One Enchanted Evening

by Anton du Beke

  At that moment, he felt a hand snake around his waist and looked down to see Nancy standing there, with a glass of champagne in her hand.

  ‘I thought you had duties to attend to?’ she asked, with a wicked grin.

  Raymond shrugged. ‘My seat is going cold up in the Queen Mary.’ He paused. ‘I’d rather be here,’ he said – and, at that moment, a rousing cheer went up. A string of chambermaids and the younger concierges had formed a conga and began to snake up and down the lounge. Raymond saw Louis Kildare, saxophone still in hand, at its head. It seemed a revelation, at last, to admit it to himself: upstairs, with the dukes and duchesses and other men of means, he was a day-tripper; downstairs he was at home. ‘Oh,’ he said, spying his mother re-emerging from the crowd, ‘and there’s one more thing . . .’

  ‘Who’s this then, Ray?’ Alma Cohen asked, looking Nancy up and down. Nancy was not certain whether the look on her face was genuine inquisitiveness or sneer. ‘This another reason you been holding out on us, is it, boy?’

  Nancy looked, aghast, between Raymond and the eerily familiar stranger.

  ‘Nancy,’ Raymond began, in his boldest declarative voice, ‘may I introduce you to—’

  Alma Cohen gave a deliberate splutter. ‘The name’s Jones,’ she interjected. ‘We used to carry Raymond’s bags, back in his continental days. We was your . . . retinue. Wasn’t we, Mr de Guise?’

  She raised her eyebrows imperceptibly, as if inviting him to join the charade – and, in that moment, Raymond felt such a surge of love and gratitude. All of the disappointment and distance there had been between them – and now this . . . To pretend she was not his mother, to help him maintain his facade even when it meant denying her firstborn son – somehow this seemed the greatest act of love Raymond had ever known.

  ‘No,’ Raymond said, gently placing a hand on her forearm. ‘Nancy, this is my mother. Alma Cohen. Ma, this is Nancy Nettleton. She’s the real reason I’m staying here at the Buckingham Hotel. Ballroom or not, I’m here for her.’

  Alma Cohen looked Nancy up and down. Then, with an approving nod, she said, ‘More beautiful than any of those toffs up there in that fancy restaurant of yours. Well, Nancy, I’m charmed.’ Then, out of the side of her mouth, Alma whispered, ‘Dance well, does she?’

  ‘Like an angel,’ said Raymond, and squeezed Nancy’s hand.

  The conga swept by and Raymond reached out to join its tail as it passed. It was then, with Nancy and his mother behind him in the line, that the real Christmas celebrations began.

  *

  Christmas night, and at last all was quiet in the Buckingham Hotel. The ballroom lay still and serene. The Queen Mary had served its last meal. The Candlelight Club was closed to all but the most privileged guests – and Maynard Charles had finally handed over the keys to the bronze revolving doors to his night manager for the evening. Now he stepped out of the golden lift, walked his familiar circuit to his own quarters – just in case he was being observed – and, doubling back, arrived at the doors of the Park Suite.

  At the little dining table in front of the fire, Mrs Moffatt and Aubrey Higgins looked around as Maynard entered. Aubrey raised his glass of cognac and gave Maynard the most sympathetic smile. Christmas Day was hard toil; Maynard looked as if he needed yet another stiff drink.

  Maynard took off his evening jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. By the time he reached the table, Mrs Moffatt was on her feet and tidying her plate away. Maynard touched her tenderly on the arm. ‘I’m grateful, Emmeline,’ he said. ‘You’ve been such a good friend to us, over the years. Thank you for being here for Aubrey when I cannot. Christmas Day would be the worse without you.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Moffatt declared, collecting her own coat from the stand in the corner. ‘Christmas is for family and friends. I consider you both. That goes for you as well, Mr Higgins. Besides, I’m too old for whatever shenanigans they’ll have been up to in housekeeping.’ At the table, Aubrey gave her a salute. ‘He’s a monster at rummy,’ Mrs Moffatt whispered. ‘He had me gambling for matchsticks. I lost my fortune.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maynard, ‘he’s always been a hustler,’ and he lifted the lid from the silver platter on the room service trolley. There was dinner enough here for him. ‘Emmeline,’ he said, ‘from the bottom of my heart – thank you.’

  Mrs Moffatt’s face turned an unlikely shade of crimson. ‘That’s the last I’ll hear of it,’ she said. ‘Happy Christmas, gentlemen.’

  After she was gone, Maynard poured them both a glass of cognac.

  ‘To one more year,’ Aubrey began, raising his glass for a toast.

  Maynard said, ‘It isn’t over yet.’

  ‘There’s something bothering you,’ said Aubrey. ‘No, don’t deny it. I’ve known you too long, Maynard. I can see it on your face. You get a single crinkle between your eyes. You’re lost in thought. Has –’ he hesitated before going on – ‘something happened, my dear Maynard? Was Christmas Day a catastrophe?’

  Maynard paused. How to describe the feeling that had been building in him all day? How to put something as intangible as this into words? The day, he reflected now, had gone exactly according to plan – as he had known that it would. The Christmas luncheon had been a triumph. The Grand had been a magnificent affair. Even when Raymond’s secret world arrived unannounced in the Queen Mary, there had been no disaster. Raymond had handled it with considerable aplomb.

  Why, then, did Maynard Charles get the feeling he was sleepwalking, sleepwalking into something from which there was no return?

  Was it how close they’d come, in the past week, to inviting Lord Edgerton’s wrath, his stepdaughter found half dead on the Buckingham floor? Was it how Nathaniel White strode through the ballroom, a colossus with connections to the most dangerous Englishmen in London? Was it his last meeting with Mr Moorcock, and the fear he had felt for so many years – the fear of exposure, the fear of being found out? Was it only that New Year was on the horizon and, without King Edward to grace his hotel, the extravaganza on which so much of the hotel’s future rested was suddenly so much more of a risk?

  Or was it something more? This feeling he couldn’t escape, that not only the Buckingham, but the whole of England itself, was marching onwards into the dark? That the titbits he gathered for Mr Moorcock were but the tip of the iceberg. That the England he loved and had fought and lost so many friends for was standing, brave but alone, in the path of a coming storm?

  Maynard Charles drained his glass. If they were dancing to disaster, he decided, there was nothing to do but dance on. The world had to keep turning. He was but one man, and a hotelier at that. How could one man do anything to change the world?

  He reached out and took Aubrey’s hand gently.

  ‘It was,’ he declared, ‘a triumph.’

  But all that night, and into the long morning after, the thought would not leave him: every day was another day closer to the end.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THE CLOCK TICKED DOWN to the masquerade ball. Across the hotel, not a soul escaped the pounding headaches and aching bones as they returned to their early morning duties. And as Mrs Moffatt marshalled her girls to overturn the rooms being vacated by the Christmas guests, Nancy Nettleton realised, for the first time in her life, that pleasure and pain were inextricably interconnected. It’s little wonder that Father struggled so much to free himself from his laudanum at the end. It’s little wonder that Vivienne Edgerton is so in thrall to her powder. A little drink, a little something, to push the pain away for another day would have been most welcome right now. But instead Nancy pushed on, with Rosa and Ruth, Mrs Moffatt, Mrs Whitehead and all of the rest.

  Billy Brogan had not been here to see the Buckingham in its revelries, but as he sloped through the staff entrance and kicked the snow from his heels, he had a similar sinking feeling in his stomach. He was relieved to see that Mr Simenon was not at his post and slipped into the concierge’s office. Returning to the Buckingham Hote
l had always been such an exciting endeavour. But now? He started at the sound of the familiar tread of Maynard Charles as he made his rounds. It was not right to be spooked at every little sound. The Buckingham seemed different somehow. Surely it was not what his father had said to him? The feeling had been growing in him all Christmas. Where once every suite had promised a bounty – either an errand he might run for a few coppers, or a titbit he might find and trade back to Maynard Charles – now they seemed traps designed to ensnare him. He was, he decided with his heart beating wildly, in the pocket of too many different people. Serving Maynard Charles was one thing. Eavesdropping on conversations, snooping in some noble’s suite while he was being entertained in the ballroom – these things had always thrilled Billy. But he realised now: he ought not to have read Raymond de Guise’s letter and traded its contents back to Maynard Charles. He ought not to have scurried off to the Midnight Rooms so regularly, bringing back harm with him to the Buckingham halls. Possibly the only thing he was proud of was delivering Hélène Marchmont’s letters back to that address in Brixton so that they did not have to go through the hotel post room – but even then he recalled the moments he had slipped his finger into the envelope, eased it open so that it might be resealed, and read what lay within. Maynard Charles had taught him that secrets were currency, but a new thought had occurred to Billy: secrets are a poison. They’re poisoning me now.

  And here was the reason. Composing himself, he stepped out of Mr Simenon’s office and saw the revolving doors open on the other side of the reception hall. From them, a porter already carrying her bags, stepped Vivienne Edgerton. Billy’s heart leaped. She looked as elegant as ever, in a flowing felt coat of forest green and with a pin in her hair, but Billy had long since stopped thinking about her beauty. No, his heart soared for one reason only: Vivienne Edgerton was still alive, and that meant that the powders Mr Simenon had sent him to procure for her were either still tucked away in her bags, or that they hadn’t poisoned her at all.

  Billy tried to avoid her gaze, but soon Vivienne’s eyes had found him. There seemed something defiant about her today. She waved the porter past and he paused at the guest lift, holding the door open for her. Vivienne made him wait. Instead, she approached the check-in desk behind which Billy lingered and fixed him with a glare. ‘I’ll need to see you, Billy,’ she said, ‘and soon. I’ll be in the ballroom at noon. Make certain to find me there . . .’

  Billy floundered for words. He’d been lucky once. The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to the Midnight Rooms for more. His father’s words rang in his head.

  ‘Billy?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Edgerton,’ he whispered, and could not stop himself shaking until the lift doors were closed with Vivienne inside. Perhaps, he wondered, it’s time. Time to run. There are other jobs. Other hotels. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I won’t need a reference at all. There’s a whole world out there. They always needed pages at the Savoy and the London Ritz. There are hotels in Paris and Berlin, hotels in New York and even further afield.

  Anywhere, he thought, where the secrets and promises battling each other in his head might not be poised to expose him.

  *

  Vivienne Edgerton strode into her room, found it arranged to her satisfaction, and dismissed the porter with neither thanks nor tip. Then, with the door locked behind her, she spilled the contents of her suitcase onto the bed. The Madeleine Vionnet gown could go back into her wardrobe, the rouge and perfume onto the dresser. The pearls had been a gift from Lord Edgerton. He would expect her to wear them at New Year, she supposed, and perhaps she would indulge him; her hatred of her stepfather did not extend to the expensive jewellery he foisted on her – all those gifts, just so she wouldn’t put up a fuss at being kept here. Besides, her mother would attend the ballroom for the New Year celebrations as well – and, if it was the last thing she did, Vivienne intended to be noticed by her mother at New Year. Nothing else would do. Nothing else mattered.

  She looked down at the bed. There, among the gifts she had not asked for and the cards her old friends from New York had sent to the Suffolk mansion, not knowing she’d been banished to the Buckingham all this time, was the little lavender drawstring pouch. She upended its contents into her palm. The two phials of Midnight Rooms powder were still intact. She gazed at them for a long time.

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t been tempted. But she’d stayed strong.

  She looked around her. These same four walls. The same telephone by the bed, by which she’d call for the same meals from the same room service. No one to talk to. Still no formal introduction to English high society, and no way to make friends here without one. It was no surprise she’d found solace in these little drawstring pouches. But . . .

  The chambermaid. The disgrace of it all. Being peeled off the carpet, sponged clean by that girl with the lame leg. Vivienne meant to be noticed, but not like this. And they’ll all be gossiping, of course. You can’t trust a chambermaid to keep her lips sealed. She’ll have told anyone who’ll listen – as if being trapped here at the Buckingham Hotel wasn’t bad enough already.

  Well, at the Masquerade Ball, I’ll stand up and be seen. Not for the wreck they all think I am. Not as the spoilt little rich girl they all loathe. I’ll stand in front of them all – talented and elegant, with poise and grace. Somebody to reckon with. Somebody to . . . love.

  And then? Then, when my mother’s finally seen? Well, then I’ll tell them. I’m leaving. I’m leaving with Nathaniel. I’ll follow him to the continent. I’ll follow him to the other side of the world. Wherever his stardom takes him. Anywhere but here.

  She had been staring at the phials of powder too long. Temptation grew stronger the longer she stared. In a sudden moment of clarity, she dropped them back in the lavender pouch and buried it in the pile of clothing at the bottom of her armoire.

  Then she sat at the bedstead, produced an ink pen and pad of hotel notepaper, and began to inscribe the words she had been thinking about for so long.

  It was time to put her plan into action.

  *

  By prior arrangement, the ballroom was to be closed between the celebrations of Christmas and the ball at New Year. This morning an army of chambermaids and porters had gathered to strip back the Christmas decorations and begin hanging the adornments for the ball.

  The sprigs of holly with plump red berries and woven ropes of mistletoe were replaced by brass braziers in which blue and green flames would burn. The smaller Christmas trees which had sat in the corners of the ballroom were taken away as kind-ling, and in their place stood proud mannequins dressed in Venetian finery: startling white frocks with ostentatious frills and lace, great velvet capes bedecked in emerald feathers and tall headdresses. Beyond them, the stage where the Archie Adams Band would welcome its guest singers was being transformed into a palace of glittering silver and gold leaf.

  The main doors to the ballroom were open as workmen filed in and out, so it was simple enough for Vivienne to slip through. Maynard Charles was here too, surveying the carpenters, joiners and painters embroiled in their tasks. Maynard Charles came to stand at her side as Vivienne looked down on the dance floor where Raymond de Guise was practising a few simple moves with the Spanish girl Sofía LaPegna.

  ‘It’s good to see you on your feet, Miss Edgerton.’

  Vivienne disliked the insolent reminder of her disgrace, so she nodded sharply.

  ‘I was sorry to miss Christmas at the hotel,’ she said at last. ‘I have imagined it a magnificent affair.’

  ‘I’m certain you had an extraordinary Christmas of your own?’

  ‘Extraordinary is not quite the word. Mr Charles, I believe I know what you’re thinking. I have been a hindrance to your good work in my stepfather’s hotel. I hope you know how much I appreciate your discretion. You are going to see a changed woman, Mr Charles. By New Year, you will see – I promise.’

  Maynard Charles hesitated. The doors to the dressing rooms had opened and o
ut onto the dance floor came Nathaniel White and Hélène Marchmont, no doubt practising the routine with which they would open the Masquerade Ball. Maynard Charles remembered last New Year, when Hélène had returned from her sabbatical and he had watched her dance with Raymond. The ballroom had come to a standstill to watch them turn around each other. One of the guests had remarked that it was as impressive an affair as watching Alicia Markova or Margot Fonteyn at the Royal Ballet. Sofía LaPegna and all the other girls in the troupe had marvelled at everything they saw, the emotion of it as Raymond and Hélène danced, each of a piece with the other – and perhaps it had inspired them all to greater deeds, too, because in the months afterwards the ballroom had been more alive with magic and light than Maynard could remember. And we need that this year, we need it more than ever.

  But the sad fact was that watching Nathaniel throw Hélène around was not the same. It was showy and ostentatious and some of the things they were doing seemed improbably ambitious, but there was something more mechanical, less elegant, about it as well. Hélène’s face seemed locked in a rictus of concentration.

  Vivienne’s eyes were on them too. Maynard Charles sensed her imperceptibly hardening.

  ‘We can manage almost any scandal here at the Buckingham, Miss Edgerton, but were anything untoward to happen where I cannot disguise it . . .’

  Vivienne wrenched her eyes away from Nathaniel – was she wrong or did his hands not have to rest so low in the small of Hélène’s back? – and faced Maynard Charles. ‘You will see me for who I really am, Mr Charles.’

  Maynard was momentarily at a loss, the silence following her declaration difficult to interpret. He simply nodded and stepped aside.

  After he was gone, Vivienne fingered the hotel notepaper she had secreted in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on Hélène, the way she stiffened and then softened as she and Nathaniel danced. Yes, Vivienne thought, there was nothing here that was beyond her. Nathaniel had shown her enough. All she wanted – all she needed – was for the world to listen. Everyone deserved to be heard, didn’t they?