Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1927
C lara
I nibble at the edges of my sandwich for the better part of twenty minutes. Not tasting the meal, I finally rewrap it and return it to my locker. Though she tries, Lou is unable to convince me, my stomach knotted with emotion, to finish even a small bowl of Cookie’s chicken soup.
Deciding by herself that I am not fit to return to the eighth floor, Louisa drags me about the back-of-house corridors, searching for Ms. Thompson. Seeing the matron is not high on my list of things to do at the moment, but Louisa’s rationale is sound, and without another option before me, I follow her lead.
She’s instructed me to hide my current emotional state and my true feelings over the incident with Mr. Barnes and instead force a polite demeanour into place. Striding toward Ms. Thompson’s basement office, Louisa reminds me to smile before announcing, “If she knows anything about your and Mr. Barnes’ interaction, it will be better for it to come out here rather than in front of guests.”
I swallow, trying to release the lump that has lodged in my throat. How can I possibly explain to Ms. Thompson that I did as she instructed and kept my head down and yet it did not stop Mr. Barnes’ attention? Lou squeezes my hand in solidarity, and I find myself praying that Mr. Olson is not inside. I remember his promise to never again take the word of a maid over that of a hotel guest. “I’m not sure about this.” Before I can finish protesting, we are in front of Ms. Thompson’s closed office door, with Louisa announcing our presence with a knock.
“Come in.” Ms. Thompson looks up from her paperwork as we enter.
Lou pokes me discreetly in the side with her elbow, and I lift my cheeks in what I hope is a smile.
“Ladies.” Ms. Thompson folds her hands together on the desk. “How can I help you?”
“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am.” Louisa steps forward. “You tasked me with helping in the lobby this afternoon, with the bar cart and such.”
Ms. Thompson confirms her request with a single nod.
“I have found myself a little behind on the fifth floor and was wondering if Clara might take my place in the lobby?”
“I see. How are you getting through your roster, Miss Wilson?” Ms. Thompson asks me.
“I have completed all three suites, ma’am. My only remaining task is to sweep and mop the back stairwell. After that, I was planning on coming to you to see what more I could help with.”
“You are certainly efficient, Miss Wilson. Remind me to add to your roster of guest suites in the new year. Clearly, you are capable of handling a larger load.”
An immense sense of relief courses through me. If Ms. Thompson knew anything about my encounter with Mr. Barnes, she wouldn’t be complimenting me. The thought of confiding my predicament to her dashes through my mind but is quickly halted. Mr. Hamilton himself instructed for Mr. Barnes to be treated with the utmost care, and I have clearly not done so.
Perhaps there was another reason for Mr. Hamilton’s request, beyond Mr. Barnes’ status. Could it be that he is simply lonely, travelling on his own for extended periods of time? Perhaps if I had given him some companionship, treated him with more of the care required of my position, I could have avoided this entire fiasco.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I dismiss it. No, I think. William is right. I have an obligation to myself and my own comfort, even if it disappoints another. Even if it costs me my job.
Ms. Thompson continues her thought with a wave of her hand. “The stairwell isn’t the most pressing of matters. It can wait until another day. I suppose we can arrange for one of the other maids to be available for any requests from your guests.” She looks between Louisa and me. “Yes, that is a fine arrangement, ladies.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Louisa dips into a brief curtsy.
“I will meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.” Ms. Thompson dismisses us, and together we turn for the door with the understanding that, for now, my place at The Hamilton remains safe.
Ten minutes later, I am tucked into an alcove near the registration desk, doing my best to disappear into the woodwork, when Ms. Thompson arrives with instructions.
She guides me toward the far end of the lobby, where two beautiful and inviting blue velvet-covered chairs sit angled in front of the tall windows overlooking the snow-covered courthouse across the street. With the roaring fire a good distance away, in the centre of the lobby, this cozy spot has always struck me as the perfect place to curl up with a cup of tea and a good book.
Ms. Thompson’s long finger points toward the potted tree in the corner. “The bellboys will bring in the temporary bar. We will need to relocate these chairs and perhaps the other items as well, but until I’ve seen the bar in place, I can’t be sure how much room we’ll need.”
I follow her train of thought, thankful for the reprieve from my swirling mind.
“Once everything is in position, you will stock the bar. Everything you will need is waiting in the hall outside the pastry kitchen. The bartender will arrive tomorrow to ensure it is all in order.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You will need to use your imagination, along with some good organizational skills. As of now, I am not quite sure the glasses and bottles will all fit.” Ms. Thompson cups her chin with a forefinger and thumb as she considers the limited space.
“Will the bottles be put in place today, ma’am?” I am thinking ahead to my lack of knowledge about which bottles might go where, or whether they are to be grouped by some unknown-to-me specificity.
“Not to worry, Miss Wilson. The bartender will set up the spirits closer to New Year’s Eve. We only have to allow space for them at this time.”
Both our heads turn as George and a bellboy I’ve only ever known as Mr. Jones shuffle toward us, carrying an elaborate piece of dark wooden furniture the size of a buffet table.
“Oh my.” Ms. Thompson’s head swivels between the furniture and the small space we have to position it in. “That is much larger than I was led to believe.”
Together, we hurriedly slide the chairs and the small table that sits between them out of the way.
“Put it right here for now.” Ms. Thompson directs the red-faced bellboys. “Well, Miss Wilson, it looks like we will have to roll up our sleeves for this one.” Without hesitating, the matron unbuttons her long sleeves at the cuffs.
We spend the better part of an hour working through our options. Our preference is to have the bartender’s back to a wall, but the sheer length of the bar makes this impossible. Using our footsteps to measure out different scenarios, we finally settle on arranging the furniture so the bartender’s back is at an angle to the windows.
Once the decision is made, the bellboys move the bar into position as Ms. Thompson tuts about, saying she wished she had known about the vastness of the bar sooner, as surely she would have placed the Christmas tree in the window corner instead.
I move around to the back side of the bar’s open shelving. “Maybe we can add some fabric, like a curtain, to hide the shelving.”
“That is an excellent idea. I will see what we have in the storage rooms. In the meantime, why don’t you get started with filling up those shelves?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I slip through the door into the kitchen hall, lift a crate of glassware off the stack, and return to the lobby, careful not to bump anything in my path.
Pulling a few wine glasses from the crate and setting them on top of the bar, I realize they are noticeably spotted with water droplets. I return to the kitchen for a tea towel, determined to do everything I can to maintain my good standing with Ms. Thompson, regardless of the storm that could, at any moment, rain down on me.
The repetitive task of wiping then examining each glass in the light from the windows lulls my mind back to the events of this morning. Try as I might, I am unable to locate a potential misunderstanding between me and Mr. Barnes.
I’ve been cordial and polite, but at no time did I encourage the man to think I was interested in anything but being the maid who cleans his suite. At least not intentionally. Though I’ve seen Louisa flutter her eyelashes and draw a man’s attention her way, I’m not sure I even possess the ability to do such a thing. I am neither courageous enough nor interested in such shenanigans.
Shenanigans . The word feels like a pit in my stomach. Mr. Olson said in very clear terms that he will not put up with shenanigans and that he would not again make the mistake of believing a maid over a guest. I am as a good as fired when he learns of my dreadful behaviour. I feel the sting of moisture gathering in my eyes, and I swipe at it with the corner of the tea towel.
“I heard you were back at work.” William startles me from my thoughts. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, you surprised me.” I bend at the waist, buying a moment to collect myself by placing a clean glass on the bottom shelf of the bar cart. “I am feeling much better. Thank you for asking.” The words are almost exactly the same as the ones I shared with Mr. Barnes, but William’s interest in my well-being seems far more genuine.
“I am glad to hear it.” He examines the bar. “Quite the setup. I imagine the party will be a dazzling event.”
“I suppose so.” I lift another glass toward the light to examine it for spots.
“Maybe you would like to go with me?” William’s smile leans toward bashful.
“To the party?” I shake my head lightly. “I don’t think that is a very good idea, and I am quite certain neither will your sister or Mr. Olson.”
His laugh warms the room, drawing a smile from my lips. “You are probably right about that. Not that either of their disapproval would stop me if you had said yes, but I see how it might be less than comfortable to attend a social gathering in your place of employment.”
I decline to reply, unsure of what to say in response to his forward comment.
My attention is pulled across the room when I see Mr. Barnes exit the lift, strutting through the lobby as if he owns the place. I duck my chin to my chest and pretend I haven’t noticed him.
It is a familiar voice that jerks my head up.
“Mr. Barnes,” Louisa calls in a hushed voice.
Mr. Barnes turns toward my sister, a wide Cheshire grin upon his face. Their heads bend together as they descend into hurried whispers.
“Is everything all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“What?” I glance briefly to William. “I’m fine.”
He eyes me with raised brows.
I return my attention to Louisa and Mr. Barnes and watch, bewildered, as Louisa places a hand on Mr. Barnes’ arm while delivering one of her disarming laughs. Assuming William has followed my gaze, I am grateful for his silence.
Ms. Thompson steps into the lobby, carrying a stack of folded fabric. Mr. Barnes gestures her over, and they chat for a minute before he tips his hat. As he walks through the lobby on his way to the front door, I lower myself behind the bar’s base and busy my hands with repositioning glasses.
Louisa and Ms. Thompson exchange a few words before Louisa slips through the back-of-house door and out of sight.
“So you’ve seen our monstrosity?” Ms. Thompson asks her brother, inclining her head toward the bar as she crosses the lobby toward us.
A soft chuckle replaces his look of concern. “It is rather on the large side, but the good news is the bartender isn’t likely to run out of anything, with the ample storage.”
“Always looking on the bright side, William.” Ms. Thompson directs her attention my way. “How are you getting on, Miss Wilson?”
“Fine, ma’am. The glasses needed polishing, but other than that, I think the bartender will be pleased.”
“Excellent news. Speaking of being pleased.” Ms. Thompson clasps her hands in front of her. “Mr. Barnes has been quite happy with your service and has requested you as his maid again upon his return after Christmas. He is leaving tomorrow to celebrate the holidays with friends and will return on the twenty-sixth. He plans to be with us right through to the new year.”
“Oh.” I am shocked and unnerved, with little to offer in reply.
Ms. Thompson’s brows knit together at my less than appreciative response. “You are certainly putting your best foot forward. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were to take home the holiday bonus, Miss Wilson.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I have no idea what has transpired. Did Louisa manage to talk the man out of reporting me? I recognize this as favourable news, yet the looming dread of having to return to Mr. Barnes’ suite steals any joy from the announcement. I don’t know what the man is playing at. All I know is that I’m not fond of being his toy.
I feign a pleased expression, but when my eyes land briefly on William’s, I see a question lining his wrinkled forehead.