Calista followed Mr. Greene on shaky legs. He’d said enough for her to know a serious set down was imminent, though he’d not revealed the reason for it. Not that it mattered. During her time here she’d grown accustomed to being the scapegoat for everyone else’s mistakes and malicious attempts to undermine her. Whenever something went wrong, fingers immediately pointed in her direction. And if one day went by without incident, a problem would quickly be orchestrated.
From what she gathered, watching her struggle against opposition was a sport of sorts. If she were to guess, some of the servants even placed bets on how long she’d last and what it would take to make her quit.
She refused to give them the satisfaction, though it did surprise her that Mr. Greene kept her on. After all, her record, albeit a tampered one, proved her to be incompetent, lazy, and daft. The only explanation she could see for her continued state of employment was that her presence was somehow to Mr. Greene’s advantage. Or perhaps dismissing a servant wasn’t up to him?
They finished climbing the servants’ stairs and exited into a beautiful hallway. The floor was made from polished white marble. Gilded chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and exquisite art adorned the walls. She recognized what looked to be a Rembrandt since it bore the same style as some of the paintings she’d once seen in an exhibit at the New York Historical Society Museum. Passing the portrait, which depicted a regal-looking lady and maid, Calista felt again her steep decline in position.
Two months ago she’d been dressed in fine linens and silks. She’d slept in a comfortable bed in a bedchamber three times the size of the Imperial’s pantry. Now, she wore the serviceable dress Mr. Greene had ordered her to put on when he’d employed her, and practically slept on the floor for all the difference the hard pallet made. If she’d travelled to London with her family, the experience would have been so very different. Instead of a scullery maid, she’d have been a guest.
Regret filled her on that thought, despite the fact that she’d done what she’d believed necessary at the time. And even though she’d left New York without her parents’ knowledge, she’d written a note to reassure them of her wellbeing. She hadn’t wanted them to worry when they found her gone. Inhaling deeply, she tried not to think of how they’d react if they ever learned what had happened to her. They’d be scandalized and appalled, not to mention embarrassed beyond belief.
“Need I remind you not to speak unless Mr. Donahue poses a direct question?” Mr. Greene asked when they arrived at the end of the hallway. He peered down his nose at her with blatant disdain.
“No.” Calista saw no point in attempting to win sympathy from anyone here. In all likelihood, the Imperial’s owner would be as cruel, haughty, and despicable as his staff. To try and gain compassion from him would be a futile endeavor for which she lacked the energy.
“Straighten yourself then and show some respect,” Mr. Greene chastised as he gave the door a succession of raps.
“Enter!”
Calista took another deep breath and did her best to school her features. If the worst came to pass and she was sacked, she’d not give anyone here the pleasure of knowing just how big a blow it was to her. Her savings for a return ticket short one pound, she needed to remain here for at least another month, or find some other means by which to earn her way.
She recalled the painted ladies she’d seen in London’s dingier streets and back alleys while she’d been trying to find employment, and shuddered at the thought of being forced into their way of life. Tamping down the panic that threatened in spite of her resolve, she did her best to ignore the rapid beats of her heart and the churning of her stomach as Mr. Greene led her into Mr. Donahue’s office.
“I’ve brought the woman you asked for, sir,” Mr. Greene said with hauteur. He stepped aside, allowing Calista her first glimpse of the man she worked for.
Broad shouldered and lean, Mr. Donahue stood before her with the commanding air of a captain in charge of his ship. A good head taller than she, he made a foreboding image of virile youth packed into hardened muscle. Raven black hair, cut short, contrasted her own fair locks. His eyes were hard, piercingly intense, as though he sought to read her mind. A straight nose sharpened his features which, coupled with a firm mouth and a square jaw, brought to mind a ruthless prince unaccustomed to showing mercy.
Calista swallowed past the lump in her throat as she stepped farther into the room, which was beautiful and inviting by contrast. Warm wood panels graced the walls, a coffered ceiling added depth, and the light bursting through the windows dressed the space in a beatific glow. Shades of blue accented by hints of cream colored the upholstery and curtains, while Mr. Donahue’s massive desk clearly served as the showpiece.
Legs trembling and with her arms hanging stiffly at her sides, Calista tried to still her riotous nerves. She told herself this would all be over soon. She was certain of her fate now. Mr. Donahue would dismiss her, and she would depart the Imperial Hotel forever. No sense in letting the inevitable twist her insides into knots.
And yet, it was impossible not to get sweaty palms or feel like her heart would soon race away on its own while being submitted to Mr. Donahue’s unforgiving scrutiny. He was without doubt the most imposing man she’d ever seen. As well as the handsomest. Not that this mattered one bit.
She quashed her rising despair and tried to stand still. You were raised to dance in ballrooms with men like him, she reminded herself as she lifted her chin. How differently he might have looked at her then, had she been wearing silks and lace instead of coarse cotton. If she were not a scullery maid accused of incompetence.