Prologue

THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR is not unexpected.

But the face behind it is.

Mrs Emmeline Moffatt, Head of Housekeeping at the Buckingham Hotel – the most prestigious of London’s luxurious hotels, a place that lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, dignitaries from near and far away, have always called home – opens the door to the housekeeping lounge, and the surprise that blossoms on her face is swiftly swept away by a matronly concern. She cuts a forlorn figure, this unexpected guest. It is late at night, the very last day of September, but that does not account for the weariness in the girl’s eyes.

‘My dear,’ Mrs Moffatt begins. ‘Oh, my dear.’ She steps back, inviting the visitor in. ‘Quickly now, before anybody sees.’

The girl says little as Mrs Moffatt arranges one of the house chairs with cushions and sits her down. She says even less as Mrs Moffatt busies herself with a pot of tea. Whether you are lord or lady or chambermaid, nothing helps you face disaster better than a cup of Mrs Moffatt’s finest tea.

‘Now, my dear, shall we begin?’ Mrs Moffatt is approaching sixty years old, though you wouldn’t know it by the rigour with which she whips her legion of loyal chambermaids into shape. She settles herself in the chair beside her guest and takes her hand. The fact is, she’s had the most life-changing day herself; it’s knocked all the wind out of her sails – and, if nothing else, she would like to hear about somebody else’s woes. It might help her let go of some of her own. ‘You’ll have to tell me what’s wrong, dear. I can’t see inside that head of yours. But whatever it is, we’ll put it right. You can count on me for that.’

‘I’m going to have a baby.’

There is a stillness in the housekeeping lounge. Mrs Moffatt has a rule: in times of consternation, in times of distress or surprise, take a deep breath, take a sip of tea, and do absolutely nothing. The stillness centres her.

She sets her tea down, reaches for the girl and takes her hand. With the other hand, she brushes the hair away from her eyes. This girl is, and always has been, beautiful – though there have been times when she wouldn’t know it. Now, though, her face begins to crumple. She’s held it in for so long. The wall is finally crumbling and the girl has started to cry.

‘You’re not the first, my dear. Believe me. I’ve sat here with girls just like you, more than I care to remember, and told them what I’m going to tell you right now: everything is going to be all right.’

‘How can you know that? Look at me. I’m three months down. It’s going to start showing soon. How can I possibly .?.?. ?’

Mrs Moffatt shuffles the chair closer. This time, she puts an arm around the girl.

‘First things first,’ she says. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘How can I? If people were to find out .?.?. And my work, Mrs Moffatt, the hotel, my home.’

‘All in good time, my dear.’ Mrs Moffatt smiles. It’s one of her sincere, soft smiles, and something in it begins to put the girl at ease. This, after all, is why she came. Mrs Moffatt, Head of Housekeeping, is mother to them all, here in this hotel. ‘But before we go any further .?.?.’ She crosses to her desk, where she opens a drawer and returns to the table with her hands full of little candies wrapped in colourful wax paper. ‘My barley sugars. Well, they’ll keep our spirits up as we work this out, won’t they? You and me, my girl. We’ll work out a plan together. You might think Mr Charles, our esteemed hotel director, is the only one adept at tidying up the little dramas of our fine establishment – but you’d be wrong. I’m a dab hand at sorting out our little mysteries myself. Well, I might even have one or two of my own!’ Mrs Moffatt beams. ‘So let’s begin at the beginning, shall we? That’s the only way to get to the end, you see. Why don’t you tell me where it all began?’