She was watching them still when she heard the patter of footsteps behind her. Billy Brogan had appeared. He was wearing one of his sheepish looks, as if to say he didn’t want to be here at all. But what did that matter?
She handed him the paper. ‘Arrange it for me, Billy. Do this one thing and we’ll say no more about the Midnight Rooms.’
Billy opened the paper, took in the words Vivienne had written, and felt as if a crevasse was opening up underneath him, earthen hands reaching up to drag him down.
Billy folded the letter and scurried away.
Chapter Thirty-three
MAYNARD CHARLES WOKE WITH A start, his heart and head pounding as he clawed his way up from some feverish dream.
It was dark in the Park Suite. Maynard trembled as he reached for the water he had left at the bedside, then stood and peeled back the blinds. Fat, lazy snowflakes were drifting down across the square. London was a perfect vision of white. He could not have asked for a more magnificent setting for his New Year celebrations.
Why, then, is my heart beating like a panicked bird?
Why, then, was the Buckingham Hotel crumbling to dust in my dreams?
He’d felt like this only twice in his life before: the first, his boarding school days, and those long, empty hours sitting outside the headmaster’s office, waiting for a thrashing; and the second, the battlefields of Flanders and France, waiting with his bayonet in hand for the whistles to start sounding and the boys to start pouring over the top.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
*
‘Hurry up, de Guise, the entourage is already here!’
Raymond sat in the dressing rooms behind the ballroom, wrapping the bandages more tightly around his chest. The ribs had healed, he was fairly certain of that – but the hours he’d put in, practising in the ballroom, had shown up in new bruises along the lines of each rib. Last night Nancy had run her fingers along each one. A mid-morning vermouth had dulled the ache for an hour, but there were less than ten hours between now and the moment the Archie Adams Band would strike up their first song, announcing the beginning of the great Masquerade Ball. It was not long enough, but it was all that he had. He wrapped the bandages tighter. All they had to do was sustain him for one more night. His foot had healed but that didn’t mean it had stopped aching. He would worry about the ruin he was making of his body tomorrow.
Nathaniel White turned on his heel and marched to the dressing-room door. ‘It’s your funeral, de Guise. It’s not you who’s dancing for their pleasure tonight.’
Raymond took a deep breath. Nathaniel could say what he wanted; on the dance floor, it was not words that mattered. Raymond fastened the remaining buttons on his shirt. He would dance more stiffly trussed up like this – but the irony was he would still dance more elegantly than Nathaniel. The crowd would see that, even if White did not.
In the reception hall, the Buckingham gathered. As Raymond made his way up from the ballroom, he could see the kitchen staff turned out in their perfect whites, standing like a phal-anx with the Queen Mary’s head chef at the front. The other hotel departments were arranged in similar military fashion. Mr Simenon had his concierges drilled and standing to attention. Mrs Moffatt had organised her chambermaids in pristine uniforms. Raymond caught Nancy’s eye as he marched past, giving her an almost imperceptible wink. I’m going to be OK, Nancy. You made it that way. The truth was, he felt the pain in his ribs like a needle being worked around under his skin. But New Year was only one night. He would survive it and put on a show, even if it was the last thing he did.
In front of the Norwegian fir tree, Maynard Charles and the heads of department were lined up in order of rank. The night managers, the bookkeeper, the director of finance and accounts; all of them were turned out in their finery – and at their head paced Maynard Charles himself. The hotel director was turned out in a pinstripe suit of black and grey, his hair scraped back with pomade. A golden pocket watch dangled over his lapel, and silver cufflinks glistened at his wrists.
On one flank stood the assembled musicians from the Archie Adams Band. On the other, stood the demonstration dancers. Louis threw Raymond a smile as he marched over to join them, the needling eyes of Nathaniel White on him all the way. White was standing at the head of the party, with Hélène at his side. She turned to him as he came to stand directly behind her, alongside Sofía and the rest of the dancing girls.
‘Are you . . . ?’ she whispered, turning over her shoulder despite Nathaniel’s ugly look.
‘All’s well,’ Raymond returned. ‘You may be picking up my broken bones from the dressing rooms this evening, but all shall be well. You can have faith in that.’
Hélène was about to reply when the revolving door turned. The first figure to appear was bedecked in a long black coat, and upon his head a tall top hat. Lord Edgerton himself. Behind him, like faithful retainers, came a succession of porters, who mingled with the assembled Buckingham crowd until they had almost disappeared. Meanwhile, the revolving door kept turning – and through it stepped a tall man in his sixties in full military regalia, a tall beaverskin hat on his head. His face was adorned by magnificent whiskers, and his bright blue eyes stopped to take in the assembled crowd.
Maynard Charles stepped forward, Lord Edgerton by his side.
‘King Haakon,’ he began, ‘it is my pleasure to receive you once more. Might I tender my hotel at your service?’
‘Mr Charles,’ the King of Norway replied, his English accented with the harder sound of the northern landscapes he called home. ‘The pleasure shall be ours. We have looked forward to our attendance.’
King Haakon had the look of an elderly headmaster, thought Raymond. Behind him, the bronze doors kept revolving. Next to step through was the King’s wife, Queen Maud. A sexagenarian herself, she was draped in fur – and, as she had done all of her life, seemed to suit the royal accoutrements less well than her husband. A princess of Wales, Maud was the daughter of England’s own late King Edward VII; for her, London was a homecoming. She took in the familiar sight of the Buckingham hall and Raymond was certain he saw her visibly relax.
No sooner had she stepped through and been introduced to Maynard Charles, than the doors turned again. Now came the crown princess, Princess Märtha Sofia, a glamorous beauty with short dark hair and simple pearls in each ear. She appeared on the arm of her husband, Prince Olav, the heir apparent to the Norwegian throne. Raymond watched as Lord Edgerton and Maynard Charles welcomed them, as yet more porters marched in behind, bearing suitcases and trunks.
As the Buckingham waited, Raymond cast his mind back to the New Year celebrations of times past. He’d seen Georges de la Motte put his arm around Queen Maud’s waist and lead her out onto the dance floor. Two New Years past, Georges had waltzed for the first time with Princess Märtha in the ballroom at the Savoy. He felt a stabbing in his chest that was nothing to do with the state of his ribs. If it weren’t for the Midnight Rooms, it would have been him twirling around the ballroom tonight with the queen and the crown princess and the rise of the fascist influence in this hotel would have had one more barrier to keep it at bay. His eyes drifted up, to where Nathaniel White was standing with his chest swollen with arrogant pride.
At Maynard Charles’s signal, the assembly parted and a royal procession began, down through the reception square to the golden lifts – where, one after another, the royal family disappeared into the Buckingham interior. In the reception hall, the crowd let out a collective breath. Mrs Moffatt clapped her hands, summoning her girls back to their duties. Mr Simenon hissed at his concierges; the head chef barked orders, sending his underlings scurrying back to their kitchens. Meanwhile, Nathaniel took Hélène forcibly by the hand and turned her back towards the ballroom. ‘We’ve only hours,’ he declared. ‘It has to be perfect.’
Hélène tore her hand away from him – but the clock was ticking, and she followed him all the same.
*
At 6 p.m., the doors to
the Grand opened.
Billy Brogan lingered in the reception hall, beneath the boughs of the glorious Norwegian fir, and stared through the ballroom doors. He had never seen it look as beautiful. The cavernous interior was bedecked in hanging masks, the chandeliers lit up in radiant array. The dance floor itself was lacquered so that it reflected the lights. It will be like they’re dancing on an ocean, thought Billy.
Tonight would prove if the Buckingham could withstand removal of the English king’s patronage. Billy hovered anxiously in the reception hall as Lord Edgerton’s associates arrived. Graf and Gräfin Schecht were already in attendance. Nathaniel White’s father, Oliver, appeared with his family in tow, and a horse-drawn carriage wheeled around in the snow to deliver Lady Edgerton, Vivienne’s mother, to the marble stairs. The great and the good, thought Billy. We call these the great and the good. Why, then, did he feel so dirty?
Soon, guests milled between the tables in the ballroom. The popping of champagne corks could be heard echoing in the ballroom’s magnificent rafters, as waiters pirouetted across the expanse serving the canapés that the Queen Mary’s sous-chefs had spent long days preparing. Billy thought about venturing down there. Hidden behind one of those fanciful masks, perhaps he might even go unnoticed. But then he looked at the revolving brass door, and the snow strafing down across Berkeley Square. The temptation to run out into it, to bury himself in the pure white, was almost overwhelming. He took two faltering steps in that direction, but then he stopped. The die had already been cast. His fate was already sealed.
Sickened, he turned back towards the ballroom.
*
In the dressing rooms, the excitement was threatening to turn into panic. Sofía LaPegna could not find the ribbon that matched her gown. Raymond was steeling himself against the pain in his ribs with the best Martini the Candlelight Club had been able to provide. Nancy kneeled at his side, sorting out the bandages he meant to bind himself in before the first dance. Louis Kildare was polishing his saxophone clean on the hem of his very best shirt, while Archie Adams welcomed one of the guest singers for the night – a dapper young man in a white cocktail suit, who went by the name of Alfredo Bianchi – and the rest of the orchestra ran through their set list with increasing intensity. In the midst of it all, Nathaniel White hovered over Hélène Marchmont as she stared into the looking glass, painting delicate lines around her eyes. Ordinarily, Hélène had the steadiest of hands – but tonight, even she was trembling.
‘You must remember how it goes exactly,’ Nathaniel intoned. ‘Once the number comes to an end, release me at once. That’s when I shall approach the crown princess.’
Hélène paused, still applying her kohl. ‘It’s drilled into me, Nathaniel. You can be certain of that.’
‘My father is out there tonight.’
‘I know that too,’ she retorted, exasperated.
‘Lord Edgerton and all of the rest. I’ve choreographed this specifically for them, Hélène. When we go through those doors . . .’
The kohl pencil snapped in Hélène’s hands. Her eyes flashed up. She saw the state of herself in the mirror, the way she was holding herself so tensely. She paused, fought to regain her composure. Then, as serenely as she could muster, she said, ‘Nathaniel, we’ve rehearsed for weeks now. It’s perfect. Now, if you wouldn’t mind—’
Hélène never got the chance to finish that thought, for in that precise moment, knuckles rapped urgently on the dressing-room doors – and, without waiting to be invited in, Billy Brogan crashed through. The look on his face was pure desperation. He took in the banks of staring faces, the way Archie Adams scowled at him for intruding, and paid it no mind. In moments he had loped across the dressing room to the place where Hélène was sitting. ‘Hélène,’ he said, ‘can I—’
‘Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?’ Nathaniel snapped. ‘This is an important night, you bog-brained cretin. We’re trying to—’
Hélène flew to her feet, wielding her eyeliner like a sabre. She stared at Nathaniel through the mirror. Then, softly, she said, ‘Come with me, Billy,’ and shepherded him back to the dressing-room door.
At the door, Hélène asked, ‘What is it, Billy? He has the ear of the Edgertons. You mustn’t upset him . . .’
Billy’s face was scarlet – either with embarrassment or shame, Hélène could not say. He reached with some trepidation into his back pocket and produced a single folded sheet of paper. He held it out for Hélène to take.
‘The telegram boy came to the tradesman’s door. He asked for me by name. I’m sorry, Miss Marchmont. I read it. I know I oughtn’t to have done. But Miss Marchmont? Miss Marchmont, you’ve . . .’
Hélène’s face had turned ashen as she took in the contents of the letter. Then she started to shake. This was so much more than the frustration she’d vented when faced with Nathaniel White. The tremor started in her hands and worked throughout her body.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Marchmont. I’m—’
‘Who else has seen this?’ she suddenly demanded.
‘Not a soul, miss!’
Hélène caught herself. She bent down, planted a single kiss on Billy’s cheek. ‘Thank you, Billy,’ she said – and then, without once looking back, she pushed past him, up and out of the dressing rooms.
Billy watched her go and felt, for a moment, as if he might faint. He could still feel the impression of her lips upon his cheek. It was the most shameful thing.
*
High above, Vivienne Edgerton stood at her open balcony window, allowing the bitter cold of Berkeley Square to flood in. She had been waiting hours already. She had been waiting too long. The lights below lit Berkeley Square only in small halos, but it was enough. As she hovered there, she saw the tiny figure of Hélène Marchmont canter out onto the square, wrapped up in a thick coat. She stumbled, caught herself before she plunged into the snow, righted herself against one of the townhouse railings, and disappeared off the square.
Vivienne smiled.
It took great effort to close the windows against a sudden onslaught of wind, but Vivienne battled them back and marched to her wardrobe. Inside hung a sky-blue gown, a spectacular creation of chiffon and lace. Yes, she thought, this was as elegant as anything Hélène Marchmont ever wore. She picked it out, held it up against herself and gazed into the mirror. She would look beautiful in this – and anyone who said otherwise could hang.
She looked up from the mirror, back at the window panes, and something caught her eye. With the dress still held against her, she staggered over and looked back out. Another figure was hurrying across Berkeley Square. Another figure she knew. She clenched her jaw – but then, thinking again, relented. What did it matter if he was gone, after all? The poor fool had already done everything she asked. He could freeze out there for all she cared.
*
Billy Brogan tore across Berkeley Square in his shirtsleeves. A dozen horses and carriages were wheeling around the snowy expanse in the heart of the square, bringing their guests to the ballroom for the night. Stopping while one of the carriages sailed by, Billy felt the bite of the wind. He thought he saw Hélène striding purposefully along one of the roads leading to Regent Street, but by the time the carriage had passed, all he could see was the snowy dark.
He looked up at the towering facade of the Buckingham Hotel.
He remembered his father’s words.
He tore back across the square.
By the time he reached the staff entrance, he could feel the chill in his bones – but he did not stop. He clattered on, up through housekeeping, around the reception hall where more guests milled, and burst back through the dressing-room doors.
Nathaniel rounded on him at once – ‘What did you do to her, Brogan?’ – but Billy sidled past, to the corner where Nancy and Raymond still sat.
‘Nance,’ he said. ‘Nance, I’ve—’
‘Spit it out, Brogan!’ roared Nathaniel, gripping him by the shoulder.
A
t once, Nancy stood. ‘Don’t manhandle him, Mr White. Can’t you see he’s—’
Nathaniel stepped back. ‘You can get out of here too. You can’t bring your pets down here, de Guise, not on a night like this.’ He turned. ‘If Hélène isn’t here in one minute, Brogan, you’ve some explaining to do.’
Nancy put an arm around Billy and escorted him back to the dressing-room door.
‘I shouldn’t have done it. I know it. I’m not proud. I . . .’ The words were pouring out of him in an unstoppable torrent. Somewhere inside Billy Brogan a dam had burst, and now the waters were running wild. ‘You have to believe me. I should have taken my punishment, whatever was coming to me, but . . . She has ways, Nance. She does. She looks into you and it’s like . . . she can see everything. It’s my own fault. I know it is. I should never have—’
Nancy gripped him by the chin, forced him to look into her eyes. ‘Take a deep breath, Billy. You’ll have to start at the beginning.’
‘But that’s just it. I don’t know how it started. I’ve always run favours in this hotel. Always made drop-offs and collections for people. I didn’t know, the first time I went to the Midnight Rooms, what I was going there for.’ Nancy’s face furrowed. She remembered how Billy had confidently led her down the Midnight Rooms stairs, how he’d stepped so easily through that door, but she’d thought it the first time he’d been there too. Had she been wrong? ‘It was Mr Simenon who sent me. He did it as a favour to Miss Vivienne Edgerton. What she asked for, she got. Only it’s below Mr Simenon to go to a place like the Midnight Rooms, so he sent me. And I’d bring them back for her, those powders she has. The cocaine . . .’
Nancy’s face drained. She stepped back from Billy.
‘You’d better go on, Billy,’ uttered Raymond. ‘What in God’s name have you done?’
‘After what happened to Miss Edgerton, after how you found her, Nance, we was meant to stop procuring powder for her. And we did – for a little while, at least. Only . . . she said she’d tell. If I didn’t get her what she needed, if I didn’t help her out, she’d go ratting to Maynard Charles and . . . Scandals, Nance. Any sniff of a scandal and the management have to stamp it out. I can’t get stamped out. What’ll happen to me without the Buckingham Hotel? What about all my brothers and sisters? So, Lord help me, I did what she asked. I told her. I told her where Miss Marchmont goes.’
One Enchanted Evening Page 33