The Keepsake. Sheelagh Kelly

and locked her in.’ Keeping his voice low, and oblivious to Joanna’s jealousy, he shoved his cap to the back of his head and bent to the keyhole again. ‘Maybe he hit her – she’s still bawlin’.’

      Smarting over his ignorance of her own feelings, Joanna hissed, ‘Why don’t you just knock and find out?’ And with that she rapped briskly on the door before hastening away with her trolley, leaving him to panic.

      He was set to run but the occupant was already at the door, her crying stopped and her voice eager with enquiry. ‘Who’s there?’

      Still unnerved by Joanna’s action, Marty gave rapid apology through the barrier. ‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to distur—’

      ‘Don’t go!’ Her entreaty was swift but polite, its melodic tone permeating the wood to spellbind him. ‘Could you possibly help? My father’s gone out and taken the key in error. I’m locked in.’

      Marty knew it was no error. He would be in deep trouble if he got involved in this. ‘I’m only the boots, Miss er –’ He broke off, not privy to her name. But her voice sounded lovely, stroked him persuasively as she begged again.

      ‘Oh please! Couldn’t you find a spare key and let me out?’

      Wanting to assist, his face contorted with indecision, he glanced along the corridor to where a bad-tempered Joanna was darting in and out of a room changing the bed linen. She would have a key. Still, he dithered for a second, playing with his chin. Why had the girl’s father locked her in? It was too impertinent to ask, but he did not like the man who, gentlemanly attire or no, looked an arrogant brute. Thus decided, he straightened his cap and said, ‘Hang on, miss, I’ll just go see what I can do.’

      Hurrying to accost the maid he explained the situation. ‘We have to help her, Jo.’

      ‘I don’t have to do anything!’ Edging her way past him to gather dirty linen, Joanna remained cross, white petticoats frothing under the sober dress as she marched to and fro.

      Marty tried to cajole sympathy, leaning his attractive head close to her plain one and nudging her arm suggestively. ‘I always took you for a kind soul. How would you feel if your da locked you in against your will? Bet you’d want me to come and rescue you.’

      For once his rough-diamond charm was lost. Ignoring the smell of buttermilk soap, those kind eyes, the winning smile, Joanna condemned him as a faithless friend. ‘It’s not my dad, it’s hers, and we shouldn’t get involved unless we want to lose our jobs!’ She stamped off with her bundle of sheets.

      Thwarted, Marty grimaced and returned to apologise to the prisoner. ‘Sorry, miss, I tried to get a key off the maid but she wouldn’t be involved.’

      There came a snort of frustration that condemned him as useless and the sound of a body slumping to the carpet. Squinting through the keyhole he caught a wisp of dark hair against the backdrop of pastel wallpaper. ‘Maybe your father won’t be long.’

      Her reply was dull. ‘He’ll be out all morning.’

      Upon learning this, Marty relaxed somewhat to enjoy the romantic notion that he was helping a damsel in distress. He was intrigued to know why she had been locked in, and difference in status had not prevented him from flirting with female guests before, given the encouragement. Some ladies found him attractive, though heaven knew why; personally he saw a gypsy when he looked in the mirror, a face that lacked the finely chiselled features he himself admired, with eyes that were somewhere between grey and green. When he was happy they appeared green, when sad they were grey – that was, if one could see them under those heavy lids. His hair was of a nondescript colour too; one might be kind and call it brown but it was the insipid brown of dried winter undergrowth and its texture similarly wiry, so that whenever he removed his hat it sprang back into place like trampled grass, no amount of oil able to control it. He disliked everything about his looks. Still, to his favour he had decent teeth and was taller than average, and he had learned that charm compensated for any other lack of attribute.

      Leaning against the door, he voiced a bold and teasing statement. ‘Your father took the key on purpose, didn’t he?’

      There was a pregnant pause, then the glint of an eye as she tried to assess her impudent Samaritan through the aperture.

      Marty felt no need to apologise, but did offer an explanation as to how he had guessed. ‘I saw him leave. He seemed quite aggrieved.’

      She fixed her glittering dark eye to his green one.

      Concerned that he might have overstepped the mark, he added quickly. ‘I hung around ’cause I felt worried about you.’

      ‘Did you, really?’ She sounded grateful.

      Encouraged, Marty prolonged the bizarre method of conversation. ‘It’s remiss of me to have to ask, miss, but could you tell me whom I have the pleasure of addressing?’

      ‘I’m Henrietta Ibbetson.’

      When he did not automatically introduce himself in return, she prompted, ‘So, who are you?’

      ‘Oh, like I said, I’m only the boots, miss.’ The quality of her voice had him glued to the keyhole. If the hotel manager himself had come round the corner Marty could not have torn himself away.

      ‘You must have a name.’

      ‘I’m flattered you’re even interested, miss.’ Marty grinned to himself – that’s right, lay it on thick.

      ‘Why, naturally I am!’

      ‘Thank you, miss. It’s Martin Lanegan.’

      ‘Martin, I’d love to see you, but even with this unyielding timber between us I can tell by your voice that you’re a very kind person, very likeable.’

      His belly tightened at the artlessly seductive tone.

      ‘And that’s why I feel confident in throwing myself upon your mercy.’

      I’d like to throw myself on you, thought Marty, imagining the gorgeous creature on the other side of the door, but he said, throatily polite, ‘I’ll do what I can.’

      ‘Might you perhaps find a key at the reception desk?’

      The lascivious thoughts vanished. He gasped at the very suggestion. ‘That’s more than my life’s worth, miss! If you’re not here when your father comes back –’

      ‘But I will be! I swear it. It’s not that I wish to run away, but that I don’t care to be caged like an animal.’

      He endured mental argument, desperate to ingratiate himself but not so keen as to risk dismissal. ‘I know it’s none of my affair, Miss Ibbetson, but why did he lock you up?’

      There was a slight pause whilst Henrietta wondered how much to divulge. He was, after all, just a lowly employee. But it was essential that she lure him to her side. How else was she to keep the arranged rendezvous with her beau at King’s Cross?

      Keeping this latter part to herself, she injected her sigh with feeling and made a half-confession. ‘My father plans to marry me off to an individual of his choosing, a man I find utterly loathsome.’ Her tone endorsed this revulsion. ‘Two days ago I ran away to my aunt’s in London…’ It had been during her escapade that she had met a more promising match, one who, upon hearing her story, had vowed to help. She should have gone with him there and then but had thought it wiser to go to her aunt’s and to meet him in a few days’ time. ‘…but she betrayed me and Father came to take me home. We arrived too late in York to continue our journey so he booked us in here. He hasn’t let me out of his sight other than to sleep and to breakfast. He’s killing two birds with one stone by attending some business whilst in the city. We’re to catch the afternoon train home. At which point I shall be condemned.’ But if this dolt would only comply she could be well on her way to her assignation at King’s Cross before her father even returned. ‘I’d be eternally grateful, Martin, if you could find it in your heart to assist.’

      Enthralled