Chapter 51 Geraldine
Geraldine
Geraldine rolled onto her side and noticed, as she did each morning since arriving, the satisfyingly crisp feeling of the snowy sheets against her bare legs.
Her hip bones felt sore, as if she had lain on them for too long even though she had spent the hours of the night hard at work.
She stretched her arms above her head before propping up on one elbow and casting a glance towards the windows opposite the bed.
Despite the heaviness of the drapes, narrow blades of sunlight sliced around the edges of the window frames—and not the milky sunlight of predawn that had accompanied her back to her room, but the scouring brightness of late morning.
She reached for her travel alarm clock and snapped open its small alligator case.
Half past ten. Why ever had Cynthia let her lie abed for so long?
If she were to complete enough paintings for the upcoming show, every moment counted.
Then the events of the previous night flooded back to her.
The poor girl might have had a lie-in of her own after her harrowing encounter at the party.
She pushed herself upright and threw back the light coverlet.
She slid her bony feet into her carpet slippers and reached for her robe.
She lifted the telephone receiver and instructed the front desk attendant to send her breakfast tray to her room without delay.
Even if Cynthia was not up for a session in the studio, there was no reason that she couldn’t go ahead and get started on her own.
Anyway, she had the memory of Cynthia fleeing across the road, a look of determined fury stamped on her features, to use should she feel stuck.
And once she was sure of where she was headed with a project, she rarely found herself held back.
After her painting session the night before, she felt too inspired to be the least bit blocked.
There had been something inspiring about Cynthia from the moment she’d spotted her in the staff kitchen, but the sight of her pelting across the asphalt, no shoes on her feet and ringing wet, evoked some kind of ancient water goddess.
The girl was pretty, there was no quibbling on that score, but that wasn’t what made her an intriguing subject.
Rather, it was the way she gave off an impression of intelligence and observation.
It did Geraldine a world of good to see a young woman less interested in simpering and tamping her fire down to appear docile to a potential beau.
It made her feel more hopeful for the future than she had in some time.
Cynthia’s desire to complete her education had lifted her spirits to no end and had made her aware of how much she missed her own work.
A discreet knock landed on the door to the suite.
She called out a welcome, and the door swung open, her breakfast tray appearing in the gap.
A silver coffeepot, a single pink china cup, a plate scantily clad in a wedge of melon and a sliver of dry toast, as well as the expected fresh rose, offered no surprises. The maid, however, did.
“You’re not Cynthia,” Geraldine said, striving and failing to keep the indignation from her voice.
“No, ma’am. I’m Dolores.”
“Is Cynthia unwell this morning?” she asked, hoping her tone had softened. Come to think of it, Cynthia likely had been up at least as late as she had.
“Miss Hubbard said I should direct any questions you have to her personally,” Dolores said.
She carried the tray to the low table placed between the pair of upholstered chairs at the far end of the room.
Dolores capably slid the drapes open before crossing to the bed to retrieve Geraldine’s robe, which had slithered to the floor. “Will there be anything else?”
Geraldine’s brain began to fizz. What on earth could have happened to Cynthia?
“Indeed, there will. Please ask Miss Hubbard to attend to me immediately. And take away the tray. I have entirely lost my appetite.”
Geraldine watched as the girl darted like a rabbit to the table once more. As she hoisted the tray aloft, the teacup chattered wildly in its saucer, and the coffeepot lid rattled like dice in a cup. The poor girl would not have lasted a day as her maid. Where, oh where, was Cynthia?