Mattias found his room without any trouble—number seventeen. Was that good luck? According to biblical scholars, seven was lucky, holy, or some such. But what about seventeen? He unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking slightly. He stepped inside the room—clean and modest, with plenty of space for one man.
The room held a bed, a chest of drawers with a basin and pitcher atop, and a mirror on the wall above that. He walked about the room, noting its details—an extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed, the smell of a newly sanded floor, a mug and brush hidden behind the pitcher. His eyes landed on a coat rack beside the door. He removed his coat and hat and settled them there. They’d done their job well, but the cold had gotten into his boots. Hopefully the servants would be up soon with his trunk, and one would light a fire.
His quarters had a window and small table and chair—a must for his work. He’d forgotten to ensure his room had a writing table. He’d been flustered after being left in an unfamiliar village during a rainstorm. Then Miss Cutler’s appearance had taken any room his mind would have had for such matters, and she continued to be in his thoughts.
What fortune it was she’d passed by and was the kind of woman willing to help a stranger. That itself was no small thing. Without a chaperone, many women would avoid speaking to a man they didn’t know. She’d been eager to help another despite social rules.
During their brief encounter, she hadn’t seemed to mind the rain, though she’d clutched a book of sorts she’d protected from getting wet. He understood that quite well. He sensed she’d been returning from an outing, perhaps from reading whatever book she’d carried. If she enjoyed the outdoors and clean air as much as he did—a welcome respite from the polluted miasma of London—perhaps they’d enjoy some of those things together during his stay.
Mattias stared out the window. How long would the rain last? The driver had bemoaned the storm, worried he’d break a wheel or get stuck in the mud. Mattias did not envy those whose livelihoods depended upon elements outside their control.
He shot a bit of gratitude toward the heavens for his ability to pay for personal expenses and have a decent-sized amount saved as well. Born of Irish parents who’d been poor beyond comprehension, Mattias had learned early that the slightest unexpected expense could be devastating. Like the cost of the physician who examined Ma, bled her, and gave her medicine. Whatever concoction had been in the bottle only made her sicker. The cost was so great that his father had been sent to debtor’s prison when they couldn’t pay rent that month. ’Twas not Da’s first time there. Despite his comfortably deep pockets today, he’d never forget that life was uncertain.
Mattias turned from the window and his thoughts. While waiting for his trunk to be brought up, he might as well get his work things arranged. He considered starting a fire in the small fireplace but decided that might raise questions. Men of his supposed breeding did not know how to start a fire.
He propped the door open so the pages could bring in the trunk, then sat at the writing desk. From his satchel, he removed one of three corked inkwells as well as a tied leather wrap, which held his papers together. A tin holding several quills came last. Later, he’d sharpen each quill so he could work longer without having to stop. He could tell he’d want to have uninterrupted time, for though he’d been in town scarcely an hour, already he felt inspiration waking in his mind and the whisperings of a story itching to be told.
Perhaps he’d spin a tale about a young woman in the rain, holding her wrap close as she hurried through the square. With a fresh sheet of paper and a sharp quill in hand, he began scribbling ideas, which came faster than he could write them.
Sometime later—seconds, minutes or longer, he couldn’t have said—a knock sounded, followed by the door slamming open as two men carried the trunk between them. “Room seventeen?”
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