Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
MONDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1927
L ouisa
With my ankle fully recovered, I arrive at the hotel well before my shift is to begin. By late Saturday evening, Clara was in bed with a fever and a cough. She dutifully sipped Cookie’s soup all day Sunday, but the raspy cough is keeping her at home, at least for a day or two.
Though I am not delighted to see my sister under the weather, I can’t help but appreciate the timing. Clara’s cold means there is a temporary opening on the eighth floor.
I didn’t mention the idea brewing in my head to my sister. I doubted she would see the wisdom in my plan, and besides, lengthy conversations had been far from possible this weekend, given her continual coughing.
If I am going to make my way to Hollywood, I will have to be bold and daring. Mr. Barnes’ stay at the hotel may be a coincidence, but I am choosing to view it as serendipitous.
My first stop is Ms. Thompson’s office. Yesterday afternoon, when it became apparent that Clara would not be in any condition for work today, I telephoned and left a message with the slightly uppity registration desk manager. He promised to convey the message, though he seemed to do so unapprovingly. Since I haven’t spoken directly with the matron, I am confident she will appreciate the visit, which will also create an opportunity to put my plan into action.
Outside her office door, I steel myself and gather my courage with a deep inhale. A quick rap on the door gains me instant access.
“Miss Wilson, how is your sister feeling?” Ms. Thompson places her spectacles on the desk in front of her. “It seems the Wilson household has been on the receiving end of some unfortunate luck these past few weeks.”
“She is feeling a bit better today, though that nasty cough seems to tire her out quickly.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Especially since Miss Roberts is yet to return to her duties.” The matron stands to move around her desk. “Was there anything else, Miss Wilson?”
“I wanted to offer my services. To the eighth floor, that is. I figured, being two maids down, you might require someone to fill in, and I wanted to let you know that I am happy to do whatever I can to help.”
Pleased with the delivery of my rehearsed inquiry, I hold my breath in anticipation. A place among the eighth-floor suites as a fully authorized maid would be the perfect way to arrange another meeting with Mr. Barnes.
Ms. Thompson hesitates only a moment before turning me down. “That is very kind of you to offer. For now, I think we can manage.”
Deflated by Ms. Thompson’s response, I steer myself toward the locker room. My lips twist in disappointment as my mind tumbles back to the problem I was certain I had solved. How will I arrange another meeting with the Hollywood director?
Jane is the first to spot my sour disposition as I remove my winter wear, carelessly tossing my toque and gloves into the bottom of my locker, among the wet of my wool-lined granny boots. I change out of my dress and pluck the fifth-floor uniform off its hanger, sliding it over my head.
“What’s got you in a huff?” Jane leans over, her bright red lipstick highlighting the porcelain white of her face.
“I am fine. Just another glamourous day at The Hamilton.” I slip my feet into my black oxfords and sit down on the bench to tie them, determined to keep my aspirations regarding Mr. Barnes to myself.
Jane, ignoring my mood, reaches over me and plucks my hat and gloves from the bottom of the locker. “You’ll be even less delightful if you come back at the end of the day to discover everything damp and cold.” She plops the items on the top shelf and sits down beside me.
A gentle nudge from her shoulders tells me she is listening. “I don’t want to bother you with any of it. I am being silly and stubborn and, oh, never mind. Let’s just get on with our day.” I try to shrug off my disappointment.
“Why don’t we work together today? Ease the burden and all.” Jane’s invitation is kind and well-meaning.
Though we were unlikely friends in the beginning, Jane Morgan has become someone I respect and, from time to time, have confided in. But this is one secret I am not willing to share with anyone. At least not yet.
I catch Gwen watching us and decide that working alongside Jane is just the thing to turn my unpleasant mood around. “I’d like that.” I give an affirming nod, and Jane and I head toward the fifth floor.
Ms. Thompson is tardy for roll call, so we busy ourselves with readying our carts, rather than loitering in the hallway.
Ten minutes past the hour, Ms. Thompson arrives with her clipboard in hand and an apology lining her features. “My apologies, ladies. It seems we are falling prey to the influenza season. We are down another three maids as of this morning. The hotel hasn’t slowed any in terms of guests arriving, so we will all have to pull together to do our best.”
With a murmur of understanding, we maids file into a straight line for roll call.
Ms. Thompson informs us that Cookie has prepared enough chicken soup to feed an army, so we are encouraged to enjoy a bowl along with our midday meal in an effort to keep ourselves healthy and upright.
With tasks delivered and guest rooms assigned, Ms. Thompson excuses us to get on with our day.
George arrives on the fifth floor as we are about to depart. Though he has become quite comfortable with us maids on an individual basis, his youthful blush returns at the sight of the lot of us.
“Hello, George.” I smile warmly at the young man, hopeful a friendly face will put him at ease.
“Oh, hello Lou—Miss Wilson.” He corrects himself when he becomes aware of Ms. Thompson’s attention on him.
I stifle a giggle and turn to follow Jane to retrieve our cleaning carts.
“Miss Wilson.” Ms. Thompson waves me over.
“Yes, ma’am.” I approach with hurried steps.
“It seems we have lost another eighth-floor maid. Miss McKinley was sent home this morning. Are you still prepared to assist on the eighth floor?”
I conceal my eagerness behind a stoic expression. “Yes, ma’am. I am happy to help in any way I might be useful.”
“Thank you, Miss Wilson. Why don’t you head to the laundry for the appropriate uniform, and I will meet you on the eighth floor in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I scurry over to Jane, who is waiting for me, and give her the short version of the situation. “Another maid is sick. I’m heading to the eighth floor to help fill in.”
Jane barely has time to wish me luck before I am out the door and dashing down the stairs to the laundry.
Once changed, with my hair pulled back into a brain-numbing bun, I climb the eight floors with slow, methodical steps, ensuring I arrive well put together instead of a sweaty, panicked mess.
I poke my head out of the stairwell. The deep, lavish burgundy and gold of the eighth floor welcome me. Stepping onto the plush carpet, I feel as though I am walking on a cloud, my oxfords sinking slightly with each step. The floor’s decor is quite opulent, and it strikes me as interesting that Clara seldom speaks of the grandeur she spends her days in.
Ms. Thompson finds me near the lift, its polished brass far shinier than that I’ve seen on the other guest floors. “We’ve settled on a two-person approach for efficiency and to ensure we don’t leave you stranded in a position you’ve not been trained for.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I follow close on her heels, aware that I will have to seek a moment alone to locate Mr. Barnes’ suite and, with any luck, the man himself.
“You will work with Miss Smythe today,” she says as Rebecca joins us in the hallway, “as I believe the two of you are acquainted with one another.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All the maids are doubled up on duties, so you may be called to assist with a multitude of tasks today, Miss Wilson. These may include fetching newspapers, securing extra pillows or blankets, and since it is the holiday season, wrapping guests’ Christmas gifts.”
“Where does that take place, ma’am? The wrapping of gifts.”
“We have taken over a small banquet room for the time being. There is a table, paper, scissors, ribbon, and the like. To be honest, we didn’t know what to expect when we started offering the service, but we have found that our eighth-floor guests are happy to hand off a great many tasks to our staff.”
Ms. Thompson stops in front of a set of large double doors. She tugs the handle, and the doors open to a linen closet four times as big as the ones on the fifth floor. Shelves are lined with lavender soaps, plush towels, fleecy robes, and every other convenience one might expect at a luxury hotel.
“I must be getting on, so I will leave you in the capable hands of Miss Smythe.” Ms. Thompson inclines her head in a quick motion and is out the door before I can say thank you.
“I am sorry to hear Clara is unwell,” Rebecca says. “I suspected she was catching something when I saw her last.” She piles towels onto the second shelf of her cart as we talk. “I am certainly glad for the help today. We’re short three maids, and the suites are fully booked all the way through New Year’s Eve.”
“How can I be of assistance?” I decide that having the lay of the land before attempting to locate Mr. Barnes is both prudent and necessary, given the extra work heaped upon the maids this morning.
“We’ll start with my suites, and then we will move on to Clara’s. Once we’re done with those, we will see who needs an extra hand. It’s going to be a busy day. I sure hope that ankle of yours is good as new.”
“I am happy to report that my ankle is indeed fully recovered.”
“Off we go, then.”
Miss Smythe tours me from suite to suite, directing me in how to handle rooms and furniture I’ve not encountered. I am relieved to learn that most guests vacate the hotel early in the day, expecting to return to freshly cleaned suites in the afternoon. This, I surmise, is the reason for the eighth-floor maids’ later lunch hour.
I run several errands, fetching additional bedding, newspapers, and for those few who have chosen to stay in this morning, additional pots of coffee and trays full of Cookie’s pastries. The mini croissants are so enticing I fear my stomach will rumble its displeasure at not being offered one.
On my second trip to the kitchen in less than an hour, I decide that if I were staying on the eighth floor, I too would choose to stay in, if only to enjoy a croissant or two.
By noon, we have tended to all of Miss Smythe’s suites and one of Clara’s. Rebecca steers me back to the linen closet, pushing her cart over the thick carpet with ease.
She closes the doors behind us but continues to keep her voice low. “Clara has three suites in her charge this week, but one of them is a bit tricky.”
“What do you mean ‘tricky’?” I feel my left eyebrow lift.
“I believe you are familiar with Mr. Barnes?” Rebecca raises her own eyebrows.
I tuck a giggle behind an open palm. “Indeed. We had a meeting of sorts.”
“Well, he tends to linger in his suite, making it inconvenient for cleaning. When he does appear, it is to chat with every passerby that happens to come his way.” Rebecca pauses before adding, “When one doesn’t come his way, he strolls the halls, I can only assume looking for entertainment.”
“Sounds harmless enough. He did strike me as the talkative sort.”
Rebecca agrees with a vigorous nod.
“So, what is the plan? Do we knock on his door and oust him so we can tidy up, or do we wait him out?” I am speaking in jest, but my quip evidently goes unnoticed by Rebecca.
“I think we should head down for a quick bite while we can, and maybe he will venture out in the meantime.”
Though I do not relish this approach, since it takes me further away from what I’ve come here to do, I am in no position to say otherwise. “If that is what you think is best.”
“I do. Besides, I’d enjoy a bowl of Cookie’s soup, just to be on the safe side of remaining well.”
Upon returning from lunch, Rebecca sends me to check on suite 815 while she prepares the cart with fresh linens, towels, and dainty lavender soaps that smell heavenly. She instructs me to knock firmly, announce myself, and wait. I am to repeat this process two more times if the door goes unanswered.
With the instruction firmly planted in my mind, I cross the threshold into the hallway. I get my bearings and am about to turn left toward suite 815 when Rebecca offers one more vital piece of information.
“Suite 815 is occupied by Mr. Barnes.” She lifts both shoulders in a non-verbal apology. Little does she know how fortuitous this news is to me.
I almost dance down the hall of deep red carpet, buoyed by my good fortune.
Standing before Mr. Barnes’ suite, I straighten my posture and put a flat palm to the bun at the back of my head. I lift my arm and give three quick, decisive knocks. I am leaning toward the door to announce myself when it swings open.
“Well, Miss Wilson, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Good day, Mr. Barnes. I have come to inquire about setting your suite right for the day.” I deliver my friendliest smile before continuing, “But I also wanted to speak with you about a matter that may benefit both of us.”
“Do tell, Miss Wilson. Do tell.”
“I have been informed that you work in the movie business in Hollywood.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Barnes tilts his chin up to examine me from beneath narrowing eyes.
“Not to worry, sir. I am not a foolish girl with unfounded, fanciful dreams. I am, in fact, a theatre actress interested in expanding my horizons to the California movie scene. I have received several glowing reviews from my recent role as Mrs. Craig in Craig’s Wife , and I would be more than happy to share those with you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I feel as though I can take you at your word.” Mr. Barnes’ eyes travel the length of my eighth-floor uniform. “I didn’t realize you tended suites on this floor. I believe the last time we met, you were wearing a different costume.”
“How perceptive of you, sir. I am filling in today, as a few of the hotel maids have fallen ill.”
“So, what exactly can I do for you, Miss Wilson?”
“Well, sir. If you would allow me to share my talents with you. Perhaps an audition of your choosing.” I lose my train of thought when I see Miss Smythe and her fully stocked cart trundling up the hallway toward us.
I do not have time to utter another word as the cart arrives at my side.
“Apologies, Mr. Barnes. We thought it might be an appropriate time to tend to your room, but I see that it is not.” Miss Smythe curtsies before setting her attention squarely on me. “Miss Wilson, we do not wish to disturb Mr. Barnes. We will return at a more convenient time.”
I feel Rebecca’s gaze tugging me backwards, as I imagine she wishes her hands could do. I twist my lips as a slight eye roll escapes without warning.
Mr. Barnes’ smirk is hard to miss. “Actually, I was planning to go out. Let me grab my coat and hat, and I’ll be out of your way.”
Rebecca stops mid-stride. “We have no desire to put you out, sir.”
“Not at all, Miss Smythe. I was explaining the very same thing to Miss Wilson here.”
“Thank you, sir. We will have your room ready as quickly as possible.”
Mr. Barnes turns to grab his coat and hat off the rack and steps into the hallway. “Thank you, ladies.”
Rebecca turns away from us as she manoeuvres her cleaning cart out of his path, and Mr. Barnes leans in, whispering near my ear, “I look forward to helping you in any way I can, Miss Wilson.”
Without another word, he tips his hat to Rebecca and walks confidently toward the lift.