“Why not? I have worked here in one capacity or another since I was a lad—from potboy to porter to booking clerk, I’ve done it all.”
“Not alone.”
He rose and put his hands on her shoulders. “I shan’t be alone. You shall be with me, ay, Mamma? With my ideas and your experience, we’ll resurrect this old place in no time. Give it new life.”
She frowned at him. “I had not realized it was dead.”
“Not yet. But it will be if we don’t make changes while we can.”
“What kind of changes? Are you talking about a French chef and foolish falderals as John used to kick about?”
“No. Something more revolutionary.”
“Like what?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then thought the better of whatever he’d been about to say. “Still in the thinking stages, Mamma. And of course I will want your advice before I finalize any plans.”
“And Jane?” Thora asked.
“Jane is a lovely, kindhearted gentlewoman,” Patrick said. “A fine ornament to the place, you can’t deny. But do you really think she can offer sound advice or help plan profitable change?”
“I . . . suppose not.” Thora was surprised at the stab of disloyalty she felt to agree with Patrick’s assessment.
“So are you with me, Mamma?” He pressed her arms affectionately. It was the closest thing to an embrace they had shared since Frank died.
“I haven’t heard the plan yet,” Thora replied. “When I do, you shall have my answer.”
Thora stepped to the door, then turned back.
“By the way, what were you looking for when I came in?”
“The loan papers. Mr. Blomfield mentioned there should be a set around here somewhere.”
“Don’t bother. I saw the bank’s copy and John’s signature.” Thora glanced at the desk formerly shared by John, Talbot, and even her at times. “Since your brother clearly never wanted me to know about the loan, I doubt he would leave evidence of it here. More likely in the lodge, if he didn’t destroy it.”
Just as his loan might destroy The Bell, once and for all.
Chapter
Seven
Thora stood at the reception counter the next day, running her finger down the registry for the previous weeks, recognizing the names of a few regulars, but disheartened to see the overnight guest lists far shorter than usual.
A horn sounded out front, announcing the arrival of the morning mail. Thora’s heart gave an odd little jump, and anticipation shot through her. Foolish creature, she admonished herself. She stepped to the window and watched as Patrick went out to greet the coach. She was pleased to see him up and dressed so early. He looked like his father at that moment—well groomed, handsome, confident. Proud to welcome passengers to his inn, whether for a quick meal, or to stay the night. Thora felt a surge of maternal pride and hoped that Patrick was maturing at last.
In the next breath she reminded herself that even if he were ready to accept responsibility, it would avail nothing, for The Bell was not his inn. It was Jane’s. Unless . . . should she support Patrick in his bid to assume the debt for the inn? She would have to think hard on the subject.
Out of old habit, Thora turned toward the office—Talbot’s office for so many years. How many times had she turned to him, to ask his opinion on a hundred subjects? But Talbot was not there to ask. Perhaps she would walk back out to the farm and seek his advice.
A thought struck her. Speaking of Talbot, where was his supposed replacement? She glanced at the clock and frowned. Colin was late. She supposed she could expect little more from a McFarland.
Rattling coach wheels drew her attention back out the window. The Devonport mail, nicknamed the Quicksilver for its notorious speed, appeared as smart and sleek as Thora remembered. Gleaming scarlet wheels supported the dark red-and-black carriage, with its passenger door emblazoned with the royal crest and Devonport London in gold lettering. On the back perched the guard, the post secured in the boot beneath his feet. Just ahead of him, Thora knew, was the compartment containing the Mortimer blunderbuss to ward off any highwaymen. As the coach rumbled to a stop, the guard withdrew the mailbag and hopped down.
At the front of the vehicle, the Royal Mail coachman faced away from her, in conversation with the ostlers as they unhooked the weary horses, so all she had was a view of the back of his dark head, hat, and benjamin—a tan coat with multiple shoulder capes to sluice off rain. But such clothes were customary of most coachmen. Was it him? Or had he changed routes in the intervening months?
He set aside his long whip and clambered down. She caught a glimpse of his face from beneath his broad hat brim.
Charlie Frazer.
Again that little jolt of anticipation. Again that silent rebuke. There was nothing between them, she reminded herself. He was a flirt—that’s all. His handsome face had always split into a grin whenever he saw her, and he would sweep off his hat and press it dramatically over his heart, spouting some blarney about how she stole his breath, and praising her supposed beauty in his low brogue. She knew he probably did the same to landladies all along his route.
And, of course, Thora would wave him off and tell him to hush and stop his foolishness, though inwardly she had liked his attention. Now and again he overdid it and embarrassed her in front of a guest or her son, when John had been alive. But John always chuckled at her discomfiture and offered Charlie a pint, enjoying seeing someone dare to tease her. Charlie was one of the few men who didn’t seem put off by her gruff exterior. She had been surprised to miss him while she’d been away. She hadn’t thought a great deal about most people, but she had missed Charlie, as well as Talbot, more than she’d anticipated.
Colin McFarland hurried past and sprinted into the yard. He stammered an apology to Patrick before rushing to open the Quicksilver’s door.
Thora rolled her eyes.
Passengers began alighting, sleepy and stretching. She watched while Charlie assisted the ostlers in changing the team and then walked around the coach, inspecting the wheels and springs. The relief coachman, a new man she did not know, came out of the stable block, adjusting his neckerchief as he came. The building’s upper story held sleeping rooms for visiting coachmen, as well as separate rooms for the inn’s horsemen: farrier, ostlers, and postillions.
Thora turned away from the window. She would not stand there like a preening schoolgirl hoping for a compliment on a new dress. It was time to stop dawdling and make herself useful.
She greeted the arriving passengers and showed them into the dining parlour, where Alwena and Cadi would serve the breakfast Mrs. Rooke and her kitchen maid had been up since five to prepare. Then Thora returned to the reception desk.
The side door clicked open. Hearing no sound of its closing, Thora glanced up and saw Charlie Frazer standing in the open doorway, staring at her.
She said, “Close the door before you let in every insect in the county. Close your mouth while you’re at it.”
He slowly did so, his gaze remaining fixed on her.
“Thora Bell . . .” he murmured, “as I live and breathe . . .”
His deep voice still held a faint Scottish brogue, though he’d lived in England for most of his life.
“Hello, Charlie.”
He was a broad-shouldered, stocky man of fifty-odd years. His face was weathered, but he was still handsome. Beneath his coat, he wore a blue neckerchief, striped waistcoat, and low “jockey” boots, a style copied by sporting gentlemen everywhere.
He removed his hat, but said only, “You’re back.”
“As you see.”
No compliments were forthcoming.
He pulled off his gloves. “For how long? Just visiting, or . . . ?”
She had been right to rebuke herself earlier for her foolish expectations. He’d probably forgotten all about her after she left. “I have yet to decide.”
He grimaced as though the news did not please him.
She arched one brow
. “Sorry to see me?”
“Nae. Not . . . exactly.”
What did that mean? “I am glad to see you are still driving the Quicksilver.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. We’ve lost a few stagecoach lines now that the turnpike is finished. I’d hate to think the Royal Mail would follow suit.”
“I have’na heard anything about that . . . officially.”
Thora noticed him avoid her eyes, but before she could pry out more information, he changed the subject.
“And of course I’m still driving. What did you think I’d be doing? Gone off and become a rich man while you were away? You know better than that.”
“Oh come, Charlie. No one charms large gratuities from his passengers like you do.”
“Perhaps I once did. But I travel with a dashing new guard now. With his fine horn playing and beautiful voice, he kicks up more tips than I do nowadays.” Charlie gestured out the window. The young Royal Mail guard in his official red coat was urging the relief coachman to hurry. “Not that I begrudge him. Best guard I’ve had since old Murphy. Makes the hours pass more pleasantly, listening to him.”
“I am glad you get on well together. It is good to have a useful partner.”
“Aye. A good partner is the key to life.” He gave her a crooked grin, and she saw a bit of the old Charlie in the mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Charlie. . . .” she admonished lightly with a shake of her head.
He inhaled and said, “It’s good to see you, Thora. I have nothing against the new landlady, of course, but she can’na hold a candle to the former.”
The compliment pleased her, though Thora tried not to let it show. Her father had been the last man to praise her competence, and the words warmed her and settled deep into her marrow. “Go in and sit down, Charlie. I’ll bring you some breakfast.”
“Will you join me?”
She hesitated. She had not thought it proper before, when she had served as the inn’s housekeeper. But now? “Why not,” she said. “I could eat something.”
His eyes widened in surprise and pleasure. “I doubt I shall be able to eat a morsel with so much beauty before me.”
“Oh, go on with you,” she said, with a swat in his general direction.
The old Charlie Frazer was back, and in rare form.
Out in the yard, the guard blew his horn again. Within the dining parlour, harried passengers shoved in final bites of toast or egg, and rose, quickly settling up their bills. Moments later, they streamed back outside to reclaim their seats inside or atop the Quicksilver before it continued on its way southwest to Exeter, Devonport, and points in between.
When the hubbub had died down and the door closed behind the last passenger, Charlie gestured Thora to precede him into the coffee room, where the staff, coachmen, and guards generally ate, separate from the passengers. “After you.”
They sat at a small table together, and Thora waved to Alwena. With a curious look between Thora and the coachman, the quiet maid came over to take their orders.
“Coffee for Mr. Frazer, and tea for me please, Alwena. Mrs. Rooke’s full breakfast, Charlie?”
“Of course.” He patted his stomach, perhaps not quite as trim as it once was.
“Eggs and toast for me,” Thora added.
Alwena poured coffee and tea and then left to deliver their orders to the kitchen.
When Thora looked back at Charlie, she found him regarding her closely.
He shook his head. “I still can’na believe the belle of The Bell is back. Or should I say, the angel of The Angel . . . ?”
“Neither. I haven’t been the belle of anything in years. And I’ve never been an angel.”
“You underestimate your charms.”
“And you overestimate yours.”
“Tongue still as sharp as ever, I see.” Charlie grinned. “Place has’na been the same without you.”
“So I see, everywhere I look. That is why I am here.”
“To set the place to rights and then return to your sister’s?”
Thora cocked her head to the side. “In a hurry to be rid of me?”
“Not at all. It’s just . . . I thought you intended to remain in Bath.”
“I did, but things change. Have you never hankered for a change? Or thought of what you might do someday after you retire?”
“Retire? I am not so ancient, I assure you, however weathered this old mug of mine looks after years of exposure. I am still strong and young in here”—he patted his chest—“where it counts.”
“Yes, very young,” she said dryly.
“You question my maturity, Thora? You will not injure me with that. I see no reason to act the dry crust. I would rather enjoy the years I’m given.”
He sipped his coffee, then tipped his head to one side to study her face. “I have been considering making a change though. A different route, perhaps.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“A change of scenery. New surroundings—much as you, I imagine, when you left Ivy Hill.” His gaze remained steady on her face, and she looked away, taking a long sip of tea, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
“Stop staring at me like that, Charlie. I know you are mapping every one of my wrinkles like a new route.”
“Not a bit of it, Thora. You have always been a handsome woman. And always will be. God has blessed you with looks as well as a keen mind.”
She snorted. “Blessed is the last thing I feel.”
God had taken her husband and son. John had left the inn part and parcel to his genteel wife, who cared not a fig about the place. And she was left with nothing. No home of her own. No security.
He studied her face. “You’ve borne more than your share of losses, Thora, I know. But is life really so bad?”
She met his gaze. “You are not a woman, Charlie. And can’t understand.”
Chapter
Eight
On Saturday afternoon, Jane filled her water cans at the pump near the paddock. She noticed two stable cats—one grey with black stripes, the other an orange tabby—curled up together in the sun. She took a step toward them, but seeing her, they leapt up and disappeared though a hole in the stable siding. John had barely tolerated the untamed, skittish creatures, but Jane thought it would be pleasant to have one for a pet.
When the cans were full, she carried them to the front of the inn. As she stood there, watering the flowerpots flanking the door, a happy commotion from within drew her attention. She set down the cans and tentatively stepped inside to investigate. Walter Talbot stood in the hall, surrounded by smiling ostlers and chirpy maids, inundating him with questions and greetings. He had surprised everyone by showing up during the afternoon lull, bringing Mrs. Rooke a gift of asparagus picked from his own land. He had not been back to the inn since he’d left it, perhaps to avoid the appearance of checking up on his successor, or too busy on the farm and with his ailing sister-in-law.
Noticing Jane lingering in the doorway, Talbot nodded respectfully to her.
“Thought I might talk with Colin and answer any questions that may have arisen since I left. Only if you don’t mind.” He looked at the young man. “And only if you think it would be helpful, son.” He said it gently and without any suggestion of failure, and Jane admired him for his tact.
“I don’t mind at all, Mr. Talbot,” Jane said. “It is very kind of you to offer.”
Colin nodded his agreement. “That would be very helpful, sir. I would be obliged to you.”
“My pleasure. As long as you leave off with the sir and call me Talbot, as everyone else does.”
“Yes, sir. Em. Mr. Talbot.”
The others said their farewells and drifted away, back to their posts. But Jane lingered.
Talbot began, “Now. What can I answer for you?”
Jane noticed his gaze stray to the open office door and the piled desk and empty chair within. Thora had gone to market. She didn’t know where Patrick was.
C
olin followed his gaze, but then looked toward the stairway instead, asking about the best way to greet guests and see them settled into their rooms.
“An excellent question,” Talbot replied with approval. “It is important to make a good first impression.”
“Would you mind if I came along?” Jane asked. “I would like to learn as well.”
Mr. Talbot gave her a smile of encouragement. “Of course, you are welcome to join us.”
They began at the reception counter—a small nook adjacent to the office that also served as the booking desk for coach fares.
Talbot explained how they—he, Frank, and Thora—had done things, but kindly qualified, “I can only demonstrate how we used to do things, but if Mrs. Bell here has asked for any changes, of course her instructions take precedence.”
Jane assured him she had not.
After walking them through the use of the registry, the assignment of rooms and keys, and the added services to offer—hot bath, newspapers, coffee, tea, or chocolate delivered to the room, among others—along with their fees, Talbot selected two keys and led the way upstairs. The climb, he explained, was a good opportunity to give mealtimes and ask if the guest required laundry services or boot polishing. He then opened the door to one of the inn’s larger rooms with an adjoining sitting room, indicated the features to point out, and then did the same in a more modest room.
Jane had rarely set foot in the guest rooms and was surprised to see a small angelic figure carved into the pediment above each door. “I have never noticed those before. Is there an angel in every room?”
Talbot looked up at the carving in question. “Yes. I’ve seen them so often over the years, I barely notice them anymore. The angel statue on the roof either.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Jane recalled spotting it as a girl, years ago.
“I’ve wondered about that as well,” Colin added.
“Do you not know?” Talbot looked from one to the other. “I suppose you are both too young to remember. The Bell used to be called The Angel.”
“Is that why . . . ?” Colin murmured, his eyes distant in thought.