Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1927
C lara
I stifle a yawn. Walking to the hotel by myself this morning allows me time to think over yesterday’s events. The evening slowly rolled into early morning as Louisa struggled to find comfort with her ankle. By bedtime she was able to put a small amout of weight on her foot with support but doing so did not ensure a restful sleep. I tiptoed around the apartment this morning after she finally succumbed to sleep in the wee hours of dawn.
An exasperated sigh sneaks past my lips. Louisa’s lost wages can’t be helped, but still I make a mental note to scan a copy of the newspaper during today’s lunch break in the hopes of finding a few grocery items on sale. With a little luck, I’ll be able to make up the difference with a few frugal meals. Papa tells me not to worry myself over the family finances, given how we’ve managed to pull ourselves out from the depths of poverty, barely avoiding eviction. But something deep within me refuses to let go of the fear. I suppose once you’ve known poverty intimately, you are forever shackled to its lingering effects.
My spirits lift when I remember the possibility of being awarded the holiday bonus. All I have to do is ensure my guests are happy with their stay. So far, with the exception of Mr. Barnes, the few guests I have tended to seem pleased with the touches of holiday cheer I have been leaving in their suites. With many of our guests arriving for a little holiday shopping and the Spencer’s Christmas parade this weekend, I’ve taken extra care to draw up an itinerary of events happening around the city, and I plan to leave a neatly printed copy in each room I tend to.
Upon arriving at the hotel, my first stop is to Ms. Thompson’s office. I move through the kitchen hallway and head straight to the basement, coat buttoned and toque firmly in place atop my head. I slip my mittens into my jacket pocket before knocking on her office door.
“Come in.” Ms. Thompson looks at me over the glasses perched low on her nose. “Ah, Miss Wilson. How is you sister feeling this morning?”
“It was a long night, ma’am. She finally managed to find sleep as the dawn was rising. I peeked at her ankle before leaving for the day. The swelling has gone down some. I imagine it will take a few days though.”
Ms. Thompson’s lips purse at my news. “Will she be all right on her own?”
“I suspect she will sleep most of the day. I’ve given her aspirin for the swelling and to help make her more comfortable.” I think back to my makeshift obstacle course of dining chairs leading from our bedroom to the bathroom, hoping they will help Louisa steady herself and serve as spots to rest in between careful steps. “I’ve left soup in a flask and a glass of water at her bedside. Our father is planning to stop by midday to check on her as well.”
“Thank heavens for family.” Ms. Thompson delivers a sympathetic smile. “I appreciate the update, Miss Wilson. If there is anything we can do to assist, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I dip into a quick curtsy and head to the locker room to ready myself for the day ahead.
On the eighth floor, with a feather duster in hand, I move from one end of the hall to the other, dusting the ornate picture frames, mouldings, and any other items with enough of an edge to gather dust and debris. The dark burgundy of the walls absorbs the light of the chandeliers, shadows playing hide-and-seek with the grooves of the intricately flocked wallpaper.
I am lost in an oil painting of a French countryside when a voice startles me from behind.
“Good morning, Miss Wilson.”
Given that I am standing at the opposite corridor from Mr. Barnes’ suite and his accommodations are not on my roster today, I can only assume he has been searching for me. Forcing a polite smile into place, I turn to greet the man who has quickly become a thorn in my side. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes. I hope you enjoyed a pleasant evening.”
“A pleasant evening indeed. I ventured out to one of those clubs down the way. You know the kind? With dancing and jazz music loud enough to rattle your bones.” Mr. Barnes lifts his arms as though he has a partner and does a quick twirl around the floor. “A most entertaining time, though it was a pity to do so on my own.”
My hands fiddle with the handle of the duster as I consider an appropriate response.
Clearly not interested in any response I might have to offer, Mr. Barnes presses on. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in joining me for a spin around the dance floor?” His wink does little to endear him to me. “Friday evening, say seven o’clock?”
I snap my mouth closed when I realize it is hanging agape. My instinct is to flee, but I command myself to maintain my composure, just as hotel policy dictates. “I am sorry, sir. I do not frequent clubs.” With a thought of preventing any further invitations, I look him directly in the eye. “Nor is it permissible by hotel policy for me to accept any such invitation from a guest of The Hamilton.” I stride past him in two steps. “Good day, Mr. Barnes.”
“I imagine your sister would be more appreciative of such an invitation. She’s the sort of girl to enjoy an evening on the town, or so I’ve heard from a couple of the fifth-floor maids. Of course, she isn’t likely to be in dancing form for a few days yet.” Mr. Barnes speaks in a low but steady tone. “She is your sister? The one who took a tumble in the lobby yesterday afternoon.”
I turn slowly and take in his smug expression. The unsettling nature with which he regards me gives rise to chill bumps along my arms. Not wishing to lose my decorum or, worse, my temper in front of the man, I spin around and walk in the opposite direction.
Several minutes later, I am returning the feather duster to the supply cupboard, with the intent to gather myself and my cleaning cart, when Rebecca startles me as she opens the supply cupboard door. Clutching a hand to my heart, I say, “Oh, Miss Smythe, it is you.”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
I drop my gaze to the cleaning cart I’ve been pretending to restock and fiddle with the hand towels I’ve placed on top.
“You look flushed. Are you feeling ill?” Miss Smythe takes a step closer, concern lining her face.
“Tired is all.” I try to shrug off the question, not wishing to divulge the less-than-hospitable thoughts running rampant through my mind. Any idle chatter about indiscretions between me and a guest would be a direct route to losing my chance at the holiday bonus. “Lou was awake most of the night.”
“I heard she took a nasty spill. Is she feeling any better this morning?”
“Where did you hear that?” Try as I might, I can’t etch the accusatory tone from my question.
Miss Smythe places a calming hand on my shoulder. “Easy there, Clara. You must not have slept a lick if you are this jumpy.” My friend watches me with scrutinizing eyes. “If you must know, Mr. Barnes was in the hall yesterday afternoon, regaling us with tales of his heroism, though I suspect it was less heroism and more happenstance.” Rebecca lifts both shoulders. “But that’s just me.”
“Ah, so you are immune to Mr. Barnes’ charms, then?” I cross my arms across my chest, waiting for a reply.
“Ha. Charms.” Rebecca shakes her head. “I’ve learned a thing or two about how he acts these past few days, puffing out his chest like a proud peacock. I don’t put much stock in antics such as his. Best advice I can offer, since he seems to have gotten under your skin, is to do your best to avoid him.”
“Avoid him? That is an impossible feat. The man seems to be everywhere.”
“True enough.” Rebecca’s lips turn up into a sly smile. “But there are plenty of closets, cubbies, and stairwells at our fingertips. I suggest you find one anytime he pokes his head out.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I laugh, thankful for the camaraderie and understanding as I gather myself and my cart and prepare to tackle the three suites on my roster today.
After lunch, I return to the eighth floor to vacuum the hall, as assigned to me this afternoon. I am making long sweeping strokes with the mammoth of a machine when I sense someone behind me. I immediately power off the vacuum and pull it out of the way against the wall, as is protocol when a guest is present.
I turn my head and see Mr. Barnes entering the elevator. “Miss Wilson.” He nods a cordial hello and disappears into the caged box.
Befuddled at the change in the man’s demeanour, I am motionless for a moment as relief leaves me feeling a little jelly-legged. I let out a slow exhale and commend myself. I must have finally managed to get through to the troublesome guest. My confidence is restored, and now I know that the holiday bonus is not as far out of my reach as I worried it might be. I celebrate by circling the vacuum with a little dance. “Everything is going to be okay,” I whisper to myself.
“Don’t tell me. You are practicing your dance steps in anticipation of New Year’s Eve.”
Startled by another’s presence, my back connects against the wall with more force than I intend. I steal a glance upward but keep my head down in an effort to hide my embarrassment as I’m reminded of my place among the guests of the eighth floor.
William strides toward me, barely concealing a cheeky grin. “I am sorry. I couldn’t resist, and you looked quite pleased with yourself.”
“Mr. Thompson.” I feel my cheeks flame. Of all the people to spot me dancing a jig, it had to be him. “What are you doing here?” I swivel my head from side to side, ensuring the hall is free of other guests.
“No need to panic, Clara.”
Heat rises within me at hearing my name from his lips, and his own cheeks colour.
“May I call you Clara?” William’s expression softens as he steps closer, his voice dropping an octave as he almost breathes the question.
“You may.” My eyes dart about the hall and I rethink my response. “But perhaps not here.”
“Not to worry, I came up the back stairs.” He raises his palm before I can protest his presence. “With the permission of my sister, I’ll have you know.”
“I see.” I fiddle with the vacuum’s long, thick cord while imploring my mind to come up with something clever to say. Louisa’s charm I do not possess, so without a better option, I press forward. Straight forward. “What brings you to the eighth floor, Mr. Thompson?”
William’s warm smile crinkles the corners of his grey-blue eyes, their colour drawing me in. “I came to see how your sister is recovering. That ankle of hers had a nasty swell to it. I can’t imagine it was a comfortable night for her.”
I feel my cheeks lift at his genuine concern and do my best to hide the stab of disappointment that his presence here has to do with anything other than seeing me. “The night was not a comfortable one for Louisa, but I am quite certain she will recover completely. Thank you for your concern and for helping us home yesterday.”
“It was my pleasure, though it wasn’t exactly how I imagined I might meet your father.”
A flutter of delight courses through me at his words. Not wishing to give myself away, I steer clear of William’s mention of meeting Papa and attempt to usher the conversation to neutral territory. “I hope you will enjoy the holiday season here. I imagine the weather is different than in Toronto this time of year.”
I feel myself rambling, but I am unable to stop. “Do you get a lot of snow at home? Ours has only started to arrive. Though it is pretty when the city is a blanket of white.”
William glances back over his shoulder before answering. “The snow in Toronto is dryer and more plentiful, but Clara—I mean, Miss Wilson—the other reason I wanted to see you this morning is to ask if you’ve had a chance to consider my dinner invitation?”
“Oh.” I have barely uttered a sound when we are interrupted by the opening of the lift’s gate and the attendant announcing the arrival on the eighth floor.
Much to my disappointment, Mr. Barnes, hat in hand and smug smile firmly pressed up against his flaccid cheeks, appears in the hallway. I recoil inwardly as he swaggers toward us.
“Miss Wilson, I see you do make the time for some of your guests.” I feel the rebuke as he extends a hand in William’s direction. “Harold Barnes, and you are…?”
William sneaks a questioning look in my direction before offering a charming smile along with his outstretched hand to Mr. Barnes. “William Thompson. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barnes.”
“What brings you to this fair city, Mr. Thompson?”
Silently, I urge William to put the man off. The last thing I desire is to have Mr. Barnes knowing anything more about me or the people I spend time with. The realization that I’ve just added William to the short list of people important to me makes me want to tell him yes. Yes, I’ll go to dinner with him, and yes, I’ll spend as much time with him as he has available for me while he is in Vancouver.
My delight over my decision to accept William’s dinner invitation battles with my disappointment over Mr. Barnes’ intrusion. William engages in mundane but polite banter with the man as I consider whether to wait for Mr. Barnes to take his leave.
“I am in town visiting family. And you, Mr. Barnes? What brings you to the city so close to the holidays?”
Mr. Barnes’ expression is slippery at best. “Work, mostly. I am in the movie business, and as you may have heard, Hollywood seldom sleeps.”
The men chat a few moments longer about the city and the weather as I coil the vacuum’s cord, tucking it out of sight at the back of the machine.
With no apparent intention by Mr. Barnes to vacate the hallway, I excuse myself politely and tell the men I must be getting on.
Pushing the vacuum down the hall to its home within the supply cupboard, I can feel William’s gaze on me. We’ll have to pick up our conversation at another time, away from listening ears.