Page 7 of Euphoria
“It’s no bother,” I said. “I’m excited to begin work.”
Alice thought this was outrageous and demanded I traverse about the house with her. “Come. Let me give you the grand tour.”
Through the main gallery was a grand sitting room with fine upholstered chairs and lounges reminiscent of the seventeenth century. A large mirror hung over the fireplace, its tiled hearth matching the era perfectly, and I wondered if all the fittings were original. Alice gave me a rundown of things as we went, giving me a thorough history of the hotel.
The dining room was next, and it had been stripped of its traditional long table in favor of two dozen smaller ones, which seated six quite comfortably. White linen was placed over each with grand centerpieces, made up of what I supposed were artificial flowers—crimson roses, baby’s breath, and assorted greenery—and place settings.
“Surely, you don’t keep the dining room set up like this with no guests in residence?” I inquired, thinking of the work involved.
“We like to keep the common areas in a constant state of readiness,” Alice informed me. “It keeps the resident staff occupied, and if Mr. Rochester decides to come unexpectedly, then all is as it should be.”
As we left the dining room, I was shown through to the kitchen, which was made in a modern galley style, and introduced to the chef, kitchen hands, and wait staff. The bartender was also in attendance having naught to do until later in the day.
Once we were done with the introductions, Alice guided me upstairs.
“Are there any guests here currently?” I asked as we walked down the hall past closed and numbered doors.
The walls were adorned with many original oil paintings, English style portraits and landscapes, and the hardwood floors were topped with long carpets that hushed our footsteps.
“We have one long-term guest who tends to stay for a few weeks over winter and the odd couple or two passing through on their way to London and back,” she said. “We have some bookings coming up, but for now, three rooms are occupied. No one wants to come this time of year, which is why it’s so quiet. Summer is our busiest time.”
“Are you ever at capacity?”
Alice laughed and shook her head. “Never. Not even when Rocky brings his friends.”
That must change, I thought. Mr. Rochester may have a great deal of money, but a business was a failure if it could not turn a profit after so many years in operation. I wondered why he kept it if he had to keep putting funds into the kitty.
The front rooms Alice showed me through were quite grand. Their windows overlooked the best parts of the grounds and were very accessible to the dining room and bar downstairs. Some of the third story rooms, though a little darker with slightly lower ceilings, were almost as fine as their predecessors. The linens, carpets, and furnishings were a little tired and could do with some tender loving care, but they were not as bad as I was led to believe. Perhaps a man or woman skilled in furniture restoration could be called in to assess repairs on the older pieces, which looked to be worth quite a bit of money.
The bed frames looked to be made of an assortment of oak and walnut, the furnishings much the same. Leather and velvet chaise lounges were placed where there was room, paired with low tables of matching style. Along with the usual amenities found in hotels, the rooms had everything their guests would require for a comfortable stay.
Finally, Alice led me to the topmost floor and told me it had been used as servants’ quarters in Victorian times when the manor was inhabited by an earlier generation of the Rochester family. They were small and dark, the floor uncarpeted apart from plain rugs, and the windows mere slits on the walls. Mostly, the rooms looked like they were used more for storage than for sleep. An antiquity or a page out of history, perhaps.
“No one sleeps up here,” Alice explained. “The rooms are too old for guests and the staff think it’s haunted.”
“Is it?” I inquired. “The house is quite old, so maybe there has been a sighting or two over the years.”
“None that I know of. It’s cold up here, and the chill tends to make one feel as if spirits walk among us even if they don’t.”
I had to agree with her on that.
“You must come up and see the view from the leads,” Alice declared, tired of pondering ghosts, which may or may not walk the halls.
“Leads?”
She took my hand and pulled me toward the end of the hall. “Yes! We can walk out onto the roof and do a lap of the entire hotel. You can see for miles and miles up there. It’s quite a sight.”
“Is there a path?” I asked as she let me go and pulled down a trapdoor, revealing a ladder that disappeared into the attic.
“Yes, that’s what I mean by leads. There’s a rail you can hold so you won’t fall, but watch your feet.”
I followed her upward again, then through another hatch in the roof, and we emerged from the darkness into the light. I was quite sure I gasped as I beheld the view beyond. Alice was right. It was a sight.
Leaning over the battlement, I looked out over the land surrounding Thornfield and realized how small we were compared to the moor. It stretched farther than I had seen on my way here and even farther than the view from my bedroom window that morning.
My eye moved closer to home, taking in the lawn, which looked like it had been covered with green velvet from this height, then to the field with its wild forest, and the winding path that the road took from the hotel all the way up to the village. The sky had cleared some, blue against the haze of the horizon, and I could see the smoke coming from the chimney stacks.
When I’d taken my fill, I climbed back down into the attic, and I could hardly see where I was going. The brightness of the day had made the darkness within even more profound than it had been before I emerged.
