Chapter 3
The Devil’s in the Details
Hetty looked up from the book she was perusing in the fabulous library at Hatherley Hall as the Dowager Duchess entered the room.
“Good morning, your grace,” Hetty said with a smile. She liked the dowager very much, who was made in the same indomitable mould as her grandmama and did not suffer fools.
“Well enough, child. I have a meeting this morning and thought I would use the library as there will be plans and such to look at.”
“Oh, in that case I shall remove myself elsewhere,” Hetty replied, closing the book.
The dowager sat down with a sigh and batted away the blanket Howard proffered to cover her knees.
“I know it ain’t precisely Mediterranean climes this year, but I’ll not get frostbite indoors,” she said crossly.
“Stop cosseting me. Mind you set out the tea and plenty of fresh Ratafia biscuits in good time. You may tell Monsieur Alfonse that those French fancies he creates are all well and good if he wishes to serve them, but I want my biscuits.”
“Yes, your grace. I will ensure he is aware of your preferences,” Howard replied gravely, though Hetty had the distinct impression Monsieur Alfonse needed no reminding.
The dowager nodded, apparently satisfied, before turning back to Hetty. “No, no. Don’t run away. You may stay, you might find it of interest.”
Hetty regarded her in surprise. “Really?”
“I’ve Mr and Mrs King coming for a visit to discuss the progress on their new hotel.
I’ve agreed to champion their cause, to ensure all the best people patronise it, but only on the proviso I know what’s afoot.
I’m not putting my reputation behind something vulgar, and that’s a fact, but I love a building project myself.
I’ve made this place over a time or two, but I’m old-fashioned and it wants a fresh eye. ”
“But the Hall is everything that is elegant,” Hetty said, meaning it, though she knew the dowager was not averse to a little flattery.
This was met with a smile of satisfaction.
“It is,” she replied, for the dowager was not one for false modesty.
“But I’ve noticed you, my girl. You’ve got a certain something.
An eye for detail, I should say. I’d be glad to see what you think of the plans.
Mrs King is a very stylish creature herself, and the architect chap seems to be a sensible fellow with good taste.
But if the hotel is to appeal to the highest ranks of the ton, it will need to be special. It will need something extra.”
Hetty blinked, rather astonished. “And you think I can supply it?”
The dowager regarded her appraisingly. “I don’t know if you can or you can’t, but we may as well see what you make of it all, eh?”
“Well, I am deeply flattered that you believe I have anything to offer, but won’t Mr and Mrs King object?” Nevermind Mr Bramwell when he found out, she thought uneasily.
“They’ll accept what’s good for them if they wish for my help,” she replied with a snort.
As there was little Hetty could say in reply to that, she returned the book she had been reading to the shelves and moved to sit by the dowager.
“It is just Mr and Mrs King who are coming then?” she asked belatedly, a sudden knot of apprehension forming in her belly as the indistinct murmur of voices sounded outside the library door.
“Eh? Oh, no. Didn’t I say? Mr Bramwell is coming too.”
“No, you didn’t say,” Hetty replied, her nerves leaping. It would have been one thing to aggravate the fellow from a distance, but if he thought she was interfering in his hotel… Oh, well. He’d just have to lump it.
Howard escorted the small party into the room.
“Your grace, Mr and Mrs King, and Mr Bramwell.”
Mr Bramwell’s eyes shot to hers the moment he entered the room, and a charge of something fraught and unsettling tensed between them.
Hetty let out a breath, telling herself she was being a ninny.
He was just a man. A rather impatient and occasionally ill-mannered man, but nothing to get flustered about.
Yet she had the distinct impression her presence had disconcerted him too. Far from being reassuring, it only made her increasingly on edge.
Think calm thoughts, she counselled herself, too self-aware not to comprehend the danger. If she was rattled or anxious, she could become defensive. It was an all too small a step from there to provoking and self-destructive.
Introductions were made, and the group gathered around the large table, which was habitually strewn with books and newspapers but had been tidied for the meeting.
All eyes turned to Mr Bramwell, who hesitated, staring directly at Hetty.
“My lady, I’m sure you have more interesting things to attend to.”
“No, she don’t,” the dowager said briskly. “Hetty has a fine eye for detail, and she knows what’s a la mode better than any of us.”
Hetty struggled to keep her face impassive as she saw a series of emotions flicker in Mr Bramwell’s eyes, from surprise to annoyance and then to resignation. He glanced at her again and Hetty could not help herself. She quirked one eyebrow at him.
His jaw tensed.
Amusement simmered inside her, but she forced it down, determined to pay attention and prove to Mr Bramwell that she could be useful.
Listening attentively, she regarded the plans that Mr Bramwell laid out for them, impressed by his explanation of the build and the progress that had been made to date.
Next, the dowager requested to see the drawings for the interior architecture of the building.
Hetty smiled with delight as she took in the plans he presented for a splendid ballroom suite.
“How elegant it is,” she said at once, glancing up, and a little burst of pleasure unfurled inside her as she saw the appreciation warm Mr Bramwell's usually cold grey eyes.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Hetty turned her attention back to the plans before he could not see the colour rising to her cheeks and studied the drawing once more.
“It is certainly the finest ballroom anywhere this side of London, perhaps anywhere in the country,” the dowager said with surprising animation.
The conversation carried on around her, as Hetty imagined how it would look in reality, what it might be like to spend an evening in such surroundings.
Mr Bramwell went to remove the plan and replace it with another, but Hetty stopped him before she could think better of it, placing her hand on the paper to keep it in place.
She frowned down at a detail on the floor plan.
“Oh,” she said, straightening. Belatedly realising she had made the regretful sound aloud, she looked up to see four sets of eyes gazing at her with interest. No. Three with interest, one with a warning glint that was unmistakable.
“You perceive a problem, my lady?” Mrs King asked her with interest.
“Oh, well, I don’t know that it’s a problem as such,” she prevaricated, increasingly aware of the weight of Mr Bramwell’s scrutiny.
“Well, spit it out, gel,” the dowager said, thumping her cane on the floor imperiously. “We’ve not got all day.”
Darting another glance at Mr Bramwell, whose jaw was still set in an uncompromising line, Hetty put up her chin. If he couldn’t take a little criticism, he was in the wrong profession.
“Mr Bramwell, where is the ladies retiring room?”
He shot her a keen glance that made her stomach give an anxious flip before indicating the room. Hetty bent her head over the plan once more, her concerns validated as he confirmed its placement. Steeling her nerve, she placed her finger on the plan to illustrate her words as she spoke.
“I’m afraid the ladies’ retiring room is far too small and poorly placed.
See here, this leads to the refreshments room, and one must cross the busy thoroughfare to access it.
It will cause chaos with men and servants spilling drinks upon ladies hurrying to…
to see to their needs,” she finished coolly.
Hetty glanced up, noting that Mr Bramwell was frowning at the plans. Encouraged that he might not dismiss her advice out of hand, she continued.
“If you truly want the hotel to be everything that is refined and elegant, then this room needs to be as lavish as the rest of it. There ought to be a space set aside for repairing gowns, a seating area where ladies can enjoy a moment of quiet or escape unwanted attention. There should be enough mirrors so that ladies need not elbow each other out of the way to check their hair. I cannot tell you how many grand balls I have been to where the ladies requirements seem to be little more than an afterthought. It makes the entire experience most disagreeable and can colour a woman’s view of an evening if her comfort is not adequately provided for.
You do not want your female guests to find disfavour because you have not sufficiently considered their needs.
Your ballroom may be magnificent, Mr Bramwell, but if the ladies have nowhere to recover themselves in comfort after hours of dancing and a crush at supper, they will pronounce the establishment barbarous. ”
There was an intense silence during which Hetty could not bring herself to look at Mr Bramwell again.
Then, clapping.
“Bravo, my lady,” Mrs King said, looking utterly delighted and rather triumphant.
Mr King snorted. “My wife had also raised similar concerns,” he admitted to Mr Bramwell. “Though I confess, she did not explain them with such eloquence and specificity as Lady Henrietta.”
“There, see. I told you she was a clever chit, did I not?” the dowager said with satisfaction. “That’s exactly right, though I didn’t see it myself, even though the problem is obvious in hindsight.”
An odd combination of pleasure and embarrassment ran up the back of Hetty’s neck, and she allowed herself to glance at Mr Bramwell. He was still staring at the plan, his expression forbidding, and her stomach dropped. Lord. He was furious.
Yet then he looked up and met her eyes. “You raise a valid point, my lady,” he said, and to her surprise there was not an iota of resentment behind the words. Indeed, he seemed… impressed.
“Can it be mended?” Mr King asked.
Hetty watched with interest as Mr Bramwell leaned over the plans. She found the intense way he studied the drawing, his absolute attention, perfectly riveting, and wondered what it might feel like to be the subject of such attention. An unsettling flood of heat pooled low in her belly.
“I think so. If we move this wall here and enlarge this space, and this area becomes the refreshments room…” Mr Bramwell took out a pencil and began drawing upon the plan, remodelling the initial design.
“Oh!” she said, impressed at how easily he had solved the problem.
“Does that meet with your approval, my lady?” he asked, and she supposed she could not blame him if there was just a hint of sardonic amusement behind the question.
“It does. Nicely done, Mr Bramwell.”
He met her gaze, his grey eyes as cool as ever, but she thought she saw storm clouds there, a warning of distant thunder. It told her to watch her step, for he would not always be so accommodating.
Hetty smiled her sweetest smile and batted her eyelashes at him, like the silly young lady she wasn’t.