Page 11 of Christmas Spirit
“What?”
“I’d have thought there’d be a kettle, and tea and coffee. And maybe some shortbread biscuits. But there’s nothing. I mean, you expect that in hotels, don’t you?”
Roland smirked. “I expectyouwould.”
“Yes, I would,” Georgie snapped. “It’s welcoming. If people have been out for the day, when they get back to their room they just want to flop out with a cuppa, not call room service and have it all laid out like having tea with the Queen. I know that’s what happens at the Manor, but—”
The knock at the door stopped Georgie in his tracks.
A grim smile lifted Roland’s lips. No doubt Nicholas had come to apologise about the situation with the one bed. Roland strode over to the door, ready to make his feelings clear.
He flung it wide, but it wasn’t Nicholas who stood there. Instead, there was a small trolley set up with a Christmas themed afternoon tea. Roland stepped around it and looked up and down but there was no sign of anybody in the deserted corridor.
“Talk about wishful thinking,” Georgie said, as Roland wheeled in the trolley and set it by the small round table that sat between the chairs. “I can do without a kettle if this is the alternative. What’s this?”
Nestled against the tiered stand that contained a mix of festive savoury and sweet treats, was a small note. Georgie picked it up. ‘We hope you enjoy your afternoon tea, compliments of the management. Dinner will be served downstairs at eight o’clock.’ And that’s it.” Georgie turned over the card. “I’m going to get stuck in because it beats a couple of squashed bread rolls.”
“Bread rolls? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Georgie said, flushing.
Shrugging, Roland turned to study the display with a professional eye.
The stand was stacked high with well-filled finger sandwiches, small bite sized sausage rolls, their pastry golden and flakey, and pigs in blankets. But it was the sweet treats that took pride of place.
Deep mince pies, pastry lids dusted with icing sugar; marzipan-rich stollen pieces; slices of Christmas cake, dark, moist, and heady with the aroma of vine fruits and brandy. There were even tiny Christmas puddings, perfect spheres upon which sat sprigs of green icing holly, and scarlet icing berries. It was beautiful, exquisite. It was every bit as good, if not better, than was served at the Manor.
How come he’d never come across this place? He’d make sure he got some answers from Nicholas, because the room wasn’t giving him any clues.
Roland cast his eye around, searching for branded stationary or any kind of information folder about the hotel and its facilities. There was nothing. They may as well have been in a private house. Although not many private houses had massive fourposter beds. He pulled open the drawers in the bedside cabinets. Empty. The same for a large, heavy wooden wardrobe. Next to it was a closed door. The en suite, it had to be. The toiletries would be branded, telling him all he needed to know.
He opened the door, and his eyes widened. Just as the four poster dominated the bedroom, an old-fashioned claw footed bath did the same for the bathroom. Above it loomed an antique style shower and, next to that, a small table was stacked high with fluffy looking towels and plain glass toiletry bottles, holding no clue as to the name or location of the hotel.
The aroma of tea tickled at his nose. He’d have a cup before hunting down the old man. Roland closed the door and turned back into the bedroom.
At the table, Georgie was munching his way through the stacked high stand. Crumbs clung to his lips and a pink tongue swept them away.
“You can’t be that hungry. I had an early lunch laid out for all the staff.”
Georgie shook his head. “I didn’t have any. Didn’t get any breakfast, either. I was ordered to clean the cold store first thing. By the time I’d finished, breakfast was long gone. When lunch was ready, Bernardo had me washing the glassware. Again. I wouldn’t have minded if they’d needed it, but they didn’t. He’s just a nasty piece of work. He knows I can’t wear the rubber gloves, and that the detergent and hot water make my skin bad.”
Georgie put down the sandwich he was holding and studied his hands. Roland followed his gaze, and winced. Georgie’s fine-boned, long fingered hands were dry and cracked, red and sore looking.
“I’ll personally see to it that you have the correct protective gloves, but if you’d washed the glasses according to the specification, you wouldn’t have had to do them again.”
“They didn’t need re-doing.” Georgie scowled. “I made sure they were perfect, I even had Annabella take a look at them. He made me rewash them because he’s vicious and he can get away with it. And nobody even tries to stop him, because he’s the hot-shot head sommelier and I’m the kitchen boy everybody likes giving a good kicking to.”
And nobody even tries to…
Bernardo, Roland remembered, berating Georgie as he waved a glass in his face. Only this morning, but it felt like a lifetime away. He’d glanced over, but that was all. If the head sommelier wasn’t happy, then he wasn’t happy. Georgie’s job was to make sure the glassware was how Bernardo wanted it. It hadn’t mattered that the boy had looked close to tears, his face burning with embarrassment, backed into a corner as the rest of the kitchen staff looked on.
As he’d looked on.
Contrition clawed at Roland’s stomach. Bernardo had only done what he’d done because he couldget away with it,becausehe’dlet him get away with it, because it was whathedid.He’dset an example that everybody else was following.
Georgie had missed breakfast, and lunch, and God alone knew how many other meals.
“I’ll speak to him,” Roland said.
