Free At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen Page A

backward as a striking young woman with red hair burst into the hallway wielding a fire iron.
    â€œAnd what the hell are you wanting?” she shouted in a thick accent. Her hair was tied into curls with scraps of cloth, and she was wearing a heavy white nightgown. She planted herself in front of Hank, grasping the poker with both hands.
    â€œHenry Winston Boyd,” Hank replied without missing a beat. He held out his hand. “The fourth. And you?”
    She turned her head and bellowed down the hall. “Angus!
ANGUS!
”
    Hank took a step backward, hands up in surrender. “No, wait. We’re fellow guests. We’ve just arrived. See?” He gestured toward our luggage, which was scattered up and down the hallway.
    She assessed it, ran her eyes over Ellis and me, and finally settled back on Hank. She stepped right up to him, brandishing the iron in his face.
    â€œI’m no guest,” she said, slanting her eyes accusingly. “I’m Meg, and I’m not on the clock until tomorrow evening. So I’ll not be doing anything for you until then—and that goes for all of you.” She returned to her room and slammed the door.
    After a beat of silence, Hank said, “I think she likes me.”
    â€œJust pick a room,” said Ellis.
    â€œNo, really. I think she does.”
    â€”
    The rooms were cramped and depressing: each had a dresser with a mirror hanging above it, a narrow bed with two nightstands, and beyond that, a small sitting area with a lumpy chair, fireplace, and a single blacked-out window. The wallpaper was faded Victorian, the rugs threadbare.
    Hank chose room two, while Ellis and I took five and six respectively. Although Hank didn’t spell out why he’d chosen that particular room, it wasn’t hard to figure out.
    Despite everything we’d just been through, he was plotting a romantic conquest. I was already incensed on Violet’s behalf—I was pretty sure Hank never
had
told her we were leaving—but at that moment I was close to outrage. Then it occurred to me that maybe Hank didn’t think a dalliance with Meg would count as an infidelity. Perhaps he simply felt entitled, that he had the
droit du seigneur
over servants.
    Various rumors followed Hank around, including one about a pregnant kitchen maid his mother had tried, unsuccessfully, to frame for stealing, and who disappeared shortly thereafter, presumably with a large sum of money. The highlight of the story had always been how Hank’s mother had stashed an entire set of Georgian silver in the girl’s room and then called the police. The actual cause of the situation was glossed over, dismissed with the vague explanation that “boys will be boys.” In the narrative, the maid herself never quite seemed real to me, nor did the child. I wondered now if either ever crossed Hank’s mind.
    â€œI’m going to lie down,” I said, leaving the men to deal with the luggage.
    My room was the final one on the left. I lit the candle on the dresser and fell on the bed, shoes and all, waiting for them to bring in my things.
    â€œThe door at the end we thought was a closet?” said Hank, dragging in a trunk. “It’s a bathroom. Thank God.”
    â€œShared!” came Ellis’s voice from the hallway.
    â€œWith running water!” Hank called back. He looked at me and winked. “Wait for it,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Wait…Any second now…”
    Out in the hallway, Ellis mumbled something inaudible.
    Hank laughed uproariously. “He always gets the last word. Or so he thinks. Anyway, the bathroom. It’s indoors, and it’s right next to you, you lucky thing.”
    As much as I felt like collapsing, I had to at least get the soot off my face and scour my teeth. I revived myself enough to dig through my luggage and find what I needed—no easy task, since I’d undone all of Emily’s