She knows I haven’t. I have no words. I am in awe.
I am gawking at it when Mrs. Evans asks, “Do you see there? The paintings in the ceiling. That’s the goddess Venus on her swan chariot, drawn by bulls and accompanied by a dove.”
I blink at her, surprised that she should know such a thing. I want to ask why they chose that, but she is busy answering someone else’s question. I suppose it doesn’t matter why. Rich people can paint whatever they want on their ceilings. I admire the fine details, then study the rest of the room with its tall arched windows. Do you know what, they must be twenty feet tall themselves. They and their curtains take up one wall of the room, and they almost reach the ceiling. In the middle of the room, most of the space is taken up by perfectly set, cloth-covered tables and chairs. Shiny silver cutlery and candlesticks reflect the sunlight streaming in through the windows, making them shine as if they are lit from within. It is a truly magical sight. I cannot imagine what Granny would say if she saw it.
“They say Lord Willingdon will be here to pronounce the hotel officially opened,” Deirdre whispers in my ear.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t have any idea. He’s a lord, so he must be royalty.”
Mrs. Evans catches this and clucks her tongue. “He is our governor-general. Sir Freeman Freeman-Thomas,” she says in her crisp English accent. “Baron Willingdon of Ratton and First Marquess of Willingdon.”
That’s quite a mouthful, I think to myself.
“Lord Willingdon will be flanked by other lords and honourable men.” She regards us closely. “You will behave as if you are in the presence of the King of England, do you understand?”
“Must we learn to curtsy?” Kiera whispers.
Mrs. Evans overhears. She hears everything, I’m certain of it. “You will not need to curtsy,” she explains, “because you will be nowhere near any of them. You will not speak for the duration of the evening, you will not offer to help or do anything, because you are only there as decoration, and in case of an emergency.”
That is all right with me. I just want to be there.
On the morning of June 11, our army of chambermaids flits around the rest of the hotel, preparing. Normally I am only to clean the sixteenth floor, but today we are all wanted everywhere at once, carrying towels and scrubbing floors that already shine. Mrs. Evans has reminded us quite sternly that everything must be perfect. Tonight, our doors will open, but only for folks with an invitation to the gala. Tomorrow, they will welcome everyone, visitors and guests alike, to inspect the rooms and see how beautiful they truly are.
At last, the great clock in the lobby says ’tis time to gather in preparation for the big event. All our chores end. At Mrs. Evans’s direction, all the chambermaids line up along one wall, behind a line of porters, bellboys, and other front lobby staff. I stand still as a stone when Mr. Burke, the hotel manager, appears in front of us, hands linked behind his back. I have only seen him once before, but he is difficult to forget. Mr. Burke is a big, tall man with slicked-back ebony hair. He must have experience with royalty, or at least very special guests, because he doesn’t strike me as being nervous in the least. He towers over us in his spotless tuxedo, a black bow tie wrapped around his wingtip collar. Bianca would have called him handsome, I presume, but he must be close to forty. Bianca thinks a lot of men are handsome, come to think of it.
Mr. Burke strolls along the front row of staff, inspecting them as if they are soldiers. My palms are slick with sweat, though I know my uniform is immaculate. I wish I could hide the spot that appeared overnight on the side of my nose, but there’s nothing to be done about it. When he’s done with the men, he takes long, slow strides along my row.Shoulders down, chin up, Mrs. Evans had told us, and I silently add:Hold your breath.Until he has finished, that is.
We appear to pass muster, because Mr. Burke returns to his place in front of us. Sure, and you could hear a pin if it dropped on the lobby’s spotless carpet while we wait to hear what he will say. I am standing near the end of our line, close to the front entrance of the hotel. While I wait, my attention drifts slightly, past the wide doors, out to Front Street. I see regular traffic for now, but in my imagination I spy longer, sleeker vehicles rolling closer. Our guests will soon be here.
I’m a bit let down, I’ll just say, when Mr. Burke says nothing at all after the inspection but instead heads toward the front entrance. What I’d give to follow him there. I’d love to watch the wealthy flow into the building, but we’re herded to the ballroom, where we stand stiff as pokers against the wall.
The smell of roasted meat wafts from the kitchen, and my stomach cramps with longing. I imagine thick brown gravy being poured. I inhale the scent of potatoes, most certainly dripping with butter, and my mouth waters. Crystal champagne flutes have been placed in exact rows on a long table, and I hear them chiming softly as they are carefully filled one by one, tiny bubbles rising and misting over the rims. At the front of the room, the band begins to play, and I have to hold my body still. I have never heard music like this before, and the urge to dance floods into my chest. People call it jazz.
All at once, everything changes, starting with the noise. The front door is drawn open, and ’tis like a curtain lifts, revealing the party. I suppose ’tis not all that different from the parties at Avery’s Tavern that go on some nights, when the folk get carried away, swinging their glasses, dancing and singing to Old Jack’s fiddle, only those ones usually end with fights and crying and someone getting sick in the back. I doubt this one will end that way, but I can’t wait to see for myself. The blast of excited voices grows louder as the first guests stream into the ballroom. I grit my teeth, holding in any sounds I might make as I admire the gowns and tailcoats, not to mention the flashes of jewellery as the guests pass the lit candles. I have never seen anything so entrancing.
One of the ladies glides past me, gold cigarette holder between herelegant, white-gloved fingers. I try not to stare, but she’s so close to me ’tis as if I’ve been given a gift. Her hair is short, golden, and pressed into curls and ripples, held in place by a glittering band around her head. Her canary-yellow gown falls to her ankles and seems to be always moving because of rows and rows of beaded fringe. She laughs, more like a hoot than any laugh I’ve heard, throwing her head up and showing off the strings of pearls at her bold neckline. Ashes from her cigarette float carelessly to the polished floor as she walks arm in arm with her friend, a shorter woman with cropped, coal-black hair and thick, dark lines drawn around her eyes. Her gown is as black as her hair, as are the beads and feathers and jewellery she wears, and I am reminded of the crows who dwell in The Ward and make it their job to wake the neighbourhood. The thing is, I am struck by the care these women take with their appearance. They are beyond glamourous, the treasures at their ears and necks and wrists catching the light, their faces painted so boldly. How long did all this take? Do they dress like this every day?
And what must it feel like, to value yourself so highly?
I am invisible to them, as I am supposed to be, but the women take up my entire imagination. Behind the first two walks a demure, unlaughing lady wrapped in a flowery veil of perfume and a pale pink, sleeveless satin gown. A handsome gentleman in a tuxedo whispers into her ear, then—right there in front of me—he kisses her neck, just below her ear, and she is transformed. She glows so that her face outpinks her dress, and she laughs with a tittering, birdlike sound. I sigh, caught up in the romance. She is mesmerizing, but she is only one of many.
My attention is drawn to a big, dark-haired man entering with a young woman under each arm and a cigar in his mouth. The dazzling women appear to hang on every word he says, but I’ll tell you what. Something about the man overshadows their lovely faces. I examine him, curious to know what they see in him. He is in his thirties, I think, with a thick neck and a set expression. He’s on guard. I can see that from his eyes, darting everywhere. His coat sleeves are tight on his upper arms, and he has a crooked nose. Mr. Lowry, the butcher, has a nose like that on account of it getting broken in too many fights.Maybe this man’s money is the honey that draws these pretty bees. It cannot be his looks. I’d wager ’tis not his personality, because I feel a chill in the air as he nears. I take a tiny step back when he passes, staying out of his way.
Eventually, the guests settle into their seats at the tables, still carrying on, enjoying the most exciting event the city has hosted in years. Laughter and clinking crystal glasses sing throughout the room. Feathers flutter overhead, rooted in fancy headdresses and hats. Once the guests are seated, there is a blessing, then everyone raises their glasses to toast the king. After that, the band starts up again. Then the two doors at the other end of the room swing open, releasing the kind of smell that would rouse the dead with hunger. Waiters stream into the ballroom, each balancing a heavy tray on one hand, heading to the tables they have been assigned. A hum of anticipation rises from the guests, then the jangling of cutlery on china after their plates are set perfectly before them.
I have not eaten since early this morning. Fortunately, the noise in the room is loud enough that no one hears my stomach growl.
The waiter for the table beside me arrives, looking sharp. They all do, in their black waistcoats and trousers over starched white shirts. Like me, the young men are silent, swooping in and expertly serving the meals without being noticed. It’s a more difficult job than mine, I can admit, because a waiter is in close contact with the guests, whereas I can admire them from a safe distance. If any of these young waiters makes an error, he will no doubt lose his job.
I am suddenly alert, focused on the table nearest to me. A guest at the very end, an alluring woman in deep olive with rosettes on her sleeveless shoulders and a sparkle of diamonds in her ears, has noticed the waiter. One elegant, gloved hand reaches to touch his arm, so he is forced to pause in his work. He stands at attention, trying to disappear, but she will not let him go. Her hand lingers on his sleeve, then she and a friend across the table laugh low in their throats.
I know the tone of a woman who has drunk too much, and I hear it now. The woman in the olive dress tugs the waiter down to her level and sayssomething to him, her tongue sliding over a deep red upper lip. I cannot see his face, but I can imagine how pink his cheeks are. I feel sick for him. He is young, handsome, and vulnerable, and now he is trapped. He tries to draw gently out of her grasp, but she has him. I subtly scan the room, searching for help, but none of the staff seem to notice his situation. Even if they did, I cannot think of what they could do. Many of the other waiters have already finished serving and have left the room. How is this one supposed to escape and finish his job?
I cannot stand it. Breaking all the rules, I step forward and crouch by the woman’s ankle, then I rise and pretend to lay her napkin on the table by her plate.
“What’s this?” she mutters, scowling at me.
