Chapter Three
I work at the biggest hotel in the British Empire. I love the sound of that. It’s grand to think it, but to say it out loud is to quietly announce it to the world.
“There are the most beautiful carvings all over the outside of the building,” I tell Granny that first night.
I’m sure I have been bending her ear for too long, but she hasn’t stopped me yet, so I go on.
“Some are patterns, and some are animals. Even gargoyles. And inside, there are more than a thousand guest rooms, five restaurants, a library, beautiful views of Lake Ontario, and a tunnel to Union Station. There’s even a little hospital with a dozen beds in it. ”
“Pride and gluttony, that’s the height of it,” Granny grumbles, fit to burst with holy disapproval.
“Was the old hotel not grand enough? Askin’ for trouble is what they’re doin’.
A little fire that warms is better than a big fire that burns.
” She squints, considering. “Five restaurants, is it? A library, you say?”
“With thousands of books, Granny. Oh, and there is a rooftop garden on the fourteenth floor. Can you imagine? A garden in the sky, where they’ll grow vegetables and flowers and herbs for the kitchen.
’Tis a bit early to plant, I reckon, but I’ve walked past it.
Someday I shall visit. It may take a year or so before I can ask Mrs. Evans properly, but I want to see that garden for myself. ”
She groans. “A sinful place. Who but the divil needs that sort of decadence? ‘For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?’ ”
Quoting the Bible helps Granny justify her disapproval.
She’s only talking about the divil and decadence because she wants so badly to see the hotel.
We both know she probably never will. With her old legs the way they are, she barely leaves the house these days.
Not even for Sunday Mass, though I can tell it pains her to miss it.
“Ah, but Granny, Proverbs 3:9 says to ‘honour the Lord with our wealth.’ ” I take her wrinkled old hand in mine and give her an encouraging smile. “Surely that means a hotel such as this is a celebration of the Lord. I’ll tell you, walking through it feels like entering a church, it’s so lovely.”
What I really want to tell her about, but I’m not sure how to do it without setting her off, is that the hotel’s grand opening gala is June 11.
What an event it promises to be! Mrs. Evans explained that the supper and dance will be in the ballroom, and each guest will have paid ten dollars to attend.
The ticket buys them a full, sumptuous dinner—that is how it has been described to me by Mrs. Evans—and the opportunity to dance to the music of Ben Bernie and His Orchestra.
There’s something even better about the gala, though: I will be attending.
Not as a guest, of course. I will be there to help with whatever is needed.
And on the morning after the glorious party, the hotel will be open for guests to inspect, and they’ll see all our housekeeping skills for themselves.
Time passes quickly, and on the night before the gala, I don’t catch a wink of sleep.
When I arrive in the morning, our uniforms are pressed and starched so well they could probably stand up by themselves.
We are shuffled into the ballroom, and I almost trip on my own feet I’m so taken by the sight.
I’m sure I’m not the only one. I stare up at the ceiling with my mouth hanging open like a fish. Mrs. Evans pauses beside me.
“Twenty-five-foot ceilings. Have you ever seen the like?”
She knows I haven’t. I have no words. I am in awe.
I am gawking at it when Mrs. Evans asks, “Do you see there? The paintings in the ceiling. That’s the goddess Venus on her swan chariot, drawn by bulls and accompanied by a dove.”
I blink at her, surprised that she should know such a thing.
I want to ask why they chose that, but she is busy answering someone else’s question.
I suppose it doesn’t matter why. Rich people can paint whatever they want on their ceilings.
I admire the fine details, then study the rest of the room with its tall arched windows.
Do you know what, they must be twenty feet tall themselves.
They and their curtains take up one wall of the room, and they almost reach the ceiling.
In the middle of the room, most of the space is taken up by perfectly set, cloth-covered tables and chairs.
Shiny silver cutlery and candlesticks reflect the sunlight streaming in through the windows, making them shine as if they are lit from within.
It is a truly magical sight. I cannot imagine what Granny would say if she saw it.
“They say Lord Willingdon will be here to pronounce the hotel officially opened,” Deirdre whispers in my ear.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t have any idea. He’s a lord, so he must be royalty.”
Mrs. Evans catches this and clucks her tongue. “He is our governor-general. Sir Freeman Freeman-Thomas,” she says in her crisp English accent. “Baron Willingdon of Ratton and First Marquess of Willingdon.”
That’s quite a mouthful, I think to myself.
“Lord Willingdon will be flanked by other lords and honourable men.” She regards us closely. “You will behave as if you are in the presence of the King of England, do you understand?”
“Must we learn to curtsy?” Kiera whispers.
Mrs. Evans overhears. She hears everything, I’m certain of it.
“You will not need to curtsy,” she explains, “because you will be nowhere near any of them. You will not speak for the duration of the evening, you will not offer to help or do anything, because you are only there as decoration, and in case of an emergency.”
That is all right with me. I just want to be there.
On the morning of June 11, our army of chambermaids flits around the rest of the hotel, preparing.
Normally I am only to clean the sixteenth floor, but today we are all wanted everywhere at once, carrying towels and scrubbing floors that already shine.
Mrs. Evans has reminded us quite sternly that everything must be perfect.
Tonight, our doors will open, but only for folks with an invitation to the gala.
Tomorrow, they will welcome everyone, visitors and guests alike, to inspect the rooms and see how beautiful they truly are.
At last, the great clock in the lobby says ’tis time to gather in preparation for the big event.
All our chores end. At Mrs. Evans’s direction, all the chambermaids line up along one wall, behind a line of porters, bellboys, and other front lobby staff.
I stand still as a stone when Mr. Burke, the hotel manager, appears in front of us, hands linked behind his back.
I have only seen him once before, but he is difficult to forget.
Mr. Burke is a big, tall man with slicked-back ebony hair.
He must have experience with royalty, or at least very special guests, because he doesn’t strike me as being nervous in the least. He towers over us in his spotless tuxedo, a black bow tie wrapped around his wingtip collar.
Bianca would have called him handsome, I presume, but he must be close to forty.
Bianca thinks a lot of men are handsome, come to think of it.
Mr. Burke strolls along the front row of staff, inspecting them as if they are soldiers.
My palms are slick with sweat, though I know my uniform is immaculate.
I wish I could hide the spot that appeared overnight on the side of my nose, but there’s nothing to be done about it.
When he’s done with the men, he takes long, slow strides along my row.
Shoulders down, chin up, Mrs. Evans had told us, and I silently add: Hold your breath. Until he has finished, that is.
We appear to pass muster, because Mr. Burke returns to his place in front of us.
Sure, and you could hear a pin if it dropped on the lobby’s spotless carpet while we wait to hear what he will say.
I am standing near the end of our line, close to the front entrance of the hotel.
While I wait, my attention drifts slightly, past the wide doors, out to Front Street.
I see regular traffic for now, but in my imagination I spy longer, sleeker vehicles rolling closer. Our guests will soon be here.
I’m a bit let down, I’ll just say, when Mr. Burke says nothing at all after the inspection but instead heads toward the front entrance.
What I’d give to follow him there. I’d love to watch the wealthy flow into the building, but we’re herded to the ballroom, where we stand stiff as pokers against the wall.
The smell of roasted meat wafts from the kitchen, and my stomach cramps with longing.
I imagine thick brown gravy being poured.
I inhale the scent of potatoes, most certainly dripping with butter, and my mouth waters.
Crystal champagne flutes have been placed in exact rows on a long table, and I hear them chiming softly as they are carefully filled one by one, tiny bubbles rising and misting over the rims. At the front of the room, the band begins to play, and I have to hold my body still.
I have never heard music like this before, and the urge to dance floods into my chest. People call it jazz.