to calm an irate guest in the foyer. “I give it fifteen minutes before he gives in.”
“This isn’t fair on the other staff.” I indicated Goliath, attempting to hail a taxi while clutching three hat boxes by their straps, a small bag wedged under each arm.
“You’re right. It isn’t fair. I reckon they can go on strike too. Support your fellow worker, that’s what I say.” He opened the door for a guest then waited until they were inside before turning to me. “I think the cooks will join in. They’re a radical lot.”
