Chapter Three #2
All at once, everything changes, starting with the noise.
The front door is drawn open, and ’tis like a curtain lifts, revealing the party.
I suppose ’tis not all that different from the parties at Avery’s Tavern that go on some nights, when the folk get carried away, swinging their glasses, dancing and singing to Old Jack’s fiddle, only those ones usually end with fights and crying and someone getting sick in the back.
I doubt this one will end that way, but I can’t wait to see for myself.
The blast of excited voices grows louder as the first guests stream into the ballroom.
I grit my teeth, holding in any sounds I might make as I admire the gowns and tailcoats, not to mention the flashes of jewellery as the guests pass the lit candles.
I have never seen anything so entrancing.
One of the ladies glides past me, gold cigarette holder between her elegant, white-gloved fingers.
I try not to stare, but she’s so close to me ’tis as if I’ve been given a gift.
Her hair is short, golden, and pressed into curls and ripples, held in place by a glittering band around her head.
Her canary-yellow gown falls to her ankles and seems to be always moving because of rows and rows of beaded fringe.
She laughs, more like a hoot than any laugh I’ve heard, throwing her head up and showing off the strings of pearls at her bold neckline.
Ashes from her cigarette float carelessly to the polished floor as she walks arm in arm with her friend, a shorter woman with cropped, coal-black hair and thick, dark lines drawn around her eyes.
Her gown is as black as her hair, as are the beads and feathers and jewellery she wears, and I am reminded of the crows who dwell in The Ward and make it their job to wake the neighbourhood.
The thing is, I am struck by the care these women take with their appearance.
They are beyond glamourous, the treasures at their ears and necks and wrists catching the light, their faces painted so boldly.
How long did all this take? Do they dress like this every day?
And what must it feel like, to value yourself so highly?
I am invisible to them, as I am supposed to be, but the women take up my entire imagination.
Behind the first two walks a demure, unlaughing lady wrapped in a flowery veil of perfume and a pale pink, sleeveless satin gown.
A handsome gentleman in a tuxedo whispers into her ear, then—right there in front of me—he kisses her neck, just below her ear, and she is transformed.
She glows so that her face outpinks her dress, and she laughs with a tittering, birdlike sound.
I sigh, caught up in the romance. She is mesmerizing, but she is only one of many.
My attention is drawn to a big, dark-haired man entering with a young woman under each arm and a cigar in his mouth.
The dazzling women appear to hang on every word he says, but I’ll tell you what.
Something about the man overshadows their lovely faces.
I examine him, curious to know what they see in him.
He is in his thirties, I think, with a thick neck and a set expression.
He’s on guard. I can see that from his eyes, darting everywhere.
His coat sleeves are tight on his upper arms, and he has a crooked nose.
Mr. Lowry, the butcher, has a nose like that on account of it getting broken in too many fights.
Maybe this man’s money is the honey that draws these pretty bees.
It cannot be his looks. I’d wager ’tis not his personality, because I feel a chill in the air as he nears.
I take a tiny step back when he passes, staying out of his way.
Eventually, the guests settle into their seats at the tables, still carrying on, enjoying the most exciting event the city has hosted in years.
Laughter and clinking crystal glasses sing throughout the room.
Feathers flutter overhead, rooted in fancy headdresses and hats.
Once the guests are seated, there is a blessing, then everyone raises their glasses to toast the king.
After that, the band starts up again. Then the two doors at the other end of the room swing open, releasing the kind of smell that would rouse the dead with hunger.
Waiters stream into the ballroom, each balancing a heavy tray on one hand, heading to the tables they have been assigned.
A hum of anticipation rises from the guests, then the jangling of cutlery on china after their plates are set perfectly before them.
I have not eaten since early this morning. Fortunately, the noise in the room is loud enough that no one hears my stomach growl.
The waiter for the table beside me arrives, looking sharp.
They all do, in their black waistcoats and trousers over starched white shirts.
Like me, the young men are silent, swooping in and expertly serving the meals without being noticed.
It’s a more difficult job than mine, I can admit, because a waiter is in close contact with the guests, whereas I can admire them from a safe distance.
If any of these young waiters makes an error, he will no doubt lose his job.
I am suddenly alert, focused on the table nearest to me.
A guest at the very end, an alluring woman in deep olive with rosettes on her sleeveless shoulders and a sparkle of diamonds in her ears, has noticed the waiter.
One elegant, gloved hand reaches to touch his arm, so he is forced to pause in his work.
He stands at attention, trying to disappear, but she will not let him go.
Her hand lingers on his sleeve, then she and a friend across the table laugh low in their throats.
I know the tone of a woman who has drunk too much, and I hear it now.
The woman in the olive dress tugs the waiter down to her level and says something to him, her tongue sliding over a deep red upper lip.
I cannot see his face, but I can imagine how pink his cheeks are.
I feel sick for him. He is young, handsome, and vulnerable, and now he is trapped.
He tries to draw gently out of her grasp, but she has him.
I subtly scan the room, searching for help, but none of the staff seem to notice his situation.
Even if they did, I cannot think of what they could do.
Many of the other waiters have already finished serving and have left the room.
How is this one supposed to escape and finish his job?
I cannot stand it. Breaking all the rules, I step forward and crouch by the woman’s ankle, then I rise and pretend to lay her napkin on the table by her plate.
“What’s this?” she mutters, scowling at me.
I back away without a word, sliding into my assigned spot against the wall.
Once I am there, I drop my chin, the picture of humility.
Lucky for me, her attention is caught by something that someone in her party has said, and I hear her chuckling self-consciously with her friend.
Only then do I dare look, and that’s when I see my ploy worked.
When she faced me, she let the young waiter go.
He has moved on and is finishing his job at the table.
He is also watching me covertly. He knows exactly what I did.
I hope no one else noticed. I hate to think what Mrs. Evans might say. But still, I’m awfully glad I did it.
The rest of the night passes without incident, which is a great relief. I could sleep standing up, so I could. Sure, all I did was stand motionless, never mind all the work we’d done earlier, but still. I’m knackered.
At last, Mr. Burke escorts the final guests out, thanking them for coming and smoothly inviting them back the next day to view the rest of the hotel.
At his suggestion, they stroll through the lobby with lazy smiles, lulled by the fine food, the music, and the champagne toast at the end of the evening, and when they step out the front door, into the bustle of Front Street, they are already glowing with memories.
The rest of us stand silently in place, waiting for instructions. Bartenders, waiters, and bellboys have come to stand with us. I hear the clattering of dishes being washed beyond the ballroom.
“Well done, everyone,” Mr. Burke announces in a booming voice, striding into the room. I’m glad he’s addressing us now. It means we can go home soon. “You have helped to make tonight a great success. Thank you for all your work.”
We’re all of us tired beyond belief. No need to say a word about it, for ’tis plain to see in our glazed stares.
My feet are fair burning, Kiera is slumped in place, and I notice Deirdre is limping from a blister.
We’ll have to bind that up before she heads home, because we’re meant to be back here bright and early in the morning.
The waiter from before is standing in the corner of the room with the others, and he is watching me.
He’s a fine-looking, tall fella, and from the tightness of his shirt across his shoulders, I’m guessing he’s strong.
His hair is light coloured, almost orange, like so many of us Irish.
Somehow, I missed out on that bit of the craic.
My own hair is long and black and dull as ditchwater compared to his.
Even from here I can see how green his eyes are.
His smile grows seeing mine, and I am fair startled to feel a flip in my chest. Well now.
That cannot happen, I tell myself. The last thing I need in my life is a man.
I must keep this job. Any sort of carrying-on would only be a distraction.