Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1927
C lara
The ornament is heavier than I expect. Perched two rungs up on the ladder, my balance wavers momentarily as I juggle the weighted glass ball in my hand. The hotel lobby’s Christmas tree is coming along, with baubles of gold and crimson filling its branches.
Thankfully, George and the other bellboys strung the shimmering lights earlier this morning. Having never had the opportunity to use electric Christmas lights on our tree at home, I doubt I would have had the faintest idea of what to do with the constantly tangled strand. The rest of the decorating is up to Hazel and me, the only two maids without a full roster of rooms to clean on this quiet December afternoon.
Thankful for the reprieve from the usual tasks, I find it easy to let the holiday spirit take hold of me as the hotel transforms with the magic of the season. The scent of pine permeates the room, adding a festive touch against the backdrop of the snow that has finally begun to fall beyond the hotel’s windows. Hazel hands me another ornament, this one long and tapered, with a sparkle of gold highlighting its sculpted centre.
“How about the tinsel?” Hazel holds up a fistful of silver strings.
I stifle a laugh as she eagerly pushes the tangled mess in my direction. “Maybe just a few strands at a time. I don’t think I can stay upright on this ladder and sort the tinsel at the same time.”
We spend the remainder of the afternoon shifting the ladder around the base of the tree as we adorn every vacant branch with decorations. Ms. Thompson keeps an eye on our progress, checking in twice an hour as she bustles around the lobby, hanging wreaths and adding a bright red poinsettia to each table.
I hear the doorman’s greeting as a whip of winter wind steals inside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes.” The doorman holds open the hotel’s large, glass-paned front door, ushering in the guest. “Welcome back to The Hotel Hamilton.”
Having taken a break from the ladder, I duck behind the tree’s expanse as George rushes to the bellhop’s desk to sort Mr. Barnes’ luggage. I admonish myself for my high-strung, knee-jerk response at seeing the man again, and I busy my hands with straightening the tree’s decorative skirt.
I sneak glances in his direction from between the branches and remind myself of the expectations I must live up to as a Hamilton maid. Waiting at the registration desk for his room key, Mr. Barnes looks past the mahogany arches and into the interior lobby and sitting room. The Christmas tree’s lights are sure to draw every guest’s attention. I only wish I wouldn’t be hiding beneath its boughs when it catches this particular guest’s eye.
Hazel returns to the lobby with a square box in hand. “I found it,” she announces as she places the box on the fireplace’s stone hearth. Lifting the box’s lid, her awe is evident. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
I spot Mr. Barnes as he moves toward the elevator, room key in hand, and decide it is safe to remove myself from hiding. I stand beside Hazel as she lifts the large, glass star from its box. The tree’s topper glimmers in the dancing flames of the roaring fire, mesmerizing both of us into silence.
“Now, that’s a showstopper.” Mr. Barnes’ voice booms through the small interior lobby, making me clutch a hand to my chest in surprise.
I swivel to see him a few paces away, hands outstretched with his thumbs touching as he frames the view of Hazel and me, the large star between us. “Right there, ladies. Don’t move. That is what we in the business like to call motion-picture magic.”
Whether from the heat of the fire or Mr. Barnes’ appearance at our side, my cheeks grow warm. I force a polite demeanour. “Mr. Barnes. Welcome back.”
“Miss Wilson, it is good to see you again.” Mr. Barnes lifts both bushy eyebrows and wiggles them in what I suspect is an attempt at humour. “And who have we here?”
Clearing my throat, I gesture to Hazel. “Forgive me. Mr. Barnes, this is Miss Greenwood.”
The man bows gallantly, the girth around his middle covered by the broad rim of his winter hat. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Greenwood.”
On cue, Hazel blushes bright red, delivering a quick curtsy but offering no words.
“Ah, Mr. Barnes.” Ms. Thompson’s voice cuts through the room. “I was about to call on you. We have a message waiting for you at the front desk. From your?—”
“Marvellous.” Mr. Barnes cuts off Ms. Thompson with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I was just telling these young ladies what a wonderful job they are doing with the holiday decorations.”
Ms. Thompson’s polite expression is firmly in place, but I can’t help but notice her hands clenching as she nods. “Yes, we are all very excited to celebrate our first holiday season at The Hamilton. Won’t you come this way?”
Tipping his head once more—“Ladies.”—he follows Ms. Thompson to the registration desk.
I shake off my discomfort and return my attention to the oversized star in Hazel’s hands. “We should finish up here. I believe Ms. Thompson has some garland she would like us to string before the day is through.”
As I reposition the ladder as close to the tree’s base as possible, Hazel hisses in my ear, “Did you hear? He is from Hollywood. A director or something. He must be, with all that film talk. I’ve never met a real director before.”
“Will you hold the ladder?” I etch the impatience from my words, adding “please” as an afterthought.
Hazel, undeterred by my abruptness, places her free hand on the ladder while keeping the star tucked safely against her abdomen with the other.
I climb the first two rungs of the ladder, balancing my weight with each step. A quick glance up the tree tells me that I will need to climb to the sixth rung in order to reach the top. I extend one hand behind me, careful not to rock the ladder. “Can you pass me the star?”
Hazel lets go of the ladder and carefully lifts the tree topper with both hands, passing it to me before gripping either side of the ladder. “Careful, Clara.”
With the star pressed close to my chest, I ready myself to take another step. Then another. By the fifth rung, I am reminding myself not to look down. I tune out the sounds and movements of the hotel lobby, as the distance between me and the floor has grown as far as I am tall. At the sixth ladder rung, I inch my feet outward for added stability before stretching toward the tree’s crown. The base of the glass star slides onto the two short boughs standing straight as toy soldiers at the top of the tree.
A wave of relief washes over me as I pull my arm back from the precarious position. “Is it straight?” Not wishing to risk a tumble, I raise my voice instead of turning to address Hazel directly.
“Yes. You can come down now.” I feel Hazel’s hands grip and steady the ladder at the bottom. “I’ve got you.”
The wood of the ladder is all I see as I move carefully down one rung after another. My palms are damp with sweat, forcing me to pause and wipe them one at a time on my apron.
“You’re almost there.” Hazel’s voice is closer now, providing reassurance, since I’ve lost count of how many rungs I have yet to descend.
“I’ve got you, Miss Wilson.” I barely register the voice before large hands wrap around my waist, tugging me backwards and causing the ladder to wobble.
“No.” My hands slip from the ladder rails and I feel myself falling. I brace myself for an impact, squeezing my eyes shut while curling into myself.
“You are all right now.” A man’s laboured breathing against my cheek is suffocating. “I’ve got you.”
It takes me a moment to recover myself, my heart racing to catch up. I stretch my toes, reaching for solid ground, and when I open my eyes, I realize I am in Mr. Barnes’ arms.
Seldom do I feel anger rise within me with such force. Who is this man to think he can lay his hands on me? What made him think I needed saving from the ladder I was almost down from? And why is he still holding me in his arms?
“Please, sir. Put me down at once.”
When my feet touch the floor, I stumble into Hazel, her face ashen. I worry that I somehow struck her while being pulled from the ladder by Mr. Barnes. Hazel’s hands reach out to steady me, pulling me close to her side with a protective sweep of her arm. She may be too timid to utter a word, but Hazel’s reaction tells me more than any words could.
Ms. Thompson’s frown is pulled tight with astonishment as she rushes toward us. “Miss Wilson, Miss Greenwood, are you all right?”
“We are fine, ma’am.” I steal a glance in Mr. Barnes’ direction and deliver a quietly pointed observation. “I was fine descending the ladder too.”
The man clearly can’t help himself. He pounces on the opportunity. “It was quite something, madam. Miss Wilson here was about to take a tumble from this ladder.” Mr. Barnes grips the ladder rail, jostling it back and forth animatedly. “Thankfully, I was able to reach her in time and save her from a dastardly fall.”
“Oh.” Ms. Thompson is seldom at a loss for words, but none come forth as she looks from Mr. Barnes to Hazel and then to me.
Extracting myself from Hazel’s firm grasp, I straighten my apron and uniform skirt with stiff movements, pulling taut the fabric that climbed above my knee during the commotion. I catch the matron’s watchful eye and deliver a curt nod followed by a restrained shake of my head. Without verbal communication, I’ve informed her that I am well but that Mr. Barnes’ story is far from accurate.
“Well then.” Ms. Thompson’s shoulders straighten, her matronly demeanour back in place. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Barnes. I think we can take it from here.” Without waiting for his reply, Ms. Thompson waves George over. “Mr. Baker, please remove the ladder from the lobby and have Mr. Jones help you with these boxes. Let’s clear the room so our guests can enjoy the festive decor.”
As George collapses the ladder for its return to the basement, Ms. Thompson, noting Mr. Barnes’ continued presence, adds to George’s list of duties. “Mr. Baker, please have Cookie prepare a plate of sweets for Mr. Barnes. You can deliver them upon your return.”
“Madam, that is very kind of you.” Mr. Barnes’ chest puffs out as though he has been awarded first prize at the county fair.
Though Ms. Thompson’s voice has a slight edge to it, she conceals any emotions behind a polite smile. “It is the least we can do for your troubles, sir. Please have a seat. Enjoy the fire and this beautiful tree while you wait.”
The matron directs her attention to Hazel and me. “Ladies, if you’ll come with me, we have much more to accomplish, and the day is getting on.” She turns to Mr. Barnes and nods once. “Thank you again. I hope you will find your stay an enjoyable one.” Without another word, she turns on her heel, and we follow close behind her.
The moment we are out of the lobby, standing in the short hallway between Cookie’s pastry kitchen and Chef’s swinging kitchen door, Ms. Thompson stops abruptly and turns to face us. “Miss Greenwood, will you please let Mr. Olson know the lobby is ready for his inspection? I believe you will find him in his office.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hazel’s eyes shift to me with a worried glance before she pivots toward the back-of-house corridor.
Ms. Thompson’s gaze follows Hazel’s back until she is out of sight. “Now, Miss Wilson.” Folding her hands together in front of her, she pauses. “I sense that all is not well with Mr. Barnes.”
“Everything is fine, ma’am.”
The matron’s raised eyebrows tell me she doesn’t believe me.
“I—I suppose I am not used to such exuberance from a guest, but I understand that I am to put the guest’s needs ahead of my own.” I square my shoulders to demonstrate my willingness to do so. “I will do what I can to ensure Mr. Barnes’ stay is an enjoyable one.”
“Miss Wilson, it is clear as day to me that Mr. Barnes has unsettled you, and I can’t say that I fault you for feeling a little put out. I witnessed his attempt to rescue you from the ladder, and I dare say you were perfectly safe climbing down on your own. I’ve seen his sort before, and all I can gather is that he is accustomed to having all eyes on him.” Ms. Thompson waves a hand. “Perhaps it is the Hollywood way.”
Letting out a slow exhale, she lifts a hand to her forehead and begins pacing the short hallway. “The thing is, Miss Wilson, Mr. Barnes is well-regarded by Mr. Hamilton, or so I am told. Though I’ve no idea how they are acquainted, given that they appear to have nothing in common, I’ve been instructed to ensure Mr. Barnes’ frequent stays at the hotel receive the utmost care and attention.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m afraid when it comes to Mr. Barnes, we will need to do a little more putting our heads down and simply getting on with it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
“Very well, Miss Wilson. I will let you get back to the eighth floor. Thank you for helping with the decorations. I am quite sure they will be enjoyed by all who visit us this holiday season.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Ms. Thompson’s brow softens. “Why don’t you spend the remaining hour restocking the supplies in the linen cupboard? I am certain the evening maids would appreciate the assistance.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgement, suspecting the matron’s instruction is twofold, since it will provide me a quiet hour to collect myself.
George bustles into the hallway, stopping short when he spots us. “Sorry to intrude. I am fetching the sweets for Mr. Barnes.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Baker.” Ms. Thompson steps aside to allow George room to pass into Cookie’s pastry kitchen.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I offer a final curtsy and turn toward the corridor and the stairwell beyond.