I snatched my hand back inside, slammed the door, and leaned against it—chained and all. And then—
“Something for you, Hedda Kraus.”
Of course. My own unspoken thoughts sounded shaky even to the sole audience of my own mind. Of course, he would step aside, knowing the lateness of the hour. Knowing I might be undressed. And I’d reached my hand out empty. These boys. Merciless pursuit of gratuity.
My hand shook as I reached into the dish on the large dresser and took out a dime. Two, in fact. Then opened the door.
“Here, take this.” I clutched the money between my thumb and first finger, peering out, waiting for the sight of an open hand. I held back an irrational sob, though a small whimper escaped, because more and more it seemed there was no one there. Nobody to have scratched. Nobody to have summoned. My hand remained alone, suspended, until something brushed against it. Weightless, like a breath. A feather touch. From my angle behind the door, I saw nothing, only felt, and the feeling lingered long after, like sparks of cotton crawling up my skin. In the shock of it, I dropped the dimes, pulled my hand back through the door, and slammed it. What game was this? If Mr. Sylvan had enlisted his night staff to frighten me, he had more than accomplished the task. Tears burned at the back of my throat, not only at the immediate circumstances, but at the shame of my movements being so cruelly scrutinized.
Throwing caution to the wind, and eager to put this incident behind me, I unchained the lock, threw open the door, and peered out to see—nothing. Only the emptiness of the hall, dimly lit by strategically placed sconces.
I looked down, and my dimes had disappeared.
I spent most of the night sleepless, pacing the room, a damp cloth on my hand, red with a rash that traveled up past my sleeve. I’d taken down the last of my brandy in three great tumblers, and perhaps this is what finally allowed me to succumb to slumber. I awoke far later than my usual hour, mouth dry, skin slack, and my housecoat still bound haphazardly around me. At some point, I had moved from the chair to my bed, the sheets so entangled that I experienced a moment’s panic trying to free myself from them.
I brushed my hair, pinned it in a simple fashion, and dressed in my most serviceable day dress. I could do little about the puffiness of my eyes without an hour’s treatment of a cold washrag. No matter. I wanted Mr. Sylvan to see the toll his reckless prank had taken on my natural person.
I descended the stairs, took a fortifying pause where they turned, and strode straight for the desk, my eyes trained on the irregularly shaped bald patch on the top of Mr. Sylvan’s head as he bent over some paperwork. Not until I cleared my throat and rapped on the wood did he favor me with his attention.
“Good morning, Mrs. Krause.” He granted me a supercilious smirk.
“That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Sylvan.”
“You seem agitated.”
“Do I? I suppose I am, given the circumstances of last night.”
The smirk disappeared as one eyebrow lifted. “Last night?”
“Your prank.”
“My…prank?” He whispered the word, as if speaking of something vile.
“I don’t know what else you would call it, sending a message to my room in the middle of the night.” I’d dropped my voice to a hissing whisper too, but seeing the postman at the end of the desk, resumed a normal volume to add, “And, there I was, a poor widow, all alone, scared nearly to death.”
“I should be hard-pressed to think anything would scare you, Mrs. Krause. But even so, I can assure you, no message was sent to you last night. At least, not to my knowledge. Unlike yourself, I have a home to which I retire every evening at nine o’clock. If you kept decent hours, you would know that.”
I hardly knew which insult to tackle first, so I simply stood in shock at his temerity. The caterpillar above his lip lay flat, utterly unamused.
“Well, then.” The courage that fueled me thus far dissipated, exposing a remnant of last night’s fear. I swallowed against the dryness of my throat and began again. “Well, then, I suppose you must have a stern talk to your night clerk, because I was awakened at midnight by a most frightful noise.”
The caterpillar hitched. “Awakened?”
I leaned over the counter and stared him down until the moustache was once again supine. But now, something new. A flicker of his eyes, as if they might jump out from behind his lenses and speak a warning if he hadn’t drawn them back in, corralling his gaze with a blink. “For your peace of mind, Mrs. Krause, I shall interview the night staff personally. But I would urge you to put the incident behind you. I’d be happy to send up a complimentary breakfast tray to offset your inconvenience.”
I shrank back with each word, his kindness nearly as disturbing as last night’s event. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.” He used his cuff to wipe the already gleaming desktop. “Only what I assume to be the outrageous shenanigans of a night staff with nothing better to do.”
I took an unsteady comfort in his words and acquiesced to eggs Benedict and rye toast accompanied by a grapefruit half and coffee with cream and sugar.
I spent the day in seclusion, catching up on the night’s lost sleep with lazy catnaps snatched between chapters of my reading. I penned a letter to my late husband’s sons, which upon signing it “Your Father’s Grieving Wife,” I filed away with the others until I could find the courage to post them. I straightened the dresses in my wardrobe, summoned the hotel’s laundress, and entreated her to give some a fresh steam pressing. I sorted my stockings, lined my shoes up in neat pairs. Between bouts of activity, I took stock of my room. The comfort of it. The elegance. Nothing gaudy or ornate, like some of the places I have known, where velvet and brocade were used to create a false sense of class. Here I felt like a guest in a welcoming home. The walls were a cheerful yellow—the color of fresh butter. The ceiling vaulted tall above me—three acrobats could stand feet on shoulders beneath it. A sturdy dresser with enough drawers that my trunk need only hold my most valuable possessions, and a well-stocked desk where I could sit and complete correspondence, if I ever had the opportunity. I had a bed with a headboard and a footboard—and all of it in heavy, polished wood. More than being a guest, I felt as if I could walk out the door and down the hall to my own parlor. The staff knew me by name.
Something for you, Hedda Krause.
By evening the growing shadows and enveloping gray unsettled me, and the four walls that had seemed a cocoon during the day loomed like a trap in the night. I changed into a dress suitable for the evening, one with sleeves long enough to cover the raised, red rash that persisted above my wrist. I pawed through my jewels to find a piece with the perfect understatement, but nothing seemed to suit my mood. Finally, I chose my simple pearl earrings and my wedding band. Nothing else. It somehow seemed fitting not to be weighed down by my worth.
I dined alone, surrounded by empty tables. It was midweek—a slow night in a slow season, and I ate my supper slowly as well, savoring each bite. Biding my time, delaying my return. As I lingered over the last crumbs of cream cake, the staff began clearing the tables and running a sweeper over the carpet. Boisterous laughter came from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of clinking dishes. The waiter assigned to my table, Kenneth, had rolled up his sleeves and loosened his collar but still spoke deferentially when he came to clear my plate and take my glass.