“Randolph.” I made a little curtsy. “Of the Lafayette Parish Randolphs, naturally,” I hurried to add. “Papa would’ve come himself, but he’s been so busy of late. The judgeship, you know.”
“Of course, Miss Randolph.” Oscar gave a sage nod. “Let us see what we can do to accommodate you, yes? I don’t recall the hotel taking a reservation under the name Randolph.”
“Well, of course we arranged one. One simply doesn’t just walk in off the street at a fine establishment such as the Waldorf, does one?”
“A good morning to you,” Mac cut in quickly. “I am John MacPherson, sent by His Lordship the Earl of Airth to escort this lovely young lady to wed his second son, Charles. Known the lad since he was in knee-britches, I have. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”
“I’m mighty tuckered out, Mr. Oscar,” I pressed. “This journey has been such a trial.” I batted my lashes at the man, though it probably just looked like I had gook in my eyes.
In my peripheral vision, I saw Collum’s eyes roll up to the high, sculpted ceiling. Doug swiped at the corners of his mouth. Phoebe didn’t even try to hide her grin as Mac put in quickly, “His Lordship had a telegram sent here not three weeks ago. I assume all arrangements are in order? I would sure hate to have to tell the earl his new daughter-in-law was not taken care of in the manner befitting her station.”
Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “And we shall of course extend every courtesy to the young miss. If you shall but follow me?” Oscar bowed once more, then led Mac over to the glossy reception desk.
“Nice flirting,” Phoebe murmured as she eased up beside me.
“Learned from the master.”
My whining, along with Mac’s letters of credit linked to a very real fortune in the Bank of New York, must have impressed. The eighth-floor suite of rooms that spread out before us dripped with decadence.
“Wow,” Phoebe gasped. “This is . . .”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
After riding up the man-operated elevator to the eighth floor, Oscar—?bolstered by a train of hotel servants—?took us through the enormous suite. By the time the ma?tre d’h?tel had completed his tour of living spaces, parlor, exquisite private dining and morning rooms, library, four bedrooms, and two private baths, all I wanted was to kick off my boots and let my aching feet sink into one of the dozen Turkish carpets. I saw Doug eying a delicate, gilt-inlaid Louis XIV chair and knew he was trying to calculate the chance it would hold up under his weight.
Though each space was more magnificent than the one before, after ten minutes of admiring the no-doubt priceless bric-a-brac that covered every surface . . . the garishly painted silk wallpaper had started to close in on me.
When Oscar opened the balcony doors, a brisk March wind sliced through the room, bringing with it the scent of factory smoke and newly cut wood. Yards of lace and scarlet silk that had probably cost more than my dad’s car tried to unmoor themselves as they gusted upward on the breeze. Oscar tutted and started to shut the doors.
Phoebe, noting my flinch, spoke up. “Leave it be, please, Mr. Tschirky. Her, um . . . Ladyship prefers the fresh air.”
Oscar nodded. Pride glazed his voice as he clicked his heels together. “Although I’m certain this shan’t compare to your new home at the earl’s estate, here at the Waldorf we strive to ensure our guests receive every comfort.”
We followed the manager to the walnut-paneled dining room area. “As I assume Miss Randolph wishes to refresh herself in some privacy, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering luncheon. It shall be brought up at once. Someone will guide your servants to their dining hall, belowstairs. As is customary, staff meals are served promptly at five, a.m. and p.m.” Oscar’s gaze skimmed over Doug’s large form. “Mr. MacPherson’s valet may come to the back door of the kitchen at four thirty to receive his meals. The dining area for colored staff is located just off the stable. He may—”
“What?” Phoebe’s voice severed Tschirky’s speech as neatly as a surgeon’s blade slicing off a diseased mole. “What did you just say?”
Oscar frowned, confused. “I don’t . . .”
Doug jerked discreetly on Phoebe’s skirt. He gave a graceful bow. “Thank you, sir. I will do just that.”
I could hear Phoebe’s teeth grinding. My own hands fisted at my sides as Oscar motioned two maids forward. “Emma and Lila will serve as Miss Randolph’s first and second housemaids during your stay. And will, of course, answer to her lady’s maid.”
As the two maids curtsied, Oscar went on. “Lastly, I’ve also taken the liberty of sending for the best dressmaker in town to come at once. She shall begin replacing the trousseau Miss Randolph so tragically lost in the steamboat accident.”
“Yes,” I muttered. “The steamboat accident was truly awful.”
Oscar headed for the door, where he paused to point out a series of bell pulls, each labeled with a different function.
CONCIERGE. DINING. PORTER. 1ST MAID. 2ND MAID. VALET. KITCHEN. STABLE.
“Please ring if you have need of anything at all,” Oscar said. “Miss Randolph’s personal maid shall take the small area just off her mistress’s bedchamber.” He jerked a nod at Doug. “And while the usual custom is for a valet to take the room set aside for him off the gentleman’s quarters . . .” He trailed off again, gesturing helplessly at Doug. “It seems we must make other arrangements in this case.”
Phoebe vibrated with fury. My breath hissed out. And even Collum’s face began to redden with anger. Doug only nodded. “Of course, Mr. Tschirky.”
“We thank you for your hospitality.” Mac hustled Oscar out the door before anyone went ballistic. “I’m sure Miss Randolph is eternally grateful. As is my employer, the earl.”
With a snap of the ma?tre d’h?tel’s fingers, the staff filtered out and shut the door behind them.
“Racist bastard,” Phoebe snarled at the door. “How dare he?”
“Babe.” Doug’s voice was gentle, though I heard the underlying note of steel. “It’s 1895. The American Civil War ended only thirty years past. It’s shameful the way most people of color are treated during this time, yes. Awful. But coming here was my choice. And I am willing to face it.”
She threw up her hands and dropped down onto a tapestried love seat. “Oh, great. How very noble of you. Well, you might be ‘willing to face it,’ but that doesn’t mean I have to. Not a damn, bleeding bit of it.”
“Phee,” Collum began, but she wheeled around on him and he backed off, palms raised.
Phoebe leapt up at a soft knock on the door. She stomped over and jerked it open.
“Yeah?” she snapped at the two housemaids who stood outside, each carrying a stack of cream-colored towels.
They bobbed in tandem and entered as Phoebe stepped back.