One Enchanted Evening

by Anton du Beke

  Only as he disappeared through the door did she find the breath to utter, ‘Nathaniel, what’s wrong? What have I done?’ But Nathaniel had already gone.

  Then Vivienne’s eye was caught by something glinting in the lamplight.

  Quite by accident, Nathaniel had left his key.

  *

  Mr Simenon was up, as he always was, with the dawn. In the head concierge’s office, he folded the calendar from the twenty-first of December, the winter equinox, to the twenty-second. Routine made a man like Mr Simenon happy. He was the sort of man who wakes daily at sunrise, whether he has an alarm clock or not; the sort of man who has laid out his clothes – identical every day – the evening before; the sort of man whose morning ablutions happen like clockwork.

  He was scanning over the hotel guest list, preparing himself for the possibilities of the day ahead – in spite of his love of order, Mr Simenon enjoyed the impromptu missions he was sent on by the Buckingham’s most high-profile guests; if a man could please lords and ladies and assorted gentry, he was a fine man indeed – when, without warning, the door opened behind him.

  He turned on his heel to see Vivienne Edgerton.

  She looked pale. Her cheeks were still washed out and her eyes, devoid of any make-up, seemed black and sad. But she was standing here too, and that meant she had rediscovered something of her old self.

  ‘You’re supposed to be recovering from your little ordeal. Miss Edgerton, what do you think you’re doing here?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  Mr Simenon kneaded the bridge of his nose, with just an air of deliberate melodrama. ‘Vivienne, you need somebody’s help, that’s for certain. A doctor of medicine, no doubt. You do understand that Mr Charles has charged me – me – with unearthing the supply of your little indulgences. What am I supposed to do here, Vivienne? You might have died. You might have brought ruin on us all and—’

  ‘I need a special delivery. I’m not asking for much. I know what I did and I know it was wrong, but I’m pent up, Mr Simenon. I don’t know where to turn. Maynard Charles is looking over me like I’m a baby deer, unable to do anything for myself – but he would better be reminded where I come from, and who I am. I need your help, Mr Simenon.’

  ‘Vivienne, you must think I’m a simpleton. I won’t be responsible for the death of you.’ He stopped. ‘You’re a sweet girl and what you do to yourself is nobody’s business but yours. But I value my place in the Buckingham Hotel. I’ve been here longer than Maynard Charles himself. I intend to retire my position here only when I’m too old to be of use to anybody. I won’t risk it for—’

  Vivienne snapped, ‘You’ve already been risking it.’

  ‘I’m a concierge. I fulfil my guests’ requests.’

  ‘Then fulfil this,’ said Vivienne coldly – and Mr Simenon noticed the colour of anger rushed to her cheeks. ‘If you’re not able to help a girl in her hour of need, well, a little bird might whisper in Maynard Charles’s ear. The hotel director might be very interested to hear where his lord’s daughter has been acquiring her particular poisons. If there’s a scandal here in the Buckingham, you’re it – so why don’t you help a poor girl out? I am, Mr Simenon, your guest, after all.’

  As Mr Simenon’s jaw worked frantically to come up with a reply – but found only silence – Vivienne Edgerton stepped out into the reception hall and back towards her suite.

  As she marched out of the lift, it was all she could do to hold herself together. She’d been feeling so cold, too cold for these halls where thousands of cubic yards of hot water and oils pumped to keep the hotel warm. She could feel the goose bumps all over her flesh – but that, she realised, had nothing to do with the season. It was her body calling out for it. Something to pick her up, something to make her whole. If only Nathaniel had lain with her. If only he’d tricked room service into bringing her one of her cocktails, a bottle of Moët, something to take her away from this place where she didn’t belong.

  She reached her room and fumbled to unlock the door, her hand shaking. Was it really so much to ask? There was Christmas to survive. Christmas with the family – a family who loved her so much they’d rather she boarded here, alone, in the Buckingham, than under their own roof. And even if she survived that – well, what was there to look forward to? More of this intolerable hotel. More of this . . .

  All she wanted to do was step out on New Year’s Eve, resplendent in her gown, with Nathaniel on her arm – and remind her mother that she existed. A night like that was worth all of the rest. A night like that would be something to look forward to, a diamond in the rough of her life.

  But Nathaniel hadn’t even wanted to touch her. What was she – dirty to him now?

  She fumbled the key into the lock and stepped through. At first she did not notice the envelope that had been slipped under the door – but, as she flailed forward, it caught the end of her foot.

  Dear Miss Edgerton,

  We may not have seen eye to eye in the past, but perhaps we can set this to one side. You may not have been told, but it was me who found you and brought your predicament to the attention of Mr Charles and his staff. I have been instructed to keep my own counsel, but I have seen the ruin addiction makes of a person and my heart goes out to you. Perhaps we can talk? I am sure I can be of some assistance.

  Your friend in a time of need,

  Nancy Nettleton

  Nettleton? thought Vivienne. The chambermaid with the lame leg . . . and the eye of Raymond de Guise? Vivienne supposed she ought to have been grateful for what she’d done, but that girl really was above her station. To suppose Vivienne needed her? She stood and stared at the letter. Then she took it between thumb and forefinger and tore it into a wealth of tiny pieces.

  She didn’t need cheer. She didn’t need pity. All she needed was for Mr Simenon to do what he was told.

  Why, then, did her mind keep going back to Nancy’s words – my heart goes out to you – and why did they bring the shimmer of tears to her eyes?

  *

  Billy Brogan had hoped never to attend the Midnight Rooms again – and yet here he was, trudging back through the slush and snow of Soho in winter, with a little lavender pouch tied up in his back pocket. The Midnight Rooms did a roaring trade in winter. Christmas and New Year were the most indulgent times of year.

  Afternoon was curdling to night, and Christmas only days away. Billy looked forward to Christmases in Lambeth. His brothers and sisters still bought into the magic of the season. He longed for the chicken on the table – because, unless he was wily enough to pilfer one from the hotel kitchens, the family could never afford a goose – and the family gathered around; the presents wrapped in newspaper they would open and the songs they would sing. He had been siphoning off his money from Mr Charles all autumn, and back home the cavity underneath his bed was crammed full of all the books and toys he’d bought for his brothers and sisters.

  And here he was, bringing the risk of death back to Vivienne Edgerton’s door.

  His heart was beating wildly as he crossed the Buckingham and made his way to her suite. He hadn’t been there to see what had become of Vivienne that night – but nothing escaped Billy Brogan. As he reached up to knock on the door, he couldn’t help but wonder at what he was going to find inside.

  All he found was Vivienne, wearing an ivory gown, pearls around her neck. She had called out for Billy to enter and now he stood there, nervously, at the end of the bed.

  ‘Mr Simenon saw sense then, did he?’

  Billy didn’t know what kind of sense it was. All he knew was the way Mr Simenon had seethed as he delivered Billy his instructions; all he could remember was the warmth of the spittle that had showered down on him as Billy began to protest. ‘You’re not here to question me, Brogan. You’re in the thick of this, just the same as I am. If little Miss Edgerton rats on me, who else do you think’s in the firing line? So go get her the powders, boy – and I’ll throttle you if you breathe so much as a word . . .
’

  Billy reached into his back trouser pocket and produced the little lavender pouch.

  ‘I’ll take my leave, if I might, miss.’

  Vivienne wheeled around, positioning herself between Billy and the door. ‘You may certainly not,’ she returned, pinning Billy in place. For some reason, the hotel page was refusing to look in her eyes – perhaps, she thought, for fear of what he might find there. ‘Billy, look at me, won’t you?’

  Against his will, Billy lifted his eyes.

  ‘What is it, miss?’

  ‘You’ve been a good friend. I don’t forget my friends. Here,’ she said, and unstrung the pearls from around her neck, ‘take these, won’t you?’

  Whether he wanted them or not, they fell into Billy Brogan’s cupped hand.

  ‘I’ve a favour to ask of you, Billy.’

  Billy was uncertain. ‘I did everything Mr Simenon asked.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘Not that. No, my favour’s more particular – and less troublesome, you might say. I don’t want you to procure me anything, Billy. Anything but . . . information.’

  Information was a hotel page’s stock in trade, but there was something about the way Vivienne spoke that still gave Billy Brogan pause. He could see her hands shaking as she spoke.

  ‘You see and hear everything in this hotel, don’t you, Billy? And you want to stay here, don’t you?’

  Billy blurted out, ‘I’m only doing as I’m told, Miss Edgerton. That’s all I’ve ever done. Whether it’s for Mr Charles or Mr Simenon or Mr de Guise, or even for you. I’ve only ever done what’s asked. I didn’t know you was going to get sick. It’s not what I wanted—’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Vivienne, softly – and dared to touch Billy on the shoulder. ‘You don’t need to fear, Billy. Your procurement secrets are safe with me. I’d just like a little something in return for keeping quiet, that’s all.’ The shaking from Vivienne’s hand must have been contagious, for in that moment Billy started shaking too. ‘Hélène Marchmont. Nathaniel says she’s vanishing for four days over Christmas. She vanishes every so often, leaving the ballroom to Sofía LaPegna and all of the rest. What I want you to find out, Billy, is where does Hélène Marchmont go?’

  The tension in the room was thick as treacle.

  ‘I know you deliver letters for them all, Billy.’

  ‘Why would you want to know, Miss Edgerton? Why would you care?’

  Vivienne smiled. She could see, already, in the way he fidgeted, that she had won. ‘That’s my business, Billy. All you need to know is this: you’re going to promise me you’ll find out the truth – all of it – right here and right now, or I’m going to put in a call to Maynard Charles – and all that money, all those secret payments you take back to that rotten little family of yours, plus any prospects of good future employment is going to come to an end. So,’ she whispered, ‘what’s it going to be?’

  Chapter Thirty

  IN THE FINAL DAYS APPROACHING Christmas, the atmosphere at the Buckingham Hotel had changed from one of ruthless order to one of barely controlled chaos. It seemed to Nancy that the very fabric of the hotel was changing. The guests who came were of a different order: the businessmen and dignitaries visiting on official business had retired to their country estates for the season, while the guests who arrived were cut from a different cloth. They came, not to use the Buckingham Hotel as a home away from home and explore the sights and sounds of London town, but to revel in the luxury and splendour of the Buckingham itself. For a week now, the kitchens of the Queen Mary and the Buckingham’s other dining rooms had been on high alert, everyone from potboy to head chef working long into the night to prepare for the Christmas Day to come. Eighty prize turkeys from a Gloucestershire farm had been delivered to the hotel cold stores. One hundred wood pigeons, pheasants and grouse were strung up by their feet in the cold larders, waiting to be plucked by the army of sous-chefs drafted in for the occasion. An inventory of the cold room would have shown six whole red deer, butchered and dangling from spikes, along with forty suckling pigs and a succession of haunches of beef big enough to feed a battalion. Nancy had caught sight of the cauldrons of gravy that had been slowly simmering since the equinox, and the Christmas puddings – baked en masse in August and left to mature in the dark kitchen larders – were now being unearthed and fed with yet more brandy for the occasion.

  Nancy was worried about Frank. Mrs Gable would put on a Christmas spread for the boys who stayed in the boarding house, but Nancy did not like to think of him waking up on Christmas morning without his family. She had arranged for the hotel post room to send him a set of postcards of London’s most magnificent sights: the Tower and the Thames, the rolling green splendour of Regent’s Park and the majesty of St Paul’s. All of these things she meant to show him one day. It did not seem right that he should be lonely on Christmas morning.

  Nancy lingered in the reception hall, in the shadow of the Norwegian fir, watching as Hélène Marchmont stepped through the revolving doors, straight into a waiting Hackney carriage. The last of the pre-Christmas guests were making a steady stream through the doors as well – and there among them stood Vivienne Edgerton. She was dressed sombrely for a day like this, with a simple sky-blue day dress and a day bag at her side. She looked drawn, thought Nancy. Drawn and old. Nancy had to remind herself that she was the elder of them by four, maybe five years. Vivienne was only a girl.

  The letter hadn’t worked. In truth, she had known it wouldn’t. The letter was cowardly, and Nancy Nettleton was no coward. So, with the blitz of departing and arriving guests still fizzing around them, she made her approach.

  ‘Miss Edgerton?’

  Vivienne turned around, but seemed to look directly through Nancy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Edgerton. You may not know this, but it was me who found you when . . .’ Nancy’s words petered into silence. She had seen the look of horror on Vivienne’s face. It only hardened.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Vivienne uttered coldly – and, hailing the doorman, disappeared out of the door. One of her father’s fleet of gleaming black Rolls Royces was wheeling around the square, ready to pick her up. Behind her, Nancy could do nothing but stare.

  In the Rolls Royce, Vivienne shook. How dare that chambermaid approach her in the reception hall? How dare she call her by her name? Was that what was becoming of the world? Was all decorum lost? All sense of propriety gone? As if she needed reminding of how undignified it was to be found, lying on the floor of her suite?

  The chauffeur was trying to speak with her, but Vivienne closed her eyes and ignored him, as if to do so was to shut out the rest of the world. Her hands were quaking and, of their own accord, they wormed their way into the day bag on her lap. There they discovered the little lavender pouch brought courtesy of Billy Brogan. Inside, the two phials of powder remained intact. As long as they’re intact, I’ll have something to escape to; I don’t have to listen to my mother fawning over my stepfather all through Christmas dinner, or even tolerate them talking about The Problem of Vivienne Edgerton.

  Yes, Christmas Day was going to be an intolerable affair, but at least she was out of the confines of the hotel and as long as she had the promise of her powders she would survive it.

  *

  ‘What do you think, Sybil?’ asked Hélène, carrying the child out into the small, frosted yard behind the Archers’ home. ‘Your first snow.’

  It had not fallen as thickly along Brixton Hill as it did in Berkeley Square and the royal parks of London, but the red-brick wall was capped in white, and underfoot the snow lay deep enough to leave lasting footprints wherever Hélène stood. Nervously, she crouched and helped Sybil – wrapped up in the woollen coat Noelle had stitched for her – totter off into the white. Watching her walk was a revelation, thought Hélène. Every time she came here, Sybil was less her baby girl and more her growing daughter. This time, Hélène thought, her face was less rounded. Her eyes were changing colour. Her hair had a new wildness to it. Sh
e reminded her so much of Sidney.

  ‘That’s enough, girls,’ called Noelle Archer from the doorway. ‘You don’t want to catch a chill.’

  Inside, a log fire was burning beneath a mantel bedecked in cards. The Archers always went to great lengths to decorate their home at Christmas. It stemmed, Hélène knew, from those first years after they emigrated – because to embrace a country’s traditions was to embrace the country itself, and there was nothing their children enjoyed more than the English tradition of Christmas, so different to the Christmases they were used to back in Jamaica. The portraits of Sidney, Samantha and Joseph were now framed with tiny paper snowflakes. It made Hélène’s heart ache to think of Noelle sitting here, peacefully drawing them with Sybil looking on. All the little moments of magic, the waking up to wonder and enchantment that she was missing while she toiled in the ballroom. At least for today and tomorrow she might not think of that majestic place at all. She might forget the clammy touch of Nathaniel White . . .

  Noelle brought down the box of card, ribbons and string she had secreted away, while Maurice Archer busied himself with his shovel and stepped out into the front yard.

  ‘That man thinks he can fight winter itself!’ Noelle shrieked. Then, seeing the way Hélène was staring at the home-made decorations, she leaped to attention. ‘Let’s make more. We can all do it together. Sybil, you can help. But stay away from your grandmother’s scissors, girl, or they’ll come a-snipping after you.’

  Helping Sybil clutch a pencil; cutting out the strange, many-pointed stars she somehow managed to draw; seeing her giggle with delight as Hélène dangled them above her, only just out of reach. These things make all the tensions of my other life ebb away. All I really want is you, Sybil.

  Hélène could almost imagine that New Year was not going to happen at all. Across the last days, Nathaniel had been instructing her in his new routine. It was a showy, ostentatious thing, a dance that kept Hélène firmly in the background while Nathaniel showed the world exactly what his body could do – but it was not as impressive as he seemed to think; a dance could only ever inspire real awe when two people were working together. But what Nathaniel White wanted, Nathaniel White got. He had even instructed her in the gown she was to wear, and what Venetian mask would cover her face.