Clutching his felt hat, Garty stands by the entrance counter. It boasts a sign saying, “Wait here”, on a mini lectern type of black and white message board, so he waits rather impatiently, drumming his fingers on its glistening mahogany. He pushes his scarlet cape behind his broad shoulders with the back of one hand, feeling this might be less intimidating for any lady who may come to serve him, or even a man servant. Garty taps on a small brass bell noticeable on the counter via his open palm. Its tone rings out like a church bell, clear and summoning. He grimaced at its sound being surprisingly loud. At least someone should hear that! He muses.
A homey-styled woman with ivory coloured hair tucked inside a night sky hued bonnet that flattered her moon shaped face came bustling to the desk. Garty detected the air of annoyance behind her serene facade. Her gown was darkest blue with fitted sleeves and a starched white collar. She reminds me of a nurse I knew as a child. He immediately feels comfortable talking to her. He leans his flat palms on the desk and studies her face. He notes her features in order to compile his growing list of facial composite sketches. His artistic skills had rocketed alongside his ability to obtain all details of a woman’s face in one momentary glance.
“Sir,” she addresses Garty. “Good morning to you, Sir! May I assist you?”
She bustles about moving a small selection of items on the counter. She glances up at him with inquisitive hazel eyes with yellow flecks that remind him of a cat he once had, and a faint smile painted orange. It enhances the fashionable picture of highest quality and etiquette.
“Some water for my horse, a rosy apple and a carrot,” he said immediately, beckoning towards the front where Brill patiently stood at ease tied securely. “And a little grain, if you will?”
“Certainly Sir,” the woman tugged at a bell cord underneath the counter. Immediately a young woman in stable boys’ olive green livery, appears, she being lost in baggy shirt turned neatly up to her elbows, and trousers tucked tightly into strong highly polished boots, came hurrying and stood before the woman. She kept her round eyes on the woman, her mistress. “Water the horse, Bubba,” she orders in a calm voice with authority.
“Yes, Madam, right away,” came the reply from the young female. It was almost a whisper from her tiny mouth, pink and perky as a rabbit’s. The young lady bit her bottom lip with great fear and trepidation. She glances up with her wide set darkest brown eyes complimented by whitest whites, but her narrow chin was still pinned to her neck, her body as rigid as a tree covered in winter snow.
Garty notices lightly tanned skin on the back of her arms, neck and face that may contribute to her appearing older than her years? She could be 15 or 18 years old. She is used to working outdoors. Her hair is a shade of wet sand, tied at the back of her head by a rough ribbon of black that complete the look her employer desires. But, she has a gentle countenance about her that strikes him well. Is she just young and shy or being bullied by the older servants? Garty wonders? I hope it is simply shyness for I cannot endure bullies!
She does not look to the right or to the left as she steps swiftly outside towards his beast as a soldier might do on duty. He notices her untying the horse and leading it via a gated walkway between the inn and adjacent building. Garty watches Brill trot beside the young strapper without a murmur. Satisfied that his beast is in the best hands, he turns to the lady serving him, notices that she is wearing a badge with her name engraved upon it.
“I would like to book a room, Mrs Bouchée,” he says, “for about one week,” he adds. This is his usual practice, and enough time to sort out whether or not a town might yield any information about the king’s missing daughter.
She smiles at the use of her name and gazes at her little book laid out before her. She pops a pair of ink blue rimmed spectacles on her nose to make her final decision. They change her appearance to one of severity, a person who refuses to tolerate nonsense! She impresses him with her demeanour and tidy appearance. A woman who cares in particular about the latest fashion but more of good manners, tidiness, obedience and even kindness no doubt, he thinks. She is a woman of worth, he muses. I like her.
“We can do that for you, Sir. Would the East Wing suit you? It overlooks yonder hills,” she utters with a click of her tongue. Garty ponders this news for a moment before replying. He may have preferred something south-facing, to keep a look out for any highway men that might be have followed his trail, or remain lurking in pursuit of his person, or more exactly, his money. He had gained a canny way of detecting unwanted stalkers over the years and knew that his guard must always be up. However, he had no wish to cause a stir of undue fear in this woman. Methinks the room should be quieter which might prove valuable to achieving a peaceful sleep finally. And I need to prepare a plan to extricate information from the local folk.
“That is acceptable. And may I order meals for the duration of my stay?”
“Certainly Sir, the dining room is right here, and of course, you may have room service too!” Her eyes lift above her spectacles’ rims and she stares into the centre of the room, indicating with her left hand where small tables are set with the best blue and white crockery, trimmed with finest gold, tables with small vases of flowers, freshly picked, and a small tray with condiments. High backed chairs stand proudly alongside. A middle aged man with greying hair and smart business attire, a white long sleeved shirt, brocade breast coat and tailored woollen pants in a dark tone of lead or ashes, sat alone at the far corner, quietly eating a generous heap of scrambles eggs and toasty bread, drinking tea and gazing at a newspaper spread on the table for two.
Garty wishes to be that man right now. He is famished. His mouth waters.
“We serve breakfast until 11:00 AM and Lunch will be served at 12:30PM precisely.”
“I see! That sounds very convivial,” Garty replies, following her eyes through the room.
“May I have your name, Sir,” she says, silver pen held aloft by her finger and thumb.
“Garty Musdo,” he replies promptly.
“Not the famous Knight Commander Garty Musdo?” She exclaims, her eyes popping above her glasses, as if he is a celebrity. She scrutinises his bright shoulder pads, the King’s crest, three wings in a row, on two brazen pins that impress her curiosity and confirm his claim to his title.
“You have finally condescended to visit our village.” She smiles quirkily and continues her rant. “It’s such a shame,” the woman says shaking her head. “We heard that the King has been searching for a ghost for many years now,” she adds as if she is privy to the king’s mind. Expecting my agreement no doubt, Garty muses. He utters a slight cough, lowers his face before commenting in a sharper than usual tone of voice.
“Everyone may have their own opinion, but I do not.” He raises his head. “I have the King’s opinion and that is my reason for being here,” Garty says.
Mrs Bouchée’s face reddens. “My humble apologies Sir, I do not mean to be irreverent or blunt. The King of Kallai is a noble man! Of course you must carry on with your work as usual, just like me! Now, I shall show you to your room. You are welcome to order breakfast immediately!”
I smell fresh coffee, hot bread baking, and fresh apples. Aromas burst through the air and tantalised Garty’s nostrils pleasantly.
Maud Bouchée closes her book and places her pen in a small crystal inkwell with a clink. Picking up a large brass key with a label attached, she hands it to Garty with a flourish.
“Your horse will be comfortable in stables at the back. All our staff wear olive green livery, so you can identify them. We are presently designing outfits for our reception staff. The progress is ongoing. You may ask anyone for help for your beast, or for yourself, of course!”
“That is much appreciated, Madam,” Garty says politely tipping his hat, swishing his scarlet cape and following Madam.
“Maud Bouchée,” she says, turning her head briefly and smiling minutely, giving him her first name as privilege.
“Thank you, Mrs Maud Bouchée, I shall remember your name in my memoirs!”
She leads him through tall wooden double doors, along a corridor, through a small library and into a secluded area with a couple of doors nearby. “Number 19,” she says, pausing at a door marked with a brass number. She unlocks the door with her personal key that hangs on a chain draped loosely about her bountiful waist.
The room is quite large, about 4.5 yards square, with a window nicely dressed in yellow and black floral cretonne curtains, pulled aside and tied by a golden cord to reveal the hills beyond the glaze. Below the window stands a dining table for one or two persons, hosting a polished mahogany surface with a vase atop, sporting freshly picked daffodils budding glorious yellow. Two lean-on chairs snuggle by. Garty feels that this room has a relatable ambience and might suit him well. His eyes follow the layout of the room from left to right. In the corner stands a tall polished oak wardrobe and he observes his own form in the long mirror close to the corner of the room. A bedside table with an embroidered yellow cloth upon its surface, also boasted a book shelf and below that a small cupboard door. Nearby the eye catching brass bed sports an abundance of bedding, including a beautifully woven silk bedspread in yellow and black that adds a dramatic effect by its exotic style. On the bed’s far side another small table is parked, black and yellow marble with basin atop alongside a zinc bathtub boasting a fine mahogany outer sheath, just visible from this vantage point. The black silken curtain on a brass rail is curved and surrounds the bath tub, now drawn aside in designated entry point, Garty surmises. The toiletry area is discreetly positioned in the far corner of the room. As his eyes move across he notes a mahogany tallboy with a generous seven drawers. A fine old armchair, allocated for the weary, lingers alone in its space. Two deep blue velvet cushions decorated with embossed red and gold embroidery, lay plumped upon its sturdy arms. Next to the chair he notes a small polished oak cupboard with glass doors. Garty notices its interior holds a glass jug of sparkling liquid and two crystal glasses. A brass unlit lamp stands proudly atop the glistening wood.
“This is splendid,” says Garty, genuinely impressed with his proposed accommodation. He also wonders at what cost he could stay here, but resists the notion to ask such an indiscrete question? It will cost me most of my puny gold, he figures. Perhaps he will end this mission with a stack of Promissory notes to repay. He inhales a deep breath and perishes the thought for the moment.