Archie Adams had upped the tempo and the dancers’ bodies responded to the rhythm. Raymond looked into Grusinskaya’s eyes, and something in them seemed to thaw as the couple moved effortlessly into a quickstep, making their way in a succession of light hops and skips across the ballroom floor.
‘Where did you train, Mr de Guise?’
‘If I were to tell you, you would only be disappointed. There is no academy for the ballroom, madame. My body is not as trained as yours must have been, dancing ballet for the Bolshoi.’
‘And yet you were taught, were you not?’
‘I owe my dancing to a master of the arts. Georges de la Motte, a baron of France no less – and the best ballroom dancer I ever observed.’
‘You were his apprentice.’
‘I was his friend. But apprenticed to him also.’
The music swelled and soared. First the trombones took the lead, then the trumpets, until finally the saxophonist sailed into the song, his instrument filling the cavernous ballroom with its intoxicating sound. Raymond and Grusinskaya turned, crossed the dance floor, turned again – and, as they danced on, the edges of the ballroom seemed to fade away. Soon, though neither said a word, it was as if their bodies were one.
So lost in the dance was he that, at first, Raymond de Guise did not hear the shrieking on the edges of the dance floor. It was only when he turned past Hélène Marchmont and saw her eyes drawn to a place between the ballroom pillars that he looked up. Vivienne Edgerton was looming over a young lady sitting at one of the tables, Vivienne’s arm outstretched and her face open in a vulpine howl. ‘You!’ she seemed to be shouting. ‘You!’
At that moment, in a clatter of drums and triumphant tenor horn, the band brought its song to a close – and Archie Adams himself was on his feet, taking appreciative bows from the dancers on the ballroom floor. Raymond, his arm still around Grusin-skaya, watched Vivienne reach forward, pure hatred in her eyes, and – trying to snatch at the young lady’s arm – topple into the table instead. Dazed, she tried to pick herself up. A crystal glass tumbled, shattering onto the floor. More heads turned their way. A waiter, summoned by the disturbance, rushed to clear up the mess, while another disappeared into the shadows on the edges of the ballroom, no doubt searching for someone to come and guide poor Vivienne away.
Vivienne picked herself up. The girl at the table was trying to stand – but the sleeve of her dress was tight in Vivienne’s fingers; she was held fast. ‘You oughtn’t to be in Daddy’s ballroom!’ Vivienne crowed. ‘You’ve no right! Don’t you know your . . .’
Now that Raymond saw her properly, he supposed that the lady did look out of place. The gown she was wearing did not seem entirely of a piece; it was as if somebody had taken two gowns and stitched them together. It was pinched at the neckline, and the fabric worn. Even so, it suited her in an unusual way. She had a pretty, round face and big, dark eyes, and in the dark curls of her hair she was wearing a silver pin that dazzled in the chandelier light.
‘Mr de Guise, you are a gentleman?’
Raymond was distracted. ‘I am, Grusinskaya.’
She leaned forward and whispered, throatily, into his ear. ‘Then go to Miss Vivienne, you fool.’
Raymond left Grusinskaya on the dance floor and weaved his way through the other dancers to the table where Vivienne was unsteady on her feet.
‘Mademoiselle,’ Raymond began, ‘are you hurt?’
Vivienne turned on Raymond. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she slurred. ‘Don’t you know what she is? Why, when my father finds out . . .’
Raymond stepped back. The young lady was already on her feet. Eyes followed her as she fled. Somewhere, somebody sneered. Somebody else roared with laughter, for dramas like this were rare in the Buckingham ballroom.
At that moment Mr Simenon, the head concierge, arrived to lift Vivienne back into her seat. She had drunk too much tonight, that was evident. But as she lolled there in her chair, the band sending out the first shrill blasts of a new song, Raymond saw that her eyes were adrift. They had a peculiar, glazed quality. She was having to concentrate to remain upright – and that, thought Raymond, could not merely be the after-effects of the Dom Pérignon she’d been drinking by the glass.
‘Mr de Guise,’ Mr Simenon began, in his slick, slippery voice, ‘I may need some help.’
Vivienne looked up. Her vacant eyes met his. Then she lolled forward and, slumping head first onto the table, fainted clean away.
*
‘Here, take this,’ said Mrs Moffatt with an exasperated, yet kindly, stare. ‘You’ll feel better.’
Miss Vivienne Edgerton sat hunched in a chair in the head concierge’s office, while Mr Simenon stood sentry outside and Raymond de Guise dabbed at his evening suit with a damp cloth, eager to be rid of the smears of rouge Vivienne had left on his lapels as he helped carry her through. Mrs Moffatt had wrapped Vivienne in her shawl; the poor girl was shivering, as if finally coming out of her stupor, a wild look in her eyes.
Vivienne took the lemon water Mrs Moffatt had offered and nodded her thanks. She looked chastened, thought Raymond, and so she might. The gossips would be talking. One of these days, word was going to get back to Vivienne’s stepfather – and Lord Edgerton was not known as a forgiving man. The rumour was he’d removed his own son from his will over some petty slight; the fact that Vivienne was here at all – instead of left to fend for herself – was only down to the insistence of his current wife, Vivienne’s mother. Raymond looked at her. Now that she wasn’t screaming, and her lips weren’t curling in hate, she was a sorry sight. And he wondered how it must feel to be her. Your own father long gone, your mother married to some strange gentleman from over the oceans who decides he cannot stand the sight of you – because, to him, all you are is a reminder that his new wife used to be in love with another. It had been a year since Vivienne Edgerton was uprooted from her New York home and compelled to cross the oceans, leaving behind all of the friends she used to know – and not to live in the grand west London residence into which her stepfather and mother had moved, but to live here, in the Buckingham Hotel. No matter how grand the Buckingham was, no matter how indulged she was by the management and staff, it was not a home. Seeing her now, Raymond thought she looked lonely. Everyone else who lived here had companions. The housekeeping staff. The dancers. Maynard Charles himself. But as for Vivienne . . .
‘Get yourself together, dear. When you’re ready, I’ll take you to your suite. We can use the service lift.’
Vivienne’s eyes shot up. ‘You won’t tell my—’
‘Hush, dear. We’ve been here before, haven’t we, you and I? Nobody else needs to know.’ Mrs Moffatt’s eyes lifted and looked at Raymond de Guise. ‘You’d better be back to the ballroom, Mr de Guise, before you’re missed.’
He was almost at the door when Vivienne reached for him.
‘Mr de Guise . . .’
Her hand was on his elbow. He froze. ‘Miss Edgerton, I really must—’
‘I want to say I’m sorry. If I . . . ruined the dance for you. And . . . for all those people out there. I didn’t mean to. It’s not what I wanted. And . . .’ She hesitated again, smacking her dry lips. The poor girl was parched again – no doubt the effects of whatever was in her system – and Raymond reached for the glass of water she’d left behind. ‘You looked so elegant out there tonight, Mr de Guise. You truly did. With Grusinskaya on your arm and . . . What it must feel like to move like that across the dance floor! But I . . .’ And here she found her steel again, her voice regaining its edge. ‘I know it isn’t for me. I know it wouldn’t be becoming for me to be there every night. But I do dream of it, you understand. The life you lead, and Miss Marchmont as well. One day, you know, I’ll be a married woman. My stepfather will see to it. I’ll be looked after and I’ll be kept quiet, and hang all of the dreams I used to have. And then I see you and Miss Marchmont and I wonder . . . what might it be like, to be the person you want to be? To be good at something
, to learn something, to always have a partner, to be admired.’
Raymond was silent. There was something else Vivienne Edgerton wanted to say, but she couldn’t find the words.
‘Mr de Guise,’ she said at last, ‘you said once before that you’d show me a few steps. A little something, just to satisfy my curiosity. It’s all I . . .’
Raymond could still feel Mrs Moffatt’s eyes on him. He was not sure if that was a sympathetic stare, or if she was warning him. But when he looked down, Vivienne seemed so wretched. ‘I’ll share some steps with you soon, Miss Edgerton,’ he said, ‘but on one condition.’
‘Anything,’ she whispered, and seemed composed for the very first time that night.
‘Sober up, mademoiselle,’ said Raymond, and he slipped out of the office.
Chapter Eight
Dearest Frank,
I have been such a fool. Such a sorry, sorry fool!
Nancy’s hand was still shaking as she wrote. She looked up, at the open wardrobe doors, and saw the dress she had worn still hanging there. Only when she’d got up and slammed the doors so she did not have to look at it any more could she bring herself to write again. How could you be so foolish, Nancy Nettleton? To think that something you patched together with your mother’s old needle and thread could ever compare to the silk and chiffon and embroidered lace of the Buckingham’s best ball gowns? You’re a country mouse, that’s all you are, and now . . . She tried to set it down, explain it to Frank, and this helped a little. On the morning she’d left the village, bound for London and her dream of a better life, Frank had beamed at her and said, ‘You’ll wind up too big for your boots, Nance, you mark my words. We’ll ’ave to start calling you ma’am.’ It was a thing he did sometimes, poking fun at her because he found it so difficult to say what he actually meant. Frank would have roared with laughter if he’d seen her that night. And, she supposed, it was funny – but if it hadn’t been for Raymond de Guise stepping in like that, she might have lost her job.
I don’t know if I can do this. I thought I could. Oh Frank, I’ve been so reckless. All I wanted was an adventure. To work hard so that, one day, you can join me here – and maybe, who knows, to have a little fun along the way. We have had precious little fun in our lives, haven’t we, Frank? But I wish you were here now. You always keep my feet on the ground. You’d tell me to pull myself together and . . .
She’d been in the Grand Ballroom mere moments. The music and the lights, the dancers as they came together and came apart again – all of it had been everything she’d ever dreamed about. But then everything had changed. She could still feel the sharp tips of Miss Edgerton’s fingers as they gouged into her arms. She could still see the look of horror on her face. It was as if, in those moments, the idea she’d had of herself had imploded.
I suppose I ought to be thankful. Miss Edgerton caused such a scene that I am scarcely to be remembered. But even so, when we arrived at Mrs Moffatt’s register the next morning to learn our tasks for the week ahead, there were whispers. Chambermaids know everything! Somehow they knew all about Miss Edgerton’s disgrace. And somehow they knew about the strange girl in the homespun dress as well.
Nancy looked back at the closed wardrobe door. You’ll have to get rid of it, you silly girl. Or else risk being found out . . . Her fist closed around her pencil. This was supposed to be the start of a new existence. How could she have risked it all for the merest glimpse of the goings-on in the Grand?
Oh, it’s so unlike home here, Frank. In the Buckingham there are people you mustn’t look in the eye. There are places you mustn’t go and things which, though you see them plainly, you must quickly forget. I don’t know if you could survive it, Frank. I don’t know that I can! We Nettletons might be made of the same flesh and blood as the Flemish princess whose sheets I change, we might breathe the same air as Miss Edgerton, but we’re not the same. In the Buckingham Hotel there are two different worlds. And I must learn to be a town mouse.
I hope you’ll write soon, Frank. A friendly word would mean the world to me just now. Are you having trouble writing? Remember that Mrs Gable made a promise: if you tell her what you would like to say, she will put it to paper for you. Tell me about how . . .
Nancy heard knuckles rapping at her door and Ruth’s voice called out. ‘Nancy Nettleton! What are you doing in there? We’re supposed to be in the Grand in ten minutes. We’re going down in two minutes. If you’re not . . .’
Nancy snatched up the letter she had been writing, crammed it beneath the pillow, and in a second was at the door. Rosa and Ruth, along with a gaggle of the other girls, were waiting in the hallway, as if daring her to be late.
Put on a brave face, Nancy. None of them know it was you. How could they? None of them was there – because, you sorry girl, none of them would be so reckless. Chambermaids are invisible! Chambermaids know their place! And what sort of a foolish chambermaid would risk her very position with a misadventure like this? Nancy, it’s time to grow up.
Taking a deep breath, Nancy straightened her uniform and forced a smile.
‘Shall we?’ she ventured, and followed them all down the stairs.
*
The dressing rooms behind the Grand were eerily silent as the procession of chambermaids – laden with buckets, dusters, mops and brushes – entered by the back doors and walked through. The walls were decorated with great portraits of Hélène Marchmont and Raymond de Guise, photographs taken in black and white of the princes and starlets with whom they danced, right here in the Buckingham Hotel. Hand-painted posters announcing the arrival of the Archie Adams Band stood either side of a bank of great mirrors set into silver frames – and, between the velveteen couches where the dancers and musicians reclined each night, wardrobes stood open, displaying ball gowns of turquoise and coral, robe-de-style gowns of pink peach satin, black evening dresses of soft plush velvet, fitted bodices, ivory corsets and so much more.
The girls were filing through the ballroom doors, out onto the dance floor itself. They must have done this before, because not one of them batted an eyelid as they stepped through the great swinging doors into the cavernous interior. Only Nancy paused as she crossed the threshold. Perhaps this was what it was like to be Hélène Marchmont or Raymond de Guise. Imagine the music, she thought. Imagine the applause.
But there was no applause today, and no music would be heard in the ballroom all week. As Nancy emerged, she saw Mrs Moffatt holding court over the chambermaids who’d already arrived. Tall scaffolds were being assembled to reach the great chandeliers hanging above. One caretaker, atop one of the precarious-looking constructions, was reaching out with a spanner to ease the chandelier out of the contraption that held it there. Mrs Moffatt had said it took an entire week to bring them down, clean them to perfection, and hoist them back into place – and now that Nancy saw the scale of the endeavour, she could quite believe it.
Other workmen were busying themselves around the corners of the room. The tables and chairs had been stored, and a carpenter and his lads were down on their hands and knees, inspecting the floorboards for the damage caused by gentlemen’s brogues and ladies’ heels.
The Grand was due to be closed for seven days and seven nights. While Mrs Whitehead stretched the rest of the girls to take care of the rooms and suites, Mrs Moffatt rallied her own housekeeping staff around her. Chandeliers did not polish themselves.
As the girls fanned out, Nancy lingered in the dressing room doorway, breathing it in. She and the chambermaids got to work. Then Nancy heard someone singing quietly to himself – and, when she turned, she saw the figure of Raymond de Guise gliding through the dressing room behind her. His black hair was thick with curls, more unruly than it was on those nights he waltzed so gracefully across the ballroom floor – and it seemed somehow incredible to discover that he did not always wear his evening suit. Today he was wearing strong pleated trousers and a white polo shirt – he seemed completely out of character.
> Nancy did not like to think she was spellbound, because she was not that sort of girl, but what else might it have been rooting her to the spot? Raymond de Guise looked as striking off the dance floor as he did on it. He was tall and lithe and . . . Nancy tried to shake the sensation off. She did not believe in fairy tales. You quickly lost your faith in Prince Charming when you lived in a village like hers, with every miner’s son in a three-village radius badgering you, at some time or another, for attention. Besides, she had not forgotten what she had written to Frank. There were worlds within worlds in the Buckingham Hotel. Raymond de Guise belonged to another world to Nancy Nettleton.
Pull yourself together, Nancy! There are portraits of him in the ballroom, but he’s only a dancer . . .
She slipped into the dressing room.
Raymond de Guise had stepped into one of the wardrobes. It must have been bigger than Nancy realised because, for a moment, he vanished into the dinner jackets hanging there. Then, when he emerged, he was carrying a bulky, green canvas bag.
His eyes met hers. They darted down to the clothes he had collected, and then back up – almost, Nancy fancied, as if they had something to hide.
She was already flushing scarlet, so into the silence she said, ‘Thank you . . .’
Raymond de Guise screwed up his eyes.
‘That is to say,’ Nancy stammered, ‘for the other night. For . . . assisting me. If you hadn’t –’ she looked over her shoulder to make doubly certain none of the other girls were listening in – ‘Miss Edgerton would not have let the matter go. I would have been dismissed . . .’
Raymond seemed bewildered, then his eyes lit up in recognition.
‘You . . . work here?’ Raymond said, glancing over her shoulder, through the great swing doors, to where Mrs Moffatt and the chambermaids were gathered.
‘Yes.’
‘The ballroom is open to all, of course. It has been ever since the Grand opened its doors. But it draws a . . . certain breed, shall we say? We’re about to be full of the season’s debutantes. And there you were. I’d thought you were one of our dreamers – they get word that King Edward or one of the princes is going to be in the ballroom and they do everything they can to slip in. I had no idea you worked here.’
One Enchanted Evening Page 6