Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1927
L ouisa
By mid-afternoon, Gwen seems to have broken free of her shell. The girl may not have any experience when it comes to the stage, but she certainly has the lungs to carry on a conversation non-stop for several hours. A headache is brewing at the back of my skull as she prattles on, barely pausing for breath.
In the middle of positioning a sheet atop a bed, I stop and interrupt her incessant chatter. “Do you sing?”
“Sing?” The girl’s large round eyes peer up at me from behind the bedsheet she’s raised in the air, and I instantly regret my less-than-becoming thoughts. “No, I don’t sing. Not well, anyway.”
“Too bad. You have lungs that are well-suited to opera.”
A hesitant “thank you” is her only response. Surmising I have not offended the girl with my interruption of her monologue, I relish the quiet, if only for a few moments.
With another room ready for its occupants, we push the cleaning cart to the sixth and final room of the day.
“May I ask you something, Miss Wilson?” Gwen’s voice is steady, if a tad subdued.
“Please, call me Louisa. When guests aren’t about, that is.” A shrug of my shoulders indicates for her to continue. What’s another question, I think as I move about the room, preparing it for vacuuming.
“Do you ever worry about being rejected?” Gwen strips the bedding, avoiding my gaze. “I mean, when you audition for a role. Are you afraid you won’t be chosen?”
My heart softens for the girl. In that one question, I can feel her desire for something currently beyond her reach, and I understand. More than she probably realizes. All I can assume is today’s talk of the Hollywood director has both inspired and terrified her. If I had to guess, I would say she is a year or two younger than me in age, but perhaps more in terms of life experience. I suspect hers has been a sheltered existence.
“Listen, Gwen. The stage isn’t meant for everyone, but anyone who craves a presence on it must come to terms with the reality that you won’t be everyone’s pick. You won’t be right for every role. And even if you are chosen, every actress in every role has a ton of hard work and obstacles to overcome. It isn’t as easy as you might think. I know it all looks spectacular and glamourous from a seat within the audience, but in reality, acting is a gruelling and oftentimes pride-squashing endeavour.”
The girl nods her understanding, but the moisture gathering in her eyes tells me that she too covets a life in the limelight.
I take a few steps toward her. “But if you want it more than air itself, you owe it to yourself to do whatever it takes to succeed. My mama used to say that anything worth having is worth working for. The stage requires even more from you than work. You may have to disappoint those you love, including your father.” I tilt my head to the side in an attempt to meet her eyes. “You can be certain you’ll break your own heart along the way, as well, by wanting something beyond your reach. But if being on the stage is all that you dream of, then you can’t let anyone or anything stand in your way.”
I have no idea if the girl has what it takes to follow her dreams and attain her goals. But even if my words do little more than make her feel better, it’s the least I can do after the hard work she’s put in during her first day as a Hamilton maid.
A sniffle followed by a shy smile is confirmation that my words have helped ease her worries, at least momentarily.
“Let’s finish this room, and then we can get you your very own cleaning cart and stock it with supplies so it’s ready for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Louisa. I’d like that very much.”
With the guest rooms situated for the day, I leave Gwen stocking her cart in the supply cupboard while I seek guidance from Ms. Thompson about her plans for the girl. I am certain Gwen will feel more at ease once she learns what is expected of her for the rest of the week.
The snow is falling fast. I catch a glimpse of the weather through the back door as a delivery driver exits the hotel, returning to his truck parked in the back alley. Chill bumps rise on my bare arms as the winter air sweeps a dusting of snowflakes onto the mat positioned inside the door.
Popping her head out of her pastry kitchen, Cookie gives me a questioning look. “Are you lost, Miss Wilson?” Her expression transforms into a teasing smile. “Fifth floor is thataway.” She points a whisk toward the back corridor as a giggle bursts forth.
“Very funny.” I chuckle at her antics. “I am looking for Ms. Thompson. I’ve been with the new maid all day and was hoping to get her information about what to expect for tomorrow.”
“Ah, the first days are always the hardest,” Cookie says with a nod. “You’ve just missed her. She went in the direction of the lobby a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you.” I slip through the panelled door to the front lobby, hugging the wall with my back while assessing the activity within. If the space is filled with guests, I will have to retreat and wait for Ms. Thompson to reappear out of their sight.
With only one guest in the lobby, moving from the registration desk to the elevator, I take the chance to walk quickly past the registration desk toward Ms. Thompson, who is speaking with the doorman near the front entrance.
Her hands move animatedly as she inclines her head toward the tiled floor. The section of patterned tile is a beautiful and welcoming feature of the grand two-story lobby, with its gleaming chandeliers and rich wood accents. The hotel’s large glass door, trimmed with gold, swings open, casting a blinding reflection as I step onto the tile.
I lift a hand to shade my eyes from the piercing ray of light as the doorman issues a friendly “Welcome back, sir.”
The moment my shoe touches the tile, slippery with melting snow, I realize my mistake. I slide across the floor, my foot twisting hard beneath me as I crash into the sturdy legs of the man who has just entered the hotel.
Stunned into silence and shocked by my body’s severe contact with the hard floor, I lay limp, my face inches away from a pair of expensive-looking black oxfords. A groan slips past my lips as several pairs of hands reach out to help me stand.
“Miss Wilson, are you hurt?” Ms. Thompson’s voice is stretched tight with concern as strong male hands lift me by my shoulders to an upright position. Ms. Thompson’s voice trails off as she turns toward the doorman. “This is precisely what I was worried about, Mr. Davies. Mr. Baker, go to the basement and get as many floor mats as you can find. We can’t have our guests skating across the lobby floor.” Ms. Thompson’s rapid instructions fade into the shadows as my head spins.
A soothing voice beside me whispers in my ear, “There, there. Easy does it. Let’s see if you can put weight on that foot of yours.” The man’s voice is strong, reassuring, and calm.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, but my words seem quiet to the point of not existing at all.
“No harm done. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Let’s see if that ankle is any worse for wear.” A steadying hand wraps around my waist.
“Here, Miss Wilson.” Mr. Davies places the stool from behind the bellhop stand in front of me. “Have a seat and we’ll take a look at that ankle.”
After issuing all her orders for remedying the slippery situation, Ms. Thompson returns her attention to me. “Miss Wilson, do you think you can make it to the kitchen? We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill in the entranceway.”
Though I know the matron is concerned for my well-being, I sense the urgency for her to remove me from sight of incoming hotel guests. Embarrassed by my less-than-graceful dive to the floor, I too am eager to remove myself from view.
“Yes, ma’am. I can try to walk on it.” I steal a quick glance at the man who has rescued me and give him my most appreciative smile. “Thank you, sir. I think I’ll be all right now.”
Ms. Thompson steps beside me, wrapping her arm around my waist. “Lean on me now, dear. Together, we can do this.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I hobble and hop a few paces before taking a brief rest. “I am so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see the wet floor. I was only hurrying so I could be out of the way as quickly as possible.”
“No need for apologies, Miss Wilson. I am sorry to say you proved my point about the danger of slippery tiles at a cost to your poor ankle.”
“Madam, can I assist you in getting Miss Wilson here to the kitchen?” The gentleman’s voice is behind me now. “I assure you I am not offended by the inner workings of a hotel, but I can avert my gaze if that is more suitable for you.” I catch a glimpse over my shoulder and see the kind man’s teasing smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes. We will be fine from here.” I feel Ms. Thompson tense beside me, and I assume I have disappointed the matron more than she is letting on. “I apologize for another disruption to your stay.”
Another disruption? I wonder what else this poor man has witnessed during his stay. Mr. Barnes . The realization lands heavy on my heart, and my chin falls to my chest. The Hollywood man I’ve been hoping to meet has witnessed my less-than-dainty crash. I wear my embarrassment like a weighted cloak as Ms. Thompson guides me toward the warmth of the kitchen. One hop, hobble, and step at a time.