“I believe he is seeing all is right with our rooms,” Oliver stated.
The woman turned sharply and considered them. No expression broke her cool regard. Perhaps she didn’t understand English.
A younger woman, a maid, by the look of it, came rushing out from where the woman had come. “I’ll speak to the kitchen,” the young woman said nervously.
“See that you do,” the lady said and then kept walking.
“That is Countess Wilhelmina von Rothbach,” a man said. English by accent. “She is… exacting, I have observed. Her carriage has had an incident. I fear not everything is to her standards at the moment.” The man flipped his paper over and under his arm. “Philip Coleridge. Antiquarian. Oxford.”
“Oliver Rowland, former student.”
“Ah,” the man said with delight. “And what did you study?”
“Classical literature, mostly.”
“Marvelous. You would have known Aldus Copperall then.”
“I did indeed,” Oliver responded. “Oh, and this is Clementine Rowland. My wife.”
“A delight,” Philip said, stepping forward to take her hand. A quick kiss on her knuckles and he released it. Truthfully, Clemmie was a little too weary and unsettled to fully engage in conversation with strangers, but Oliver seemed to warm to the man.
“I might rest,” Clemmie said when she saw the man from the desk return.
“Right, of course,” Oliver said with a smile. “We should see where our rooms are.”
“Naturally. Well, I hope we’ll see each other at supper. The weather is a little rough just at the moment. I should move north, but I thought I might wait for a nice day. The Alps are stunning when the sun shines. They really are. It’s worth the wait. The glacier is astounding. I hope you get a chance to see it while you’re here.”
“We hope to,” Oliver replied. “One can only pray the weather will be merciful to us.”
“In the meantime,” Mr. Coleridge said, “I might see myself to the bar. They keep quite good stock. Perhaps to keep us sedate in bad weather like this,” he finished with a wink.
Clemmie smiled. He did seem like a nice man, but as she stood there, she stifled a yawn.
“Come, my dear,” Oliver said and urged her toward the neatly uniformed young man who stood waiting for them. “I think resting before supper would do us both good.”
They were taken through a doorway, where lanterns lit a hallway that felt a little dark. Being up in the mountains, the gas for lighting would be quite impossible. They followed the young man, who walked silently on the thick carpet, up a set of stairs and along another hallway.
“Room fourteen,” he said as he stopped and turned back to them before unlocking the door with a key attached to an engraved brass oval.
The room itself was bright, with large windows. A fire warmed the space. There were a sitting room and bedroom to the right. “This is perfect,” Oliver said, taking the key off the young man.
“The water closet is down the hall. Hot water is available between eight and ten in the mornings.”
“Excellent. Our trunks have been brought?”
“Of course,” the young man said and made to leave.
“Why don’t you go rest?” Oliver suggested. “I think I’ll sit and read for a while. Perhaps I will join Mr. Coleridge in the bar, if that’s alright.”
“Perfect.” Admittedly, she preferred that he stay, but she didn’t want to be seen as overbearing and needy. She was only going to rest, after all. She’d done so in strange rooms on a number of occasions. It just hadn’t been in another country. “I suppose it will be dark soon.”
“It shouldn’t take long, I would suspect.”
“Perhaps light a lamp before you go. I should hate to wake in total darkness.”
“Of course,” Oliver said and came over to give her a quick kiss. Again, she stifled a yawn. “Go rest.”
Chapter 2
THE DINING ROOM WAS A large space with tables dotting the space. People talked and ate. A laugh pierced through the murmur of the diners.
Mr. Weber greeted them. “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Rowland. You join us this evening. Mr. Coleridge is here if you wish to join him.”
“Of course,” Oliver said brightly, and Clemmie irrationally wondered if her company was boring him. Perhaps they had spent too much time together, as it had only been them for days on end. But before she could think about it further, she was being led to a table on the far side of the dining hall by the dark window.
Mr. Coleridge was seated and looked happy to see them. “I hope you’re well-rested. It can be a testing journey through the mountains. Now, I understand you’re heading south.”
“Yes, we are to visit both Venice and Florence.”
“Both wondrous cities. Have you been before?”
Oliver and Mr. Coleridge went on to talk about sights they’d seen and what there was to see. As Clemmie knew very little, it was hard to follow the conversation. Instead, she watched as the countess arrived in the dining room, wearing the same dress as before—and the same look of disapproval. Clemmie suspected the woman’s disapproval was perpetual.
“Very old family,” Mr. Coleridge said, having noticed her walk in too. “As I understand it, they are related to Catherine the Great, and by extension with most of the royal families in Europe. She’s heading south to Italy as well, I believe. I heard it said she heads south for her health.”
“But it’s spring,” Clemmie said with confusion. “Would she not go south for the winter?”
“Correct you are. Perhaps it’s pollen she fears. Some are like that, cannot tolerate summers.”
That was true. Clemmie had a friend who suffered terribly with summer sniffles.
“The Mediterranean climate is gentler in most regards, except when it comes to the heat in summer. I, personally, cannot
