Still feeling tired, she rose from the chair and made her way down to the dining room. Only half the number of people were there from the evening before. Guests had fled the strange happenings at the hotel. She couldn’t blame them. It would be her instincts too, if she hadn’t been embroiled in it.
The Schonbergs were there, the countess and her party, the American who seemed overly interested in all this, and an Italian couple. The rude Italian was dining with them. So he was still here. Why hadn’t he moved on? The Schonbergs were there because this was their destination. The countess was stranded, and the American seemed to be staying because of the mystery.
There were a few other guests that she didn’t recognize—people who must have recently arrived. Or whose presence she simply hadn’t noticed before.
Unable to tolerate company that evening, to put up with their pitying looks, she took a table by herself and ate quickly. Blackness pressed on the windows outside the dining room, and streaks of water showed it rained slightly. Maybe she should wait until morning to go down to the tavern, she asked herself, but felt she couldn’t wait. How could she wait when Oliver was out there somewhere? He deserved her every effort, which meant venturing out into the night and going down to that tavern.
The things that were happening around here were in some way linked to that legend, so she had to understand the entirety of it.
“Is my carriage prepared?” she asked Mr. Weber when she reached the lobby. Was this something he should do for her, or something she should do herself? She didn’t know.
“It is waiting,” Mr. Weber said with a nod and she smiled her gratitude.
Walking out the door, the icy wind pressed on her skirts. The two horses and the black carriage waited. It looked ominous in the darkness.
The lantern by the door of the hotel cast light barely a yard and then there was sheer darkness. The man that was their driver stood holding the harness of the closest horse. Clemmie had barely nodded to the man before, who was French. They’d rented him and the carriage in Calais after they’d arrived by ship. She didn’t even know his name, but his command of English was sufficient.
“Are you familiar with the tavern in the village?” For all she knew, the man had spent every evening there. To be honest, she didn’t even know where he stayed. Was Oliver paying for his accommodation, or was it part of the rental price for him and his services? More importantly, how was he to be paid and did it fall on her to pay him?
It could be that she ended up without transportation soon as well. She could hardly depend on him wishing to take care of her just because she was stranded if she had no money to pay him. Another significant question she had no answers to. Perhaps tomorrow, she’d have to ask him what the arrangements were. Would Mr. Weber evict her too when it came to light she had no money? Back in London, she could always say her father would pay, and most merchants were happy to take that promise on her word. But here, her father was out of reach.
Chapter 13
IT WAS DARK INSIDE THE low-ceilinged tavern made exclusively of wood. The ceiling seemed even lower in the evening. Around her, the faces of people looked harsh. For a moment, she questioned whether she really wanted to do this. People turned to her as she walked in. Probably not the kind of person they normally saw here in the evenings, and certainly not the kind who came alone.
The driver and the carriage were waiting for her, and she would run out of here if this was too unpleasant. One didn’t know, after all, how welcoming outside people were. It had been pointed out to her that in certain quarters, people like them, like her, were not welcome.
A tight smile graced her lips and she walked toward the bar, where the barkeep she’d seen before still stood, regarding her as she approached. But a face drew her attention and she saw Mr. Carter sitting at one of the tables.
She veered toward him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m curious about this legend,” he said.
For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t invited him, but he’d come anyway. His curiosity was strong, apparently. Even as this annoyed her, she was pleased there was a familiar face. “Do you speak German?”
“Not a whit.”
“Well, I doubt your Latin will be that useful here.”
Approaching the bar, she left Mr. Carter where he was, but he joined her. Her mouth drew tight with annoyance.
“Please,” she said to the barkeep in German. “I would like to speak to one of the elders who knows the legends of this area.”
“Are you the wife of the man taken by the Roman soldiers?” the barkeep asked in his gruff voice.
The question surprised her. It seemed the people in the village were aware of the happenings up in the hotel. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. This was a small and probably close-knit community. The people working at the hotel were likely from this village.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I was hoping to learn more about this legend.”
The man considered her suspiciously for a moment, as if she was responsible for her husband’s death. Then he nodded to an old man in the corner, who sat by himself. He had gray hair and a dark vest over a generously used white linen shirt. His hand shook slightly as he lifted his tankard of ale to his mouth. “Dieter,” the barkeep added.
“Right, thank you.”
Mr. Carter didn’t understand the conversation, but he got the gist of it and followed as she walked over
