Chapter 31
CHAPTER 31
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1927
L ouisa
After styling Clara’s hair as best I can into her requested finger waves, I add rouge to her cheeks and dark lipstick, a deeper shade than she’s ever worn, to complement the amount of cream-coloured skin she is baring tonight. Though I mocked her with an “ooh la la” when she donned the sleeveless dress for me late yesterday afternoon, I am quite pleased to see my sister being a tad bold when it comes to William Thompson.
Papa was invited to the Murrays’ estate for a festive evening, and I am pleased to see him and Mr. Murray mending fences, now that Papa has his feet firmly rooted and his spiralling habits with the drink under control. We kissed him goodbye, wishing him a happy New Year before setting our attention on our plan.
As Clara slides into her dress, careful not to muss her hair, I retrieve the costume I borrowed from my friend at the theatre club. A travelling suit is not something I’ve ever had the need to purchase, given my consistent lack of travel plans, but for tonight’s purposes, it will do just fine.
I paint my nails bright red, letting them air-dry before tossing the blue stole Clara purchased yesterday over one shoulder. I’ll have a minute at most to be convincing, if it comes down to that. I just hope it is enough.
Peering into the mirror, Clara lets out a slow breath. “Do you think this will work?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is we have to try.”
“Okay, then. William will be here in thirty minutes to pick me up. I will meet you on the eighth-floor stairwell, the one closest to the lift, like we planned.”
I inhale sharply, holding back tears that are threatening to spill and ruin my carefully painted face. No matter the outcome, I am proud of my sister and our plan to show Mr. Barnes that the Wilson sisters will not be exploited. Pulling Clara into a fierce embrace, I give her one final affirming nod, grab my clutch, and head for the streetcar.
A few streetcar stops later, I stroll through the front door of The Hotel Hamilton. The doorman welcomes me, and before giving him a chance to recognize me, I angle my chin in the opposite direction. Once through the door, I lean against the dark, gleaming wood of the bellboys’ stand, trying to blend in with the bustling lobby crowd. Clara and I decided it best to have a lookout of sorts at the lobby level, so yesterday morning we invited George into the fold, giving him the briefest of explanations and specific instructions to be on the lookout for Mrs. Oxley-Barnes.
“Has our guest arrived?” I ask sweetly, batting my eyelashes in George’s direction.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Miss—” He cuts his words off short before shaking his head. “Not that I’ve seen. I know you were hoping for better news.”
I place a reassuring hand on top of the desk. “You know where to find me should she arrive.”
I don’t push my luck by loitering in the lobby. Instead, I note the time on the lobby clock as five forty-five and move swiftly to the lift, taking it only to the first floor of guest rooms. I step from the lift as soon as the grate opens, relieved at not being recognized by the lift operator. The worry of being discovered by a colleague is far more acute in the confines of the lift, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I stroll down the first-floor hallway.
I locate the nearest back-of-house stairwell and climb the remaining seven floors, my heels clacking against every tread. Cracking the door open, I peer into the quiet of the eighth floor. If I crane my neck to the left, the door of Mr. Barnes’ suite is within view. Knowing this isn’t the most prudent position, I steal peeks into the hall every few minutes, while listening for movement on either side of my hiding place.
We know from Clara’s invitation that The Hotel Vancouver’s ball opens with a cocktail reception at six thirty, with dinner being served at seven. I arrived early to avoid missing Gwen’s arrival or Mr. Barnes’ departure. We can’t be sure what they’ve arranged for this evening’s events.
Several minutes pass, and then I hear the lift’s ding and the announcement of “eighth floor.” I stretch my neck to gain a better view and watch Gwen step toward suite 815 in a dark blue, shimmering beaded dress that shows off her bare legs daringly. A light fringed shawl rests across her shoulders, its transparent fabric revealing her sleeveless arms and a plunging neckline.
The girl doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t survey her surroundings. Heck, she took the lift all the way up to the eighth floor. I am questioning whether she is brazen or foolish when she lifts her hand and knocks on the door.
Mr. Barnes places one foot into the hall while his other foot holds the door ajar. He clumsily balances a drink, which I presume is The Hamilton Special, in one hand as his eyes roam up and down Gwen’s petite frame. Her dark bobbed hair is styled neatly, and her lips, painted a deep red, smooth into a demure smile as he compliments her.
“You are ravishing, my dear.”
I am unable to determine if it is Mr. Barnes’ empty flattery or Gwen’s much earlier than anticipated arrival time that is making my stomach sour.
“I’ve poured you a drink. Come in and let’s get acquainted.” Mr. Barnes motions for Gwen to pass through into the suite, his centre girth not leaving much space between the two. As she steps forward, sliding past with her back to him, his empty hand wanders toward her waistline, dipping low to settle on her hip for a fraction of a second.
I want to scream, to tell her to run as fast as she can to escape his clutches, but I can’t. Doing so would ruin the plan. Instead, I crouch in the stairwell, hand positioned firmly over my mouth, preventing both sound and the unsettled contents of my stomach from escaping.
Assuming the hour hasn’t quite reached six o’clock yet, my heart sinks with the knowledge of how long Gwen may be alone with Mr. Barnes in his suite. I have to do something. I can’t simply abandon her to a fate I have no desire to even imagine.
Grabbing my stole, I race down seven flights of stairs. At the back-of-house corridors, I remove my shoes and tiptoe toward the entrance to the basement. With the evening festivities upon us, I am hoping the offices will be empty.
Reaching the cold cement floor of the basement, I slip my heels back on and move as quietly as I can toward Mr. Olson’s office. Closing the door behind me, I scurry around the desk and pick up the telephone’s handle. Not giving myself a moment to sit, I dial our home connection and wait for it to ring.
“Wilson residence.” Clara’s voice sings across the line.
“It’s me. Gwen arrived early. We need to do something.”
“But it’s not even six o’clock.” Clara’s worried tone matches my anxiously beating heart.
“Still, she is already in his suite. We can’t leave her there.”
“Hang on. I think William has arrived.”
I hear Clara set down the telephone handle, followed by murmurs from afar.
“Okay, we are on our way. But Louisa, we don’t have a choice anymore. For Gwen’s sake, we need to?—”
“I know.” I resist the urge to toss my hat to the desk so I can run a hand through my carefully coifed hair as my frustration grows. “Do what you must. I can’t wait for you to arrive. I have to do something to help Gwen.”
Without waiting for Clara to respond, I hang up the phone, take a deep breath, and slink back toward the lobby.
Standing in the doorway between the kitchen hall and the lobby, I stare daggers at George until I gain his attention. Lifting my arms in question, I am met with a sad shake of his head. Darn, I think as I climb back up to the eighth floor. I am out of options. Without Mrs. Oxley-Barnes’ presence to call out her no-good louse of a husband for all his improprieties, I have no other choice but to push forward with plan B.
I run through the plan in my head. Knock. Perform. Dash. I’ll need to be quick and forceful in order to pull this off. Gwen is counting on me.
Given the cocktail I spotted in Mr. Barnes’ hand, I am hopeful his inebriated state along with the element of surprise will allow me to slip right past him into the suite before he realizes I am not his wife. The plan is a risky one. Not only do I have to gain entrance to the suite under false pretenses but I also have to get back out, hopefully with Gwen safely at my side.
My costume, complete with travelling suit, stole, and a stylish wide-brimmed hat that shades my face, is all I have to convince Mr. Barnes his wife has arrived to ruin his good time. With any luck, my impersonation will be enough to shoo Gwen from the suite, ensuring her safety.
After I’m discovered, I’ll be on my own. I may very well find myself trapped in Mr. Barnes’ suite, but it is a risk I have to take. If it weren’t for me and my careless words, Gwen wouldn’t be in danger. Despite the warmth of my costume, a chill runs up my spine.
At the top of the stairs, I take a minute to steady myself. The change to an immediate rescue means Mr. Barnes will not be exposed as the scoundrel he is, which does not please me at all. But for now, that can’t be helped. From the beginning, Clara and I agreed that Gwen’s safety would come above everything else. When all of this is over, I am afraid it will come down to Mr. Barnes’ word against ours regarding his actions within the hotel.
I straighten my clothes, tugging the stole into place so it lies across my right arm and shoulder, just as Mrs. Oxley-Barnes wore hers the first and only time I laid eyes on the woman. I pull on the stairwell door and step onto the plush carpet, moving quickly toward suite 815.
Positioning myself so my face is partially hidden beneath the brim of my hat, while ensuring my red-painted nails and stole are the first things he’ll see, I knock with assuredness on the door of Mr. Barnes’ suite.
He fumbles for the door handle on the opposite side, giving me the advantage of knowing his position. When the door opens, I move quickly, throwing it wide with my stole-covered arm. “Darling,” I drawl in my best impersonation of a woman I’ve shared no words with. I do not wait to be let in. Nor do I pause to appraise his surprise. I simply force my way past him, determined to get to Gwen. “I’ve come to join you for the celebration.”
I stride into the living area as if I own the place. Gwen is lying on the chaise lounge with her arm hanging limply over the edge. My eyes shift toward an empty glass tipped over on the carpet. Forgetting my ruse, I rush to her side and notice that the hem of her beautiful dress is tugged up two inches above her knees and her carefully painted lipstick is smeared onto her cheek.
“Oh, Gwen. Why didn’t you listen to me when it really mattered?” I feel the moisture gather in my eyes as I place a palm to her cheek, assessing her in the only way I know how.
The girl is unresponsive. Even the slam of the guest-room door does not rouse her. I’ll never get her out of here on my own. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as Mr. Barnes stalks up behind me.
“Well, well, well. It seems you didn’t wish to be left out of the fun after all, Miss Wilson. Or should I call you Louisa?”