One Enchanted Evening

by Anton du Beke

  ‘Mrs Adelman, I really must . . .’ Something stuck in his throat. ‘I really must . . . ask . . . why am I here?’

  The question hung in the air between them, threatening, as if it shouldn’t have been said. He hoped, above all else, that she had not brought him here to proposition him. She would not have been the first – and, if she did, she would not be the first to be told, in the kindest possible terms, that Raymond de Guise was a gentleman, not a gigolo; that, though they might joke about it in the kitchens and the housekeeping lounge, the dancers in the Buckingham Hotel were not the kind to slip out of the ballroom with a beautiful guest and wake beside her the following morning. Mrs Adelman patted the bed beside her and Raymond felt compelled to sit.

  Then she looked into his eyes.

  ‘Your mother sent me.’

  Of all the things she might have said, this was the least expected and it startled him.

  ‘My . . . mother?’

  Raymond’s mouth felt suddenly dry. Every other thought that had been in his head was obliterated. An image of his mother hovered into view, and suddenly he felt a thousand miles away from the sights and sounds of the Buckingham Hotel.

  ‘How long has it been, Raymond? Two years?’

  A little stab of guilt caught Raymond de Guise in the breast. ‘Three,’ he whispered, almost contritely.

  ‘Three years, and you her firstborn son.’ She said it not with admonishment, but with regret. ‘I met her, of course, in the years since you went away. Well, they were hard times for your mother . . . and I know what it’s like to lose a son. Mine died at Passchendaele, but how bittersweet to lose your son and yet know he’s still out there, and never comes home . . .’

  Raymond was not ordinarily unsure of himself, but now he stuttered, ‘Mrs Adelman, let me change my question. Why . . . why are you here?’

  Mrs Adelman lifted a hand and cupped Raymond’s own. Though he was anxious, he did not flinch or resist. ‘She didn’t think you’d listen if she came herself. So, when we got to talking about this runaway son of hers, we hit upon a novel solution: we thought we could kill two birds with one stone. I could take a final turn around the Buckingham Hotel – my husband used to adore this place – and, while I was here, I could ferry a message to her absent son . . .’

  ‘A message?’ whispered Raymond.

  ‘It’s your brother,’ Mrs Adelman said. ‘Raymond, he’s coming home.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘THIS IS IT, YOUNG LADY. Euston station. You’d better get yourself ready. Unless, that is, you want to go back the way you came?’

  Nancy Nettleton stirred at the rough touch of the train guard shepherding everybody off the train. She had not realised that she’d fallen asleep. She’d had her nose in her Reader’s Digest magazine and, the last thing she remembered, they were still somewhere in the Derbyshire hills and it was four hours until London. Now she looked through the window and saw the station concourse bustling as travellers stepped out into the hubbub.

  ‘Got someone to meet you, have you, love?’

  Nancy’s reflection was staring back at her from the fogged window glass. She had thought she looked so smart in her checked overcoat and knitted cap, forest green and embroidered with a single silver star in honour of her mother. Perhaps it was only the hours she’d been asleep, but what London elegance she’d imagined had simply disappeared. The pin in her hair had fallen out, her curls fell, unruly, around her face, and she could even see the indentations the fabric of the seat had made upon her cheek as she slept.

  ‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I’m here alone.’

  The train guard gave her a look that said: you’ll be eaten alive.

  ‘Perhaps you can point me to the powder room? I have an appointment to keep. I’d like to look . . .’ She fumbled for the right word. ‘Presentable.’

  ‘You’re asking the wrong man there. You’ll have to look out on the concourse. Can I help you with that?’

  Nancy had begun wrestling with her suitcase. Along with the clutch bag at her side, it contained everything she owned in the world. ‘I’m quite all right,’ she replied primly, and the train guard was still staring as, three attempts later, she forced it through the doors. He was still staring when, at the end of the concourse, Nancy looked over her shoulder. Her leg was aching, as it had done ever since she was small, but suddenly the awkward way that she limped – so imperceptible, really, such a tiny thing – seemed the most obvious thing in the world. But Nancy Nettleton held her head high and heaved her case after her all the same.

  She had a Chinese Red lipstick just like Claudette Colbert was said to have worn in It Happened One Night, and she’d been saving it for an occasion just like this. First impressions, she had been told, counted for everything. She’d put it on, and then she’d be ready.

  *

  London. She had been preparing herself for seven months, and now the city – noisy and smoky, full of more movement and life than she had ever known – seemed to dwarf her as she fought her way to the Underground station. If only her father could see her now! Of course, he had had little love for people from the big city. People didn’t, when they had lived their entire lives in the same Lancashire town where she was born, surrounded by the same hills and forests and mountain tarns. But London was another world. Nancy had spent her life imagining its palaces, wondering what it might be like to catch a glimpse of King Edward riding in procession along the Mall, or to witness the excited crowds pouring out of a royal wedding at Westminster Abbey. Yet her first impressions of the city were noise and the fug of sweat and coal dust.

  She held the letter carefully. Nancy Nettleton, it began. We are pleased to confirm your appointment to the role of chambermaid at the Buckingham Hotel, Berkeley Square, London, to commence on the first day of August. Immediately upon your arrival . . .

  She had read the letter a hundred times. It was the product of seven months’ diligent work – all of those letters of enquiry sent from her cottage home, the dismissive ones she’d received in reply, the correspondence she’d entered into with potential employers that then came to naught, the hours she’d spent canvassing for referees, somebody, anybody, who might give her a chance. And all of that done while also putting her late father’s affairs in order, making sure her younger brother could finally stand on his own two feet, confronting the solicitor from Morecambe Bay who’d decided, without instruction, that the taxes due on what little her father had left behind demanded further commissions – and all because, as a woman, Nancy supposedly needed extra help in calculating the figures, in managing the accounts. As if she hadn’t been looking after the household finances since she was a girl. As if a man could do better, just because he insisted on people calling him sir.

  She looked up. All of these people crammed around her on the Underground carriage had lives of their own. Some were bankers and some were clerks. Some were, no doubt, chambermaids-in-waiting just like her. Some might be runaway princes, or gentlemen playing at being paupers . . .

  A man was staring at her from across the carriage. His face was the colour of pond water, his beard as entangled as briars, and in his bloodshot eyes was a look of quiet desperation. Yes, London was a city for kings and queens, but it was a city for beggars as well, she thought sadly. She pictured the Buckingham Hotel and, kneading some life back into her tired leg, wondered what she might find.

  *

  The Buckingham was every bit as opulent as she’d imagined. Where Nancy came from, the local hotel was two rooms above the village inn, or lodgings with old Mrs Gable – who took in miners from out of town, kept them six to a room and fed them on porridge oats at dawn and mutton stew after dark. By contrast, the Buckingham Hotel rose, seven storeys and more, above the resplendent green of Berkeley Square. Its gleaming white facade and the miniature colonnade where hansom carriages and taxicabs awaited each night made it stand out, even on a square where every townhouse was worth as much as every building in
Nancy’s entire village combined. Marble steps led to the hotel’s striking bronze doors, a gold-plated rail sweeping up towards them. The man who attended the door wore a coat of long black velvet, despite the summer warmth, and a top hat that stood out like a shadow against the hotel’s bleached brick. Up above, an enormous copper crown stood between the hotel’s pavilion roofs, proclaiming it royal by association.

  As Nancy watched, a taxicab wheeled around, stopped in front of the hotel and deposited a gentleman with his entourage onto the steps. Moments later, the hotel disgorged concierges and pages to ferry the gentleman’s cases inside, while a short, round man that Nancy took for the hotel director came out to welcome the guest with a slight, yet noticeable, bow.

  She had been staring too long. It was already creeping towards midday. She was due to meet with Mrs Moffatt, the head of housekeeping, at twelve on the dot. Punctuality mattered.

  She steadied herself and set off across the square. This was what she had come here for. Why, then, did she feel such a sudden plunging sensation as she approached the doors?

  Pull yourself together, Nancy Nettleton. You’re made of sterner stuff than this!

  She had not yet reached the bottom of the steps when the doorman barked out in an accent that seemed so unfamiliar, ‘Can I help you, miss?’

  She stopped dead, aware of how insignificant she seemed. The suitcase she was carrying was battered and worn around the edges. It had belonged to her grandfather, who’d bought it at auction when one of his neighbouring villagers died. Even her overcoat, which she’d thought so splendid, seemed, suddenly, to have sprouted holes, the areas where it had been stitched up standing out starkly. Why had she used mismatched thread?

  ‘I’m to . . . start work,’ she began. What’s got into you, Nancy? You’ve never stuttered before! ‘Here, I have my letter . . .’

  The doorman’s face darkened, so that she thought he was about to let loose a foul tirade – but then he marched down the steps to meet her and whispered, ‘You’ll have to find the staff entrance, down on Michaelmas Mews. Follow it round, you’ll find it easily enough. Want to make a good first impression, don’t you? Then don’t let Mr Simenon or Mr Charles see you coming through the front doors – least of all, not dressed like that. Lord, they’re running around in there like the world’s about to end. And all because of some German dignitaries they’ve got coming in. You’d think the King himself was here for afternoon tea – but no, he’s off with that Mrs Simpson of his. Time was he crossed this threshold almost every month. But now . . .’

  Nancy stared at him, dumbstruck.

  ‘Well, off with you, then! And make sure you look ’em in the eye when you meet ’em. First impressions count.’

  As Nancy took off towards the mews entrance, she glanced again at her wristwatch. Two minutes to midday and counting.

  *

  Nancy Nettleton was not usually of a nervous disposition. You did not grow up, the only girl your age in a mining village, without learning to overcome nerves. Even when she was a girl Nancy had given short shrift to the boys who harangued her. She could skim stones and climb trees like the best of them. But running rings around a few miners’ sons was one thing. Waiting here in a back corridor of the Buckingham Hotel, moments away from meeting the woman who would be her mentor and supervisor for the next twelve months, was quite another.

  One of the hotel pages had brought her here. Along the way, he hadn’t stopped nattering on in his lilting Irish brogue – and Nancy had barely been able to make out one word in ten. Now she waited in a hall lined with wainscot panelling, outside a door that read HOUSEKEEPING. Occasionally, she could hear footsteps echoing along the halls around her. One of the concierges strode past the apex of the corridor, peered down towards her, and then strode on, his heels clicking as he went.

  Time seemed to have slowed to a halt. Her stomach grumbled and, with relief, she remembered the sandwich and Eccles cake she had wrapped in paper at the bottom of her clutch bag. She had been keeping them for the train – but perhaps it would settle her nerves, if only a little, to take a nibble from them now . . .

  She was taking her first bite, her body grateful for the buttery, sugary goodness, when she heard footsteps again. A tall, thin reed of a man was marching purposefully towards her, his grey plaid suit rustling. He had a grave of a face: dark eyes set deep in their sockets, high, pronounced cheekbones and an angular jaw. His eyes, mean and serpentine, narrowed as he approached.

  ‘Young lady, have you no decorum?’

  ‘I’m . . . sorry,’ Nancy stuttered. A particularly truculent currant had worked its way into her teeth, gluing them together.

  ‘You might not see guests around you now, madam, but this is not a prohibited area. What if one of our patrons was to see you, flakes of pastry around your face and . . . Really, this is most unsatisfactory – unsatisfactory in the extreme! You’re—’

  A voice echoed along the hallway, cutting him off. ‘I’ll take it from here, Mr Simenon.’

  The man in grey spun on his heel, revealing a lady of not insignificant size bustling along the hall. As she approached, Nancy saw a doughy face framed in white curls. The lady approaching was wearing a house dress of navy blue, with its sleeves rolled up to reveal brawny forearms.

  ‘Mr Simenon,’ the newcomer called out, ‘to what do we owe the pleasure?’

  ‘This young lady is in breach of staff regulations—’

  Barely breaking her stride as she bustled past to reach the office door, Mrs Moffatt remarked, ‘Then not a rule has been broken, Mr Simenon. This young lady may be about to join the ranks of this fine establishment, but she isn’t a member of staff until I have her signature on my papers. And since those papers are through that door –’ She lifted a finger to point – ‘she can eat as many – what are they, Eccles cakes? – as she wants. Miss Nettleton, do you want to come through? We’ll have you sorted in a trice.’

  Nancy had no time to reply before Mrs Moffatt took a ring of keys from her house dress, unlocked the HOUSEKEEPING door and stepped through. Mr Simenon’s serpentine eyes were still on Nancy as she followed.

  Here was a compact room with a desk, a small mahogany cabinet and two velveteen armchairs arranged around a coffee table, on which stood a vase of freshly cut peonies. There was no natural light in here, so Mrs Moffatt turned a dial and the electric lamp dangling from the ceiling hummed into being. To Nancy, whose family home had been lit by paraffin lamps, the light was simply dazzling.

  ‘I’ve begun on the wrong foot, haven’t I, Mrs Moffatt?’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I’m afraid one of the things you’ll discover, Miss Nettleton, is that the concierges believe the Buckingham would be little but a crater in the ground if it weren’t for them. Mr Simenon’s the head of them and, unluckily for you, the worst. If he thought a guest was offended by the blue of his eyes, he’d pluck them out and send them out to be coloured.’ Mrs Moffatt must have seen the way Nancy’s jaw dropped open, because she threw her head back and laughed. Finding her breath, Nancy dared to smile too.

  ‘Here,’ Mrs Moffat said, indicating a clipboard of papers, ‘you’ll find everything precisely as it says in your letter. Six pounds and two crowns a month, board included. You’ll begin on mornings and cycle through until late. I’m afraid you’re for Saturdays as well. We’ve been in need of a Saturday girl for some time. We have eight housekeepers here at the Buckingham. I’m head of those housekeepers, and you’ll be with me for your first month. Stay by my side, do exactly as requested, and we’ll be the firmest of friends. And at least that way, I can keep Mr Simenon at bay . . .’

  Nancy took an inkpot and pen and, mindful that she did not blot the paper, spelled out her name as neatly as she could.

  ‘There.’ Mrs Moffatt beamed. ‘Now you’re mine . . . Let’s show you to your room, shall we?’

  Moments later Mrs Moffatt was leading Nancy onward, pointing out the halls that led to the cocktail lounge, the gri
ll room and the Queen Mary, the first of the Buckingham’s six exquisite dining rooms.

  As they walked, Nancy saw Mrs Moffatt’s eyes dart down to her leg. It was aching more than usual, but that was not unexpected; she had been cramped up on the train for what seemed a lifetime. ‘It’s a . . . childhood thing, Mrs Moffatt. It won’t stop me performing my duties. It hasn’t slowed me down yet.’

  To Mrs Moffatt, this seemed explanation enough. ‘We demand perfection for our guests, Nancy, but Lord knows, none of us are perfect.’

  Onward they walked in silence. After a time, Nancy found enough courage to ask, ‘Mrs Moffatt, is it true . . . you have royalty to stay? The doorman said that the King himself . . .’

  ‘The good King Edward is a friend of the Buckingham Hotel,’ Mrs Moffatt said darkly. ‘Something in the Buckingham appealed to the young prince and his associates. But don’t go thinking you’ll bump into him, young miss. He has matters of state to attend to and, well, that’s the business of kings and queens, isn’t it, and not for the likes of us.’ Mrs Moffatt paused. ‘It’s true that we’ll have royalty here, Nancy. If you’re still with us by New Year – and, Lord willing, I hope you will be – you’ll find His Majesty himself here to celebrate with us in our ballroom. Mr Charles is organising a Masquerade Ball – this, of course, being the King’s personal request.’

  A Masquerade Ball, thought Nancy in awe. The very thought of it filled her with magic. New Years back home are all about the bonfire . . .

  Mrs Moffatt was still talking. ‘Always remember that all of our guests should be treated as if they were royalty . . . don’t go thinking you’ll be changing the sheets of the high and mighty. We have the King’s cousins from Norway staying with us for New Year, but the suites reserved for royalty are attended to by our gentlewoman housekeepers.’ She paused. ‘That’s the way of things here. Some of our more highly prized guests are used to being catered to by ladies of a certain . . . breeding, shall we say. I don’t hold with it myself, but there’s one thing I want you to understand: when you step through the Buckingham door, Miss Nettleton, you are not from the country any more. You’re not from London and you’re not from Lancashire. You’re not a Scot or a Celt, an Irish woman or a Cornish woman. You’re not city or country. You are of the Buckingham. One of us. And that, as far as we who work in the hotel are concerned, is where it ends.’