Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1927
C lara
A few days in bed have done me a world of good. I am in high spirits, and the holiday festivities are in full swing at The Hamilton. While I rested at home, Ms. Thompson and the rest of the staff have extended the Christmas decorations to all of the guest floors, with pine and holly bouquets adorning every hall table. Cookie has been on an intensive baking spree, and all guest rooms are set to receive a gingerbread cookie with their turndown service each evening until Boxing Day.
These added touches make the hotel feel almost magical, and I couldn’t be more delighted by the transformation. Louisa and I are changing into our uniforms as a few of the other maids chatter excitedly about the band that will be setting up in the lobby on Christmas Eve.
I catch Lou’s eye and give her shoulder an appreciative squeeze. Though she was a little disappointed to relinquish her time on the eighth floor, Louisa rallied quickly when she learned Ms. Thompson had selected her for some additional duties throughout the hotel.
At the fifth-floor landing, I tell her to have a good day and continue the remaining three floors to the eighth. Even the thought of being assigned, once again, to Mr. Barnes’ suite does little to dampen my mood.
I’ve had time to consider William’s words, and I believe he is, in fact, correct. I have duties and responsibilities as a Hotel Hamilton maid, but I also have an obligation to myself to ensure I am comfortable and at ease. Though I have little idea of how to turn his wise words into something actionable, I decide to let the day unfold as it will. I will be my usual polite and attentive self, and hopefully Mr. Barnes will be nowhere in sight, though I realize that’s unlikely.
Two hours later, I push my cleaning trolly in front of suite 815. I am ahead of schedule this morning, having already tended to my first two suites. I settle myself with a deep breath and raise my hand to knock. I announce myself and am pleasantly surprised when I hear no movement on the other side of the door.
I repeat my actions. By the third knock and announcement, I am confident Mr. Barnes is not in his suite. I waste no time using my master key to unlock the door. Knowing he could return at any moment, I dash around the suite in a frenzied state.
I remove the bedding, replacing it quickly with fresh sheets. I plump the pillows, fold down the duvet, and reposition the bench at the foot of the oversized bed.
Not wishing to dawdle with a trip to the laundry chute, I shove the recently removed sheets onto the bottom shelf of my cart and set about clearing the towels, cloths, and robe from the bathroom. My cart is spilling over, but I pay it no mind as I scrub the bathtub, sink, and countertop. I run a broom over the black-and-white penny tiles before getting on my hands and knees to give the floor a good scrubbing.
Unfurling a new robe, I hang it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door, and then I move about the bedroom with the duster in hand. We seldom give the rooms a chance to gather dust, but the task is part of my job, so I give every surface a cursory swipe. I follow up with an efficient vacuum before opening the curtains fully to the view of the North Shore Mountains.
I close the bedroom’s double doors halfway as I exit and turn my attention to the living area. Dusting and vacuuming take little time. I place today’s newspaper on the chaise lounge at an appealing angle and am about to gather a smattering of dirty dishes piled on the writing desk when I hear a key turn in the lock.
My first instinct is to freeze, as I remember the last interaction that took place in this room. Using the toe of my shoe, I try to conceal the white linens and towels spilling over my cart’s bottom shelf, afraid they will jam the cart’s wheels and hinder my escape.
I force a courteous smile into place and clasp my hands in front of me. “Welcome back, Mr. Barnes. I’ll clear out these dishes and be out of your way, sir.”
“Miss Wilson, I heard you were under the weather.” He steps further into the room, placing his coat and hat on the rack as he moves toward me.
“I am much better.” Though he hasn’t exactly asked, I offer the well-mannered sentiment anyway. “Thank you.”
“Very good to hear.” Mr. Barnes steps even closer, tossing aside the carefully positioned newspaper as he sits on the end of the chaise lounge. “Don’t let me keep you, Miss Wilson. Carry on.”
I feel the urge to let out a rush of relief at his indifference toward me, but I clamp my lips shut and begin gathering the dishes, placing them carefully on the cart’s top shelf. This dismissive Mr. Barnes is vastly preferable to the overly attentive one I’ve come to expect.
With the dishes nestled safely on my cart, I position myself at its handle and urge it forward. Nearing the door, I am about to bid the man good day when I turn to find him directly behind me.
“Let me assist you with the door, Miss Wilson.”
“Thank you, I am fine.”
Before I can stop him, Mr. Barnes squeezes between me and the suite’s entrance, pausing in front of me. His breath, laced with onion and garlic, causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention.
I resist the urge to shiver, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of witnessing my reaction. There is nowhere to retreat. My back is pressed firmly against the wall, and he is blocking my movement in all directions.
I remember William’s advice to stand up for myself, and I swivel my head to the side, a clear display that I do not desire to be in such proximity to this man. I clear my throat and will my voice to be steady. “Mr. Barnes, if you could let me pass. I am needed elsewhere and am already running late.”
I immediately forgive myself for the white lie as well as the ill-mannered delivery of my words. Though my response to this situation may cost me the holiday bonus, even a week’s wages is not worth allowing this man to accost me.
“There is no need to rush, Miss Wilson.” Mr. Barnes lowers his voice and places a hand on the wall behind my head, bringing his torso another inch closer to my own. “I’d like for us to be friends. Tell me, do you have so many friends in this world that you can’t make room for another?”
William’s concerned expression when he asked if I had been harmed by a guest flashes across my mind. I feel the room tilt, and before it can swing completely from my grasp, I straighten my posture and meet Mr. Barnes’ eyes.
“Kindly allow me to pass, sir.”
I expect Mr. Barnes to stand his ground, but surprisingly, he takes a step back before striding the two paces to the door and pulling it open for me.
I push the cart forward. “Thank you, sir” is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can utter a word, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me close, planting a sloppy, wet kiss squarely on my unsuspecting lips.
Instinct takes over, and my hand flies up to connect with his fleshy cheek. With a resounding smack, the palm of my hand strikes Mr. Barnes’ face. I cover my open mouth with my stinging hand. Without thinking, I have done the unimaginable. I have slapped a hotel guest.
With me at the helm, my cleaning cart sails over the suite’s threshold as though it has wings. The cart teeters unsteadily under its precarious weight, but I can’t stop myself from running. I already know that I will abandon the cart completely if it crashes.
Tears stream down my face as I rush past a husband and wife, strolling arm in arm toward their room. Through tear-blurred vision, I see the man give me a questioning look, but I don’t stop running until I’ve slammed the cart against the linen cupboard’s interior wall.
Feeling no safer, I pace the small room for only a few seconds before dashing toward the back-of-house stairs. I thrust open the door to the landing so hard it slams against the wall, echoing through the stairwell like an ominous warning.
With one hand gripping the banister railing, I propel myself down each flight of stairs. I race past the second-floor landing, my arm stretched tight by forward momentum and gravity. Out of control, I careen toward the last set of stairs and crash straight into Louisa.