Chapter Fifteen

MRS AGATHA NUTTALL HAD KEPT the Regency Bridal shop on Portobello Mews for thirty years. In that time, she had seen all manner of brides-to-be come and go. There were the brides who brought their mothers and grandmothers with them, prim and proper and spending their fathers’ hard-earned money as if it was their own. There were the bright young things, who’d debuted only a season before and were already embarking on the true adventure of married life. And then there were girls like the one being fawned over by her bridesmaids-to-be in the shop right now. The reluctant brides. The brides who, though they glowed with the love they had for their future husbands, shuddered at being made a fuss of. Who would have been happy enough to walk down the aisle in a nice blouse from the John Lewis department store, up on Oxford Street.

The second of the Regency Bridal’s two suites was a small chamber, the shape of a piece of pie. One wall was lined with mirrors; another was a deep wardrobe, big enough for three shop girls to search through at the same time. A bank of soft furnishings ran between them, and in front of this a small pedestal on which the brides-to-be were expected to pose and turn. It was this part of the operation that Nancy seemed to be struggling with. Poor girl, thought Agatha; she was going to have to find some courage if she was going to stand in front of a crowd and make her vows.

‘It’s beautiful, Nancy!’ Rosa was exclaiming, clapping her hands together eagerly. ‘Nancy, it’s the one!’

‘You’ve said that six times,’ Ruth said, her eyes glinting darkly. Agatha liked this one. She had a devilish streak in her. It probably meant she’d never get married. Yes, this one had ‘maiden aunt’ written all over her.

‘Well, this time, I mean it. What do you think, Nance?’

Nancy, who was wearing a simple white gown with long, flowing sleeves and embroidery marking its shoulders, turned on the pedestal so that she might inspect her body from every angle. Something was sitting crookedly on her. The dress nipped at her midriff. It felt tight and flowing all at once.

‘It just isn’t .?.?. me.’

‘Isn’t you?’ Rosa cackled. ‘Oh, Nancy, it’s your big day! You look like a princess.’

Nancy grinned. ‘I don’t feel like a princess.’

‘No,’ Rosa said – and suddenly she was on her feet, turning towards the dark expanse of the wardrobe, ‘but you’re going to. Next!’

And, clapping her hands, she disappeared within.

Ruth, who had been looking Nancy up and down with an unusual glint in her eyes, said, ‘You know, Nancy, it does look special. So did the one before last. You’re going to be a beautiful bride.’

Nancy was quite taken aback. A compliment from Ruth was a rare thing.

‘Thank you.’

On the edge of the room, Vivienne said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me, girls,’ and scuttled off, looking for the water closet.

‘That’s the third time,’ Ruth said. ‘It’s those cream scones from earlier. She doesn’t know what’s good for her. Why’d you bring her along anyway, Nancy? I reckon she just doesn’t like slumming it with us chambermaids. Little Lady Edgerton—’

Nancy gave her an admonishing look.

‘She’s my friend,’ she said flatly. ‘And she’s not like that anymore. Vivienne slums it more than any of us ever do. You should come and visit the Daughters. Then you’d see. There are worlds below ours, Ruth! They’d look at you like we do the crown prince of Norway.’

Perhaps it had been wrong to invite her. The fact was, Vivienne had been glum all day. Not for the first time, Nancy mused upon the two Miss Edgertons she knew: the one who, waking up each morning at the Buckingham Hotel, was tense and coiled, living a lie; and the one who, at the Daughters of Salvation each night, came alive with purpose and ambition and passion. She’d been hoping for the second Vivienne today, but instead she’d spent the morning silent and far away, as if her mind was on other things.

Presently, Vivienne returned, and looked Nancy up and down for a second time.

‘It’s not the one, but you’re getting close.’ She seemed brighter now. Perhaps the fresh air had restored her. ‘You’re going to look beautiful.’

‘That’s what I keep saying’ – Ruth tutted – ‘but she won’t listen. Practical Nancy Nettleton, won’t even get excited for her own wedding day!’

Nancy was about to open her mouth in a cheerful rebuke when, all of a sudden, Rosa re-emerged from the wardrobe with three dresses draped over her arms. Here was the full range of everything the Regency Bridal had to offer: an ostentatious gown, with lace ruffs and a bouffant neckline fit for Queen Elizabeth I; an elegant, understated number of unadorned silk; and a dress with tassels and minute details etched up and down every seam, fit for some Hollywood star.

‘If we can’t find something for you here, Nancy, we won’t find it anywhere!’

But Nancy’s face only creased up. ‘I think we might need a break, girls. For a pot of tea and another cream scone?’

As the groans resounded around the room – even Vivienne joining in with the titters of dismay – Agatha Nuttall looked at the girl up on the pedestal and smiled. Yes, she thought, she’d seen a lot of these sorts of girls across the years.

The undecided brides.

‘I don’t know what it is,’ said Nancy, as they gathered on the tables overlooking the verdant dells of Hyde Park. They’d already walked, basking in the brilliant summer sunshine, along the banks of the Serpentine, and – after an exertion like that – there was no choice but to sustain themselves with more cakes and tea. ‘It’s not that I’m nervous of marrying Raymond. I’m dreaming of it! It’s—’

‘It’s this registry office malarkey,’ Rosa said. ‘You want a big white wedding in the church, right there on Berkeley Square.’

Ruth spluttered, showering her cup and saucer in hot tea.

‘Shows how much you know, Rosa! Nance doesn’t want the fuss. That’s it, isn’t it? She’d be happy with a little service at the town hall, then a spot of lunch on the river, then back to changing some lordling’s sheets in the Pacific Suite, or sorting out the dry-cleaning for what’s-his-name, our resident refugee – Tobias Bauer.’

‘A sweet old man,’ chipped in Nancy.

‘You don’t know nothing, Ruth,’ Rosa chirruped. ‘It’s not true love if you’re not excited. If you’re not thrilling all of the time.’

Ruth smirked. ‘That’s the way it is for you and little Frankie, is it?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Rosa, beaming from ear to ear, ‘it’s exactly like that. Pooh! What would you know about it? Ruth Attercliffe, you won’t even look a boy in the eye. It’s like you don’t even want to.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Ruth had grown taut. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m envious of what our Nance has with her Raymond. And I’m not the only unmarried lady out today, am I, Miss Edgerton?’

Vivienne still seemed far away, watching a mother duck lead her ducklings down to the water’s edge. She took a moment too long to come out of her daydream and said, ‘Well, there are more important things than romance, wouldn’t you say? Besides, there’s time enough for all that.’

‘Not if there’s a war,’ said Rosa. ‘That’s why I’m thrilled for Nancy here. Marrying, when the time’s right! Well, it’ll be me and Frank next. You’ll give us your blessing, won’t you, Nance?’

Nancy held her hands up, as if to excuse herself from the debate.

‘But I should be delighted with you as a sister, Rosa.’

‘Ruth here’ll have to start trying, though. If you’re so envious of true love, Ruth, you could have it with Billy Brogan. I’m saying it for your own good. You have to give things a chance, if they’re ever going to blossom. It’s not all just lightning strikes and Cupid’s arrow.’

Ruth folded her hands across her belly. ‘How do you know I haven’t already got myself a chap?’ she demanded.

Rosa’s shriek could be heard echoing all across Hyde Park. ‘Well, have you?’

Ruth was silent.

‘I should say not! Look, just give him a dance. You don’t have to marry him, do you? A dance is just a dance. Then see how it goes. Billy’s working so hard to try and be good enough for you. Matter of fact, I know he’s doing that right now – him and Frank, and that dancer from the Winter Holler lot, Ansel, they’re tutoring Billy this very second. Effort like that shouldn’t go unrewarded, Ruth. He likes you.’

Ruth scowled. ‘I didn’t know I had to reward him for doing something I haven’t even asked for.’

It was Vivienne who came to her defence.

‘Ruth’s right. A lady doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do.’

‘Well,’ Rosa chirped, ‘we’re not ladies here – none but you, if you’ll pardon me, Miss Edgerton.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll say no more, Ruth. But that boy’s one of the good ones, you mark my words. Might be he can be a bit of a clown, but he’s as far from a scoundrel as they come – excepting my Frank, of course – and I reckon you could be good for each other. A bit of happiness while there’s still a chance, see? And, well, if you have got a gentleman friend you’ve not been telling us about – if you have got some deep, dark secret you’re hiding away – well, we’ll find out about it soon enough.’ She beamed. ‘You mark my words!’

*

‘One, two, three, four .?.?. One, two, three, four .?.?.’

Afternoon was turning to twilight and, in the little dance studio behind the Grand Ballroom, Billy Brogan’s lessons went on. To the crackling tune of the gramophone, Billy box-stepped around the room in Frank’s arms – while, sitting cross-legged on the floor in imitation of his own old tutor, Ansel Albrecht of the Winter Holler Company tried valiantly to control his laughter.

‘You’ve got to stop counting,’ Frank whispered. It was strange being led by Billy Brogan, but (though he’d only admit it to Nancy and Rosa), Frank rather liked being on this side of the dance. It made the most simple things feel strangely new. ‘Come on now, show him what we can do. Reverse corté to the left. On my count.’

‘One, two, three—’

‘No Billy!’ Frank urged him. ‘Get that count out of your head. Listen to me count down.’

Billy whispered, ‘Reverse corté, got it.’

‘Now, Billy!’

But, if Billy could remember what a reverse corté was, it hardly mattered – because, in the next moment, he’d tried to close his left foot to his right, trapped Frank’s ankle between his own, and sent them both sprawling to the studio floor.

Ansel could contain himself no longer.

‘Bravo, bravo!’ he cried out, in his Austrian-inflected English, and leaped to his feet in stupendous applause.

In seconds, Billy was back upright. Frank tried to step into his hold but Billy, humiliated for the seventh time that hour, refused to take him. Instead, he just danced around the room with a phantom partner, arms held out to hold somebody who wasn’t there, still counting each step under his breath.

Frank came to sit with Ansel.

‘Is it hopeless?’

Ansel, who was still beaming, said, ‘It is never hopeless, Frank. Music is in everyone. That’s what my old tutor, Herr Lansard, used to say. It’s just that, in some people .?.?. it’s a little more hidden than others.’

Billy heard this – Frank could tell, because his cheeks flushed scarlet – and still he danced on.

They’d been coming to the studio every spare moment across the last two weeks, every hour it wasn’t in use by the Winter Hollers and the Buckingham’s own dancers. At first, it had just been Frank and Billy, sneaking in here to perfect their routine, but once Ansel knew what they were up to, he became a more than willing participant in their scheme.

‘It is a privilege and an honour to dance with Mr Holler and Miss Kainz, but it can be a lonely affair,’ he had once confided, ‘being the youngest dancer among them.’

Frank could understand that. He’d been at the Buckingham a year already, but he could still vividly remember the feeling of those first weeks and months, uncertain of how to behave or who to speak to, or even who to befriend. Ansel was like him, he thought – but, oh, what a life he was living!

At seventeen years old, Ansel was not old enough to remember the last time war ravaged his Austrian homeland, but he knew only too well the way a war that was yet to be born was destroying everything he held dear.

‘My father is a policeman,’ he’d told Frank, the first time they came together to try and show Billy the true way to perform a double reverse spin (and ended up, instead, holding ice cubes wrapped in a dishcloth against his sprained wrist). ‘He always wanted me to follow in those footsteps. But it wasn’t for me. My mother, she always understood. She trained as a ballet dancer, you see. She could have been a star. But then .?.?. well, love comes along and upsets the best laid plans. She had me, and I was dancing before I could walk. I don’t remember a day when it wasn’t in my bones. My father .?.?. well, he never understood. Dancing is for the girls, he’d say. Dancing is for the effete. But even he was pleased, in the end, that I did not become a cadet in the police. Now that the Nazis are there, every right-thinking police officer is running scared. Ever since Herr Hitler set his sights on Vienna, the police have stood up to him. Now that the Anschluss has happened .?.?. well, it won’t be long before they pay the price for those crimes.’

‘The crimes of standing up for your own countrymen?’

‘For treachery against the Reich,’ Ansel said, shaking his head. ‘My father is keeping his head down now, hoping to go ignored. But .?.?. I’m scared for him, Frank, and for my sister too. And – yes, I suppose I’m guilty. That it’s me who got to escape Vienna, and simply because I can dance.’ He paused. ‘There are some among us who plan to stay, who’ll just abandon the company and remain in London when Mr Schank orders us back home. Perhaps I should do the same – the romance of a runaway dancer! – but my mother and father, my sister Lisette, they long for my return.’

In the dance studio, Billy had got confused. Somehow, he was counting backwards.

‘Is it time we told him to stop?’ Ansel whispered.

‘Just a little longer,’ Frank said. ‘By the devil, I think he’s got it!’

But he hadn’t. Both his legs seemed to be dancing to rhythms of their own accord. It was like watching a marionette on strings.

‘I know what will help,’ said Ansel.

He was wearing the most inscrutable grin. Frank watched as he picked himself up, trotted across the room, and delved into the leather satchel he carried with him everywhere. When he came back, he was brandishing a bottle of cherry liqueur.

‘From my father’s drinking cabinet.’ He beamed. ‘Hey, Billy?’

Billy stopped in the middle of his phantom dance, and looked at them witheringly.

‘It’ll loosen you up,’ said Ansel, with a wolfish grin. ‘Get rid of those inhibitions. Come on, Billy! If you can’t let the music get you in the mood, how about we do it the old-fashioned way?’

It was worth a try, Billy supposed. It was worth two tries, he supposed, once he’d drunk his first measure and felt the sweet warmth radiating about his body. When he attempted dancing, and found that he was still feeling stiff and disjointed, Ansel convinced him it was worth a third try – and then, because Frank was doing it too, he decided it was worth a fourth and a fifth. There was something in this, Billy started to think. It was no wonder all those lords and ladies quaffed so much champagne on their nights in the Grand, when it made you feel as bold and brilliant as this.

‘Of course,’ he hiccuped, ‘you won’t be able to stand your liqueur, Frank, but we Brogans have been weaned on it. Even the little ones have a snifter of brandy at Christmas, don’t you know? I been developing a refined palate for the stuff since I was knee-high. Just you watch what I can do, now I’ve no fear.’

‘Dutch courage!’ Frank chortled, as Billy turned back to the studio floor.

‘Austrian courage!’ Ansel exclaimed, clapping Frank’s hand. ‘Viennese courage for a Viennese waltz! Come on, Billy, show us your stuff!’

Billy strode back to the gramophone, dropped the needle back into place, and began to waltz around the room, holding his imaginary partner close.

He lasted only seconds before he was flat on his face.

‘Billy, you’re like a baby deer!’ Ansel laughed, rushing to help him up. ‘We took it too far. Next time – only one measure for you. Just enough to take the edge off.’

Ansel had reached out his hand to help him up, but Billy, affronted, scrabbled up of his own accord.

‘You two are making a mockery of me!’

Then he took off, out of the studio door.

‘Come on, Ansel, after him!’ Frank cried. ‘If Mr Charles knows he’s been drinking, he’ll be for the chop.’

By the time they clattered through the door, Billy had rushed across the reception hall, around the back of the golden lift, and into the warren of passages beyond. Ansel and Frank gave chase. Past the housekeeping lounge, past the old laundry – evidently, Billy could run better than he could dance, because he barely broke stride at all, not until they’d followed him down through the tradesman’s exit and out onto Michaelmas Mews.

It was a balmy summer evening, and Berkeley Square was lit up by the rectangles of light emanating from the town houses all around. In the trees, nightingales were in full song. This – combined with the cherry brandy still turning his lips sickly sweet – gave Frank the most delicious idea.

‘Come on, Billy,’ he said. ‘The night’s young. Just listen to the birdsong! Here, I’ll show you.’

Frank took Billy by the hands, ducked and weaved, kicked and turned. Soon Ansel was dancing alongside him, each of them jiving alone.

‘It’s like this, Billy! Just let it all out. Don’t focus on anything. Just .?.?. let it happen! You know your problem? You think everything can be mastered by thinking. Well, sometimes you oughtn’t to think at all. Just feel!’

Billy could feel something. He could feel it rising up his gorge, and the taste of cherry brandy back in his throat.

But he could feel something else too. At first it seemed impossible. Could it really be that Frank was right?

He lifted himself up. He let go of Frank’s hands and took hold of Ansel. He turned and he weaved, he kicked and he hopped. He spun on the spot, and then – when long moments had passed and he was quite certain he wasn’t going to fall over – he let go of Ansel and turned and turned again, pirouetting out across the grasses of Berkeley Square like he was a Catherine wheel.

And it felt good. It felt ridiculous – but good! He could hear Frank cheering. He could hear Ansel shouting out, ‘It’s working! Frank, he’s doing it!’ And the feeling was insurmountable. This feeling was one of elation. He was in control of it, now. He was a master. And he decided, there and then, that he’d give them a finish they could be proud of. He closed his eyes, let the music (all of it in his head!) propel him onwards, until – in the final moment – he lifted his imaginary partner high and opened his arms with a flourish, as if it was he, Billy Brogan, who was the true King of the Ballroom, and to hell with Raymond de Guise!

Billy Brogan opened his eyes.

There were Frank and Ansel, egging him on with wild, drunken delight.

And there, beyond them, were Nancy, Vivienne, Rosa – and Ruth Attercliffe herself – all stepping out of a taxicab on the opposite side of the square.

The girls stared at him with expressions of staggered disbelief. Then, in a cacophony of titters and whispered words, they vanished into the darkness of Michaelmas Mews.

‘Frank! Ansel! You blackguards! You scoundrels! Now what’s she going to think of me?’ Billy roared, staggering up to them – and realising, too late, how dizzy the combination of dance and drink could make a man. ‘You’ve made me look like an absolute buffoon! Now what am I going to do?’

Neither Frank nor Ansel got the opportunity to answer that question, but in moments Billy had provided an answer himself – for, no sooner had he stopped shouting, he doubled over and vomited up a thick stream of cherry brandy, right there in the grasses of Berkeley Square.

‘At least she wasn’t there to see this,’ said a contrite Frank.

But Billy’s shame was already absolute.