Chapter Twenty-eight

BY THE END OF THE WEEK, the snowfall had gentled across London and, street by street, the sleeping city was coming back to life.

At the Daughters of Salvation, Nancy Nettleton watched the first of the evening stragglers arriving at the back courtyard gate and noted the look of expectation in their eyes. Soon, Mary Burdett would be opening the portcullis; her girls were already lining up at the stove top, ready to dish out the hot broth they’d been cooking that afternoon. Nancy had already warmed herself with a bowl, and a heel of yesterday’s bread. Simple fare, but as good as any she and Raymond had dined on in London’s most fashionable restaurants.

It was exactly the thing that she needed this Friday night, the eve of her wedding.

From inside the chapel, she heard Artie Cohen’s voice exploding in a riot of laughter. He’d taken to playing cards with some of the destitutes – gambling was strictly forbidden, except with twigs and matchsticks – and it seemed, now, that he was devastating his opponents. Nancy drifted through. In the reception hall, with an upturned crate as a table, Artie was launching an attack on the matchsticks of his companions, sweeping them all up with a valedictory guffaw.

‘All mine!’ he roared. ‘Boys, it was always written in the stars that I’d win tonight. My brother’s getting married tomorrow, don’t you know? I’m the best man. So it stands to reason, the gods would smile on me.’

Artie stood up, cramming matchsticks and lengths of twig into his pocket and said, ‘I’m off then, boys. You’ve got Warren standing on the door tonight. Play gentle with him. And if any unsavoury types show up – more unsavoury than you lot, o’ course! – give him a helping hand, won’t you?’

Artie swivelled on his heel – he might not have been Raymond, and he hardly cared for it at all, but he too was a formidable dancer. He was about to exit the hall when his eyes landed on Nancy. For a moment, they held each other’s gaze. Some piece of knowledge passed between them – and then, with another of his wolfish grins, he was gone.

Nancy found Vivienne in the back room. There she sat, running a finger along the latest page of the ledger books, adding up figures in her head as she went. Nancy watched her for a moment, the way she mouthed each number in turn, before she said, ‘Miss Edgerton.’

Vivienne looked up. ‘It’s been an age since you called me that, Nancy.’

‘Vivienne, I haven’t seen you in days. Not properly in weeks. And—’

In a moment, Vivienne was on her feet, whisking past Nancy to close the office door. It was only clapboard, but at least it was some privacy.

‘I know you know, Nancy,’ she said. ‘It’s Artie. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, could he? I knew it – as soon as he said he was off with Raymond, I knew he’d tell it all.’

There was frenzy in Vivienne’s voice, but with these last words she calmed. She had seen the look on Nancy’s face.

‘Vivienne, you’re going to be my sister.’

Vivienne hissed, ‘He hasn’t asked me to marry him yet. Artie Cohen thinks I should be the one to ask him. I’ve you to thank for that, he says. Says you were going to pop the question to Raymond yourself, if he hadn’t got there first.’

Nancy laughed. ‘I was!’

‘The world’s gone topsy-turvy. It’s all this talk of war and .?.?.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m scared, Nancy. I’m happy and I’m scared. It’s the most infuriating thing. The Peels are happy for me to stay for a time. Warren’s father rather likes the idea that he’s baiting my stepfather with it. It seems they’ve run into each other, here and there, across the years. But .?.?.’ She led Nancy back to the desk, where they both sat down. Nancy began to pour from a hot teapot, adding copious amounts of milk from a jug on a tray. ‘Can it be fair, to bring a child into this world? Not knowing what’s to come, Nancy, and not knowing—’

‘Shhhh,’ Nancy said. ‘They’ll be loved. That’s all that matters.’

‘Yes,’ said Vivienne. ‘Loved.’

There was a question Nancy hadn’t dared to ask, but now she found the courage.

‘Do you love him, Vivienne? Artie?’

There was a long pause and, in it, it seemed to Nancy that Vivienne was doing nothing other than taking an inventory of her life.

‘I do,’ she said, and there must have been something amusing about the idea, because she started to laugh. ‘I completely and utterly do. He’s different, Nancy. Different to how he acts out here – roustabout Artie Cohen, dirt under his fingernails, always with his eyes darting around, as if he might scurry off any moment. When I think of all those men I’ – she blushed – ‘indulged, back at the Buckingham. I thought I was meant for that sort of man. It took Artie to make me see the world isn’t like that. I was born into one world. It doesn’t mean I have to stay in it. Love can get me out.’

‘I don’t think it’s love that got you out of that world, Vivienne. I think it was you, plain and simple. If you don’t mind me saying it, that world was killing you. Oh, I don’t just mean the powders and the champagne and the cocktails. I mean the money of it. The expectations. And the isolation too. When I think of what it was like for you .?.?.’ She paused. ‘How did it all happen?’

Vivienne shrugged. ‘A late night,’ she said. ‘Too many late nights here, Artie escorting me to my taxicab like he was some wandering knight errant. I think he liked to play that role. Somewhere along the way, things changed. It’s never been like that before, Nancy. Before it was always so fast and useless. Things that happen so swiftly die the same way. With Artie it was different.’

‘And when you told him about the baby .?.?. ?’

‘Out there,’ she said, indicating the frosted window and the cobbled row beyond, ‘that night after I left the hotel. I hadn’t known how to tell him until then. Every night, I kept holding it in – and Artie, he knew something was wrong, he knew I was hiding something. I think he thought I was done with him. Spoilt Vivienne Edgerton could never take up with a man like Artie Cohen – that’s what was going through his head. But when I told him, why, it was like the whole world made sense. Artie saw that too.’

‘When I heard you’d gone to the Peels, I thought it must be Warren. We all did.’

Vivienne shook her head. ‘It’s Artie. For now and evermore. I just need to find a way to make it happen. But we found a way to make this, didn’t we?’ She opened her arms, taking in the entirety of the Daughters of Salvation itself. ‘So a little thing like this .?.?. well, it ought to be a trifle. It’s just that, sometimes, the smallest things are the most difficult to make happen. My mother wrote to me, not three days ago. She said she was sorry. That she’d help me. She knew people who could find a home for my baby and .?.?.’ Vivienne’s mind had strayed to Hélène Marchmont, and then to Mrs Moffatt; all of their history seemed to course through her tonight. She shook her head defiantly. ‘It’s my life to wreck my own way. That’s what my stepfather used to tell me, every time I’d brought shame on him at the Buckingham. Well, here’s how I’ll wreck it, Nancy. With my baby and Artie Cohen and, well, as much love as the three of us can muster – however long we’ve all got left.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry about your wedding, Nancy. I would have loved to have seen it.’

‘You still can.’

Vivienne shook her head. ‘And risk ruining your day? Vivienne Edgerton causing another scene in the Grand? No, Nancy, this day’s for you.’ She paused. ‘There’s something else I’d like to give you.’ She reached into the desk and drew from it a small envelope, which she placed delicately in Nancy’s hand. ‘I’ve been saving, little by little, each month. Just what little I could keep, and not let the Daughters down. I’m afraid it isn’t much. But I should like you and Raymond to have it – for a trip, Nancy, a honeymoon in the New Year. Back north, perhaps, so Raymond can see some more of your home county.’ She smiled. ‘The way I understand it, Artie had him drinking so much he might not remember very much from his last voyage north.’

‘Oh, Vivienne,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

She meant it from the bottom of her heart.

She was almost at the door when, fearing the chance would not come again, she looked back and said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Vivienne?’

And Vivienne, who had already returned to the ledgers, looked up and said, ‘I wanted to. Ever since that moment you asked me to be bridesmaid, I knew that I should. But this is your year, Nancy Nettleton. Your wedding. Your romance. My recklessness has upended your life on more than one occasion already. I wanted you to—’

‘This is our year,’ said Nancy. ‘Whatever happens next year, whatever the world throws at us, we’ll always have this.’ She stopped. ‘You’re coming to my wedding, Vivienne. If not as my bridesmaid, you’re coming as my friend, and that’s an order.’

*

The calendar chart on the wall had but one empty square left. In the pre-dawn darkness, Nancy lifted her hand to cross it out.

Her wedding day had arrived.

She was still lying there, bleary-eyed and listening to the creaking of the pipes, when too many hands grappling at her bedroom door forced it open, and in the portal of light, Rosa, Ruth, and all the other chambermaids came tumbling over one another to get in.

‘Nancy!’ Rosa thrilled, taking her by the arm and hoisting her aloft. ‘Nancy, you can’t go lying around – it’s here! Stand back, girls – stand back! Nancy needs some room. This is her big day. She’s got to get ready. There’s hair and there’s make-up, there’s that dress of hers to get ready as well, there’s breakfast to be had, and nails to be polished, and, I should think, a nice drop of champagne to be drunk – we’ve still got that bottle, haven’t we, Ruth? Nobody’s been at it yet, have they? Good! Well, Nancy, here we are, the biggest day in your life!’

Nancy found her feet at last, and felt the girls’ excitement bubbling out towards her. Then she looked up, beyond the gaggle of excitable faces and nightdresses, and saw that another face had just joined them in the door. Big and happy, framed in its familiar mop of tight white curls, Mrs Moffatt’s smile was as broad as Nancy had ever seen it – even on those occasions when Archie Adams arrived at the housekeeping lounge, looking to share a nice pot of tea.

‘Girls, girls, girls, it’s Nancy’s day. Nancy’s the one who’ll be Mrs de Guise by this evening, not any of you. Now, those of you who are going to the service, get into that kitchenette and let’s get this day started. Those of you not lucky enough to be watching our Miss Nettleton take her vows, there’s a housekeeping lounge waiting for you.’

Half of the girls groaned and, contorting their faces into pantomimes of disappointment, slumped their shoulders as they tramped out of the room.

‘There’s still the reception for you girls!’ Mrs Moffatt called. ‘A treat like this is coming round only once in a lifetime, but there are suites that need sorting first!’

Nancy heard a chorus of, ‘Yes, Mrs Moffatt!’ as the other girls floated away. Then Mrs Moffatt turned to her and, with a cheery wink, said, ‘The Buckingham waits for none of us – except for you, dear Nancy. And except for me.’

Still clinging to Nancy’s hand, Rosa said, ‘Mrs Moffatt?’

‘Girls, it isn’t often one of my own ties the knot.’ She turned to Nancy herself. ‘The girls can cope on their own today, Nancy. Me, I’d rather be with you. And there’s somebody else who wants to see you too.’

Mrs Moffatt stepped aside and into the doorway came Vivienne Edgerton. The tan house dress she was wearing was loose fitting, but not loose enough to hide the child she was carrying. Rosa’s eyes goggled. Nancy just beamed.

‘You came,’ she breathed.

‘I can hear the corks popping already,’ said Mrs Moffatt. ‘Nancy, your breakfast awaits!’

*

Three miles away, in a different world, hands grappled Raymond de Guise by the shoulders and shook him back into wakefulness.

‘Out of bed, you lazy dog!’ Artie Cohen crowed. ‘Ma’s cooking up a storm. Kippers and eggs.’

Raymond’s eyes snapped open. There was his brother’s face, up close and leering into his.

‘What time is it?’ he gasped, heart beating wildly.

‘We’ll get you to the town hall on time.’ Artie laughed. ‘Don’t you worry about that. But we got to tidy you up first. You look like you just got out of bed.’

Raymond, still tangled in his sheets, said, ‘Artie, I feel strange. I feel shivery. It’s tingling up and down me. Like someone’s walking over my grave .?.?.’

‘That’s nerves.’ Artie had crossed to the bedroom window, where he tore the curtains open and revealed the wonderland of white outside. ‘Have you never felt nervous before, Ray?’

Raymond picked himself up. ‘Not in a long time.’

‘Aye, well, this isn’t just any old dance you’re embarking on today, old boy. This is the dance of life.’

Artie was chuckling to himself as he ripped open the wardrobe, revealing the tailored slate-grey morning suit in which his brother was going to be married. He reached within, lifted out the top hat from its box, and perched it delicately on his own head. Then he considered himself in the mirror.

‘You’re dancing the dance of life yourself, Artie,’ Raymond said, rising behind him to snatch back the hat. ‘How many months till you become a father? Four, now? Three?’

Artie grunted. ‘You keep that to yourself, Ray Cohen. You know I haven’t told her downstairs.’

‘There’s no hiding it, Artie.’

‘Yeah, well, one more day, old boy. I wouldn’t want to upend your big day. O’ course, if I were to let it slip, your day would soon be forgotten about, so the fact is you ought to be thanking me for my generosity.’ He grinned, wolfishly. ‘Viv and I can celebrate another day!’

There came a knocking at the door and, without waiting for a reply, Alma Cohen pushed on through.

‘Gregor’s dropped you the car round, Artie. Nice, big, black shiny thing it is.’

Raymond froze. After a moment, with Artie flushing a guilty shade of red, he bustled past his mother, strode into the next bedroom along and, opening the window onto the snowdrifts in the street below, saw a gleaming black Rolls-Royce limousine sitting there, bedecked with a garish, ridiculous rainbow of ribbons.

Artie had joined him at the window. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’

‘We were getting taxicabs, Artie.’

‘Not on your life, old son. Look, you designated me best man, so trust me – I know what’s best. And what’s more, I’m driving you myself!’ He paused. ‘It isn’t costing me a penny. My pal Gregor borrowed it for the morning, that’s all.’

‘Borrowed it?’ Raymond asked, emphasising the word meaningfully. ‘Like you used to borrow railway sleepers from the sidings?’

‘Borrowed it, Ray. Isn’t she a beauty? She’ll get us there in style, you’ll see.’

Raymond already had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The feeling didn’t leave him all breakfast. It didn’t help that the kippers were so salty and smoky that, as the family piled into the car and Artie choked the starter to bring the engine to life, he already felt ready to retch. Nerves. He’d never felt nervous before, not since his first days stepping out onto a ballroom floor. Now, his stomach was revolting against itself. He sat in the front passenger seat, his feet dancing a fandango quite of their own volition, and tried to still himself.

‘Oh, Ray!’ his mother cackled from the back seat, where she was sandwiched between Aunts May and Rebecca. ‘There’s nothing to it. Your father didn’t cause even half of the fuss on his wedding day. Of course, he’d had a bit of practice. Jilted his first lover at the altar, as you’ll remember, when he was but twenty years of age. Who knows – maybe that took the edge off for him. He knew he could always do it again!’

Shrieks of laughter filled the back seat.

‘Our Ray’s not nearly half as much a devil as Pa was,’ said Artie. The car spluttered in protest as he guided it out onto the road. ‘Look, just stand up, say the right lines, and you’re done. Job’s finished. Then you can get back to doing what you do best. You can dance.’

Raymond heard the bells tolling out eleven o’clock: Christ Church, up in Spitalfields, pealing in chorus with St George in the East. In one hour, he’d be standing there, turning over his shoulder to watch Nancy approaching down the aisle. He tried to keep his focus on that. The very idea of Nancy could still his quaking heart.

‘Ray, you’ve spilled porridge all down your waistcoat.’

Raymond looked downwards, horrified – only to be caught off guard again by yet more shrieks of laughter.

‘The oldest jokes are always the best!’ cried Artie. They’d reached the basin at Shadwell and were preparing to follow the river west. ‘You’ve been falling for that one since we were knee-high to a .?.?.’

It was then that the engine started to die.

*

At the reception desks, Frank – dressed in a navy-blue suit whose cuffs were just a little too long for him – was stuttering so rapidly that it was like artillery fire.

‘B-Billy!’ he stammered. ‘I j-just can’t get it out!’

The paper hanging in his hands was the speech he’d been diligently preparing for months. By rights, he ought to know it off by heart – but, for some reason, at the last moment, all words had failed him.

He’d stayed here at the Buckingham, bunked up with Billy, last night.

‘I heard you muttering this thing in your sleep, Frank! Just going over and over it. You had it down word perfect.’

‘Yes, B-Billy, b-but I’m not going to be asleep, am I? And there are g-going to be h-hundreds of faces staring at me.’

‘Frank!’ Billy snatched the paper off him. ‘You’ve been bossing me around all year. “Let the music flow through you, Billy,”’ he said, in the worst affected Lancastrian accent Frank had ever heard. ‘“You just got to feel it. The dancing will come! Stop thinking, Billy!” Ha, well, it’s time you took your own advice. Just stop .?.?. overthinking. Look, if you mess it up, I’ll jump in and help you – how does that sound?’

Actually, it sounded very good. Almost immediately, it calmed Frank’s heart.

‘Hey, Mr Charles!’ Billy called out.

The hotel director had appeared through the revolving brass doors, dusted in a fine sprinkling of December snow. On hearing his name, he marched over to Billy and Frank with a look like thunder.

‘Might I remind you,’ he whispered, ‘that, although this is a great day in the life of our good friends, the business of this hotel goes on unabated. So address me, please, with the respect that our hotel benefactors expect.’ Then, his piece said, he softened. ‘What is it, Mr Brogan?’

‘Frank here’s looking for some tips with his speech. He’s nervous as a dog, Mr Charles.’

Maynard adjusted his spectacles and, taking the ragged piece of paper from Billy’s hand, took in everything that was written there.

‘It’s an excellent speech, young man. Simple and from the heart – much the same as your good self.’ He folded it and pressed it back into Frank’s hands. ‘But I’m afraid, young man, that you’ll have to worry about this in a little while. This show is about to get started.’

Placing a fatherly arm around both Billy’s and Frank’s shoulders, he ushered them past the Norwegian fir so that they could look, through the frosted windows, out onto the square beyond.

A horse and carriage was just coursing into view.

*

In the chambermaids’ kitchenette, Nancy watched in a small hand mirror as Rosa ran her fingers through her hair, fixing one curl after another, sliding in pins and twists of white ribbon, until at last she stood back and smiled.

‘Hélène Marchmont never looked half as stunning as this, Nance,’ said Rosa.

Ruth – who’d been watching from behind, ready to help Nancy into her dress – added, ‘I hate to admit it, but Rosa’s done you proud.’

A champagne cork popped.

‘Teacakes and toast, hot buttered scones and champagne!’ Mrs Moffatt announced.

In the kitchenette, the gaggle of girls cheered. Soon they were raising glasses.

‘The first toast of many,’ sang Mrs Moffatt. ‘To Nancy Nettleton – soon to be Nancy de Guise!’

‘Now for the dress,’ grinned Rosa.

She was already holding it up against Nancy, and Nancy fancied she could feel, in its silken touch, the way her mother used to hold her tight. She felt a tear come to her eye, but battled it down. This was not a day for sadness. This was a day for celebration. Her parents would be celebrating with her too.

At that moment, footsteps floundered into the kitchenette – and, when the girls turned as one, they discovered Frank standing there.

Frank’s eyes were on his sister. ‘You look just like Ma, Nance.’

‘Off with you, Frank!’ Rosa continued. ‘Honestly, have you no sense of—’

‘Had to come,’ Frank panted. ‘Came as fast as I could. Horse and carriage is here. Just turned up on Berkeley Square.’

‘Horse and carriage?’ breathed Nancy. ‘But Frank, we’re getting a taxicab.’

Frank shook his head. ‘Seems not, Nance. He’s sitting out there right now, two bright white stallions knee deep in the snow. Says Raymond reserved him all the way back in September. Says it’s been in his calendar for months.’

All around the kitchenette, the girls – even Mrs Moffatt – broke into spontaneous applause.

‘I’ll bet Raymond’s not getting there in nearly as much style.’

*

The fact was, Raymond wasn’t getting anywhere at all.

The Rolls-Royce limousine had stuttered to a halt somewhere on the Wapping Wall, where the warehouses crowded the river. Between a gap in the buildings, Raymond – who stood with his face screwed up, the bonnet open and the engine exposed to the air – could see the snow swirling over the river and, on the opposite bank, the Prospect of Whitby public house, shrouded in ice. In the driver’s seat, Artie kept heaving on the starter.

‘What do you see, Ray?’

Nothing, thought Raymond. Nothing at all.

‘I’m a dancer, not a mechanic!’ he called. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but there was oil on his fingers from where he’d opened her up and, somehow, he’d already smeared it across his face. ‘Artie, we’re meant to be there already.’

‘All right, all right, keep your hair on, old boy. I suppose I’ll have to have a look myself.’

Soon, both Cohen boys were standing in the strafing snow, staring at the engine’s innards.

‘This wouldn’t have happened if we’d got a taxicab like I wanted.’

‘It’s just a bit of an adventure, Ray. Not everything in the world runs like your Buckingham Hotel. Sometimes things go wrong. You just got to .?.?.’

Artie had reached his hand into the engine, and now he recoiled, sucking on burned fingers.

‘She’s overheated,’ he said. ‘That’s what it is.’

Raymond turned a pirouette, taking in the frozen city.

‘It’s the dead of December.’

‘Car doesn’t know that, does it? Can’t blame a chunk of machinery for the cold. She’ll just have to cool down .?.?.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Look, Ray, you might know more about chassés and glides and shimmies and tours en bloody l’air, but you don’t know a thing about cars. Just leave this to someone who does. I’m your best man, aren’t I? Am I really going to let you down?’

‘Artie, you’re insufferable!’ Raymond cried. ‘The only thing you actually know about cars is how to steal one!’

Artie scowled. ‘It’s going to be like that, is it?’ He would have stalked off, there and then, if only there was anywhere to stalk to. ‘Look, if we’re a little late, what’s it going to matter? It’ll be something to remember.’

Raymond gasped. ‘I wasn’t aware I’d need a complete and utter disaster to remember my wedding day.’ He paused. ‘Look, imagine, for just one second, that this was happening to you.’

‘It is happening to me. I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Imagine it was you marrying Vivienne today and—’

Artie snorted. ‘I won’t be getting to my wedding in a Rolls, Ray, you can wager your life savings on it.’

‘Neither would I,’ Raymond roared, ‘if you hadn’t found one!’

‘There’s the spirit!’ laughed Artie. ‘Now you’re getting into the swing of things. A bit of a laugh, Ray, that’s all this is. We’ll be out of here in—’

‘Vivienne wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.’

‘Our Viv wouldn’t care.’

‘Artie, you think you know Vivienne, but you only know the thin end of it. You’ve got a world of chaos coming your way, with a girl like her. You don’t know it yet, but you can’t handle her. Not the Vivienne I know.’

Artie snapped, ‘It’s you who doesn’t see it, Ray. It’s you who can’t handle someone as fiery and truthful and honest as Nancy Nettleton. All of these big romantic gestures you do – it doesn’t mean nothing to a girl like Nancy. All of your grand gestures and postures, like life’s one of your dances, with all of its drama and its big fancy show. Yeah, Ray, it’s you who doesn’t know what he’s getting into. Married life isn’t going to be like it is in the Grand, you old .?.?.’

While he’d been ranting, Artie had reached through the door of the limousine, hammering his fist over and again at the starter button on the dashboard. The feeble protests of the engine had continued unabated, but now – as if to imitate old Alma Cohen, who had spent too many years of her life marching into a room and roaring to stop some argument between her sons – it burst into glorious life.

Artie and Raymond looked at one another. It took less than a second for the fury to bleed from each of their faces. Slamming the engine cover shut, Raymond slipped back into the passenger seat and grunted, ‘On your way, Artie. Nancy’ll be getting there first. Maybe we’ve got a hope, though, if all this snow slows down the horse and carriage—’

‘Horse and carriage?’ hooted Artie. ‘There you are, Ray, with another one of your romantic gestures! Horse and carriage, Ma! Can you believe it?’

In the back seat, the three Cohen women had set up a hullabaloo.

‘Just drive, Artie.’

The limousine jumped forward, gliding out across the ice-encapsulated road.

‘We’ll get you there, Ray. We’re on our way now, I promise.’ He paused. ‘Friends?’

‘Friends,’ Ray said.

‘That’s you and me, Ray. Just a couple of East End chancers, on our way to better things. Look, if there really is a war coming, it’s better we’re both in love, isn’t it? And .?.?.’ Artie could barely say the next words. They seemed to wither and die on his tongue. ‘I love you, big brother,’ he eventually grunted.

Nor could Raymond look him in the eye when he said, ‘Yeah, Artie, I love you too.’

Up above them, the snow-capped turrets of the Tower of London hurtled by.

*

Marylebone Town Hall sat like it too was a bride, wearing a deep veil of snow.

When the limousine guttered to a halt, Raymond rubbed the condensation from the window with his sleeve and saw the guests already milling outside. That gave him some hope. There was still a chance he wasn’t too late. Yet, as he emerged onto the hard-packed ground, where the trails of all their manifold guests had left indentations in the snow, he heard the bells pealing from St Mary’s and knew that the hour had already come. Before the engine was dead, he was floundering to the white marble steps, up the stairs between the hall’s great pillars, and towards the great open doors. Flurries of snow followed him as he went.

On the steps, familiar faces abounded. That they were not yet sitting had to mean something. He saw Billy Brogan and Maynard Charles. He saw Gene Sheldon and Mathilde Bourchier. Just inside the doorway, Mrs Moffatt stood alongside Archie Adams – and there, beside them, Hélène Marchmont stood in the shadow of a gentleman who radiated the elegance and grace of some elder statesman of dance. Even from behind, Raymond recognised his thick grey hair, styled like some baron from an earlier, gilded age.

‘Raymond de Guise,’ intoned Georges de la Motte, in his rich, bass voice, ‘did I teach you nothing about making an entrance?’

Raymond staggered to a halt. ‘She isn’t here yet?’

‘Raymond, by tradition, the groom arrives first.’

‘Then I made it!’

Georges gazed upon his former protégé with an expression of astonishment.

As Raymond straightened himself, Hélène rushing to tidy the creases in his shirt and morning jacket, he heard Artie calling for him somewhere behind. When he looked back through the open doors, he could see that his mother had slipped on the ice and was being hoisted back to her feet by Aunts May and Rebecca – but, before they climbed the town hall steps, there came another sound: the striking of hooves on the road outside.

It was the signal everybody needed. Soon, all the milling guests were flocking past Raymond, along the corridor and into a hall panelled in oak, where chairs were arrayed around a simple table adorned with flowers, and the ceiling tiles decorated in bas-relief.

Bustling their mother and aunts past, Artie grabbed Raymond by the arm.

‘I told you we’d get you here, you old blackguard.’

‘You’ve got the rings, Artie?’

Artie began to pat each of his pockets, his face etched in a pantomime of panic.

‘I’ve got them, Ray,’ he finally said, laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘When are you going to learn to trust old Artie?’

Together, they hurried into the hall. At the table in front, the solemn-faced registrar was waiting.

As they crossed the room, one other figure caught Raymond’s eye. There was Vivienne Edgerton, sitting alone at the end of one row, her folded hands barely enough to conceal the secret she’d been carrying so long. They were whispering about her in the rows behind. Some of them were staring fixedly – but Vivienne herself sat with her head held high, refusing to be cowed.

Artie lifted his brows. ‘Hullo there, Viv,’ he said, grinning as they passed.

Vivienne flushed a deep scarlet, but after that she could not conceal her cheer; in the corner of his eye, Raymond saw her smirking. What kind of a wonder was this: whispers were flurrying in every corner of the hall, meaning to do her down, but all it took was the flash of a smile from Artie to put her world to rights.

They had hardly reached the head of the hall and made their introductions to the registrar when Raymond heard the footsteps somewhere behind him: the clicking of heels on the marble floor outside. Soon, an expectant hush had settled over the oaken hall. Soon, he could hear the other guests cooing, the ripple of whispers and, here and there, a smattering of eager applause.

‘You may as well look,’ whispered Artie, out of the side of his mouth. ‘You’ll see her soon enough.’

So he did.

The doors at the bottom of the hall had opened, and through them appeared Rosa and Ruth, each in the eggshell-blue dresses they’d bought. As they approached, the door behind them opened again – and there, in its frame, stood Nancy and Frank, their arms intertwined, locked closely together as they began the approach.

The whole hall was on their feet now, but through the sea of people, Raymond met Nancy’s eyes.

The dress she was wearing.

The chain that glittered around her neck.

The way the chambermaids had fixed her hair, so that there was nowhere to hide from the simple, faultless beauty of her eyes.

Nancy Nettleton.

In mere moments, she was going to be his wife – and Raymond de Guise, who had waltzed with princesses, who had foxtrotted across the Continent in the company of lords, who had been courted, at home and away, as a star for the ages, had never been happier in all of his life.

*

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ announced Archie Adams, up on stage with the rest of the orchestra. ‘May I introduce – Mr and Mrs Raymond de Guise!’

The stage doors opened – and there, framed between them, stood Raymond and Nancy, man and wife.

‘Shall we?’ Raymond whispered.

Nancy looked at him and squeezed tight on his hand.

‘Let’s,’ she whispered in return.

‘Watch me for the changes,’ said Raymond. ‘And have fun, Mrs de Guise!’

The band struck up.

It was a slow number – at first. One of Archie’s old-time waltzes, it began luxuriously, and Nancy and Raymond sailed into it with the elegance of the old world. Somewhere in the heart of the dance floor, Raymond lifted Nancy for the first time and, holding her poise, she allowed herself to be whirled around, so that she could see – rushing by in fits of colour – all the guests who’d come to her wedding, and the others who were joining them for the reception. The rest of the chambermaids, wearing the gowns they’d saved for all year, were crowding at the balustrade, overwhelmed to see the Grand Ballroom come to life for the very first time. Raymond’s family were cheering, as loud and uncouth as they liked, for their new family member – and there stood Vivienne between them, Artie on one side and Alma on the other. Nancy caught only a fleeting sight of her, but seeing the expression on her face lifted her heart – for it seemed like Vivienne Edgerton truly belonged. If they were still whispering about her here – and surely they were, because gossip and rumour did not end, not even for a wedding – they would go unheard. Everywhere was love.

The moment Nancy’s feet touched the ballroom floor, the band changed number. On the edge of the dance floor, where Rosa stood with Ruth, faces screwed up in consternation. No one had ever heard Archie Adams play a number quite like this.

Rosa recognised it straight away. It was the Benny Goodman hit, ‘Peckin’’. Hardly a year old, already it felt like a standard. She’d danced to it a hundred times with Frank, up in the kitchenette with the gramophone turning, or out on a Saturday night. But to hear it in the rarefied grandeur of the Grand Ballroom was to hear it as it had never been before. And to see Raymond and Nancy de Guise turning it around each other, freewheeling with skips and hops, coming together and apart again, was something more magical still. Soon, she could feel its rhythm rippling around the room.

The song reached its climax. It swelled and swelled again .?.?.

The doors at the back of the dance floor opened up, and out streamed Hélène Marchmont, in the arms of Georges de la Motte; Jonas Holler whirling with Karina Kainz; all of the dancers of both companies, launching into wild, ecstatic jives of their own.

And, last of all, Rosa’s own Frank Nettleton, soaring into view with Mathilde Bourchier in his arms.

Rosa thrilled. Frank looked resplendent in a suit of navy blue, with his hair coiffured in a way that made him seem like Raymond de Guise in miniature. Mathilde might have stood three inches taller than him – and she in a gown that drew every eye, of silver satin and golden brocade – but there was something in the way Frank moved that sent yet more waves of joy around the ballroom. He was the heart of the storm, turning like a dervish around Mathilde, hopping and weaving and kicking, describing such beautiful arcs that, when Georges de la Motte sailed by, he gazed on the boy with a look as if he was giving a blessing.

Even Maynard Charles, who stood with his hands folded in the small of his back at the head of the balustrade, seemed to approve.

‘Your young man has spirit,’ he said simply, as he lifted himself and walked past.

‘He does, doesn’t he, Ruthie? My Frank? Maybe Mr Charles really might give him his chance this time.’

From the dance floor, Frank had caught her eye. She thought she had never seen him so alive.

Ruth’s eyes were on Mathilde.

‘Don’t you get jealous, Rosa?’

‘Jealous? Me?’

‘Why, of Frank and that beautiful girl. She’s younger than we are, Rosa, and she’s so .?.?. beautiful.’

‘Oh, Ruth, you’d think you were jealous of Frank!’

Before Ruth could answer, the Archie Adams Orchestra brought the number to its triumphant close. Archie stood, opening his arms to the whole hallowed hall, and cried out, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, at your leisure!’

It was the cue everyone was waiting for. In moments, guests were flocking down for perhaps their only chance of dancing in the famous Grand. Alma was wrestling some poor unsuspecting footman onto the dance floor. Chambermaids were tumbling over each other to grab the hands of the best-looking porters and concierges. Alone among them all, only Mrs Moffatt seemed to be showing any decorum. Ruth had never seen her look quite as elegant before. Without her apron, and with her hair pinned up, Mrs Moffatt looked ten years younger than she ever had.

On the dance floor, Frank and Mathilde had come apart – and, as Mathilde was swept into the arms of some other suitor, Frank whirled Rosa around on the spot. In moments, the orchestra had struck up a new number: another wild, energetic jitterbug. Ruth gazed on – first at Raymond and Nancy, the centre of it all, and then at Frank and Rosa, who were making miniature whirlwinds of their own. Rosa was right, she reckoned. She was jealous. She’d been resisting the feeling all year. But, as she gazed on them now, some other piece of the puzzle was becoming clear to her. It wasn’t that she wanted Raymond for her own. It wasn’t that she dreamed of cuddling up with Frank. It wasn’t even that she wanted the same sense of union and belonging that Nancy and Rosa had found – though, to be sure, that was a part of it as well. She smiled, softly, to herself. She wanted what they had, that was true. But she wanted something different as well .?.?.

She was pulled from these thoughts by a tapping on her shoulder, and a familiar voice that said, ‘Hullo, Ruth.’

There was Billy. She had to admit that he was looking handsome. He was wearing a black evening jacket and maroon waistcoat, and at his neck a cravat of the type she’d seen continentals wear. He’d slicked back his hair with pomade and, if you squinted properly, there was even something debonair about how he looked today.

He was nervous as well. That was something she hadn’t seen before.

‘Billy,’ she ventured, ‘I haven’t seen you in weeks.’

‘I’ve been moved to the post room.’ He shrugged. ‘Important business, for Mr Charles. Well, we’ve all got to make sacrifices for the good of the hotel, haven’t we? And .?.?.’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, Ruth, enough hotel talk! We’re here for a wedding. And .?.?. you’re not dancing. So I wondered – would you dance with me? Now, look, I know what you’re thinking. Billy Brogan can’t dance! But I’ve been practising and I’m getting better and maybe, just maybe—’

‘I’ll dance with you.’

Billy had blathered on for another ten seconds before he registered what she’d said, blinked and asked, ‘Really?’

‘Come on,’ Ruth said, ‘before I change my mind.’

Down on the dance floor, Billy tried to let the music flow through him, just like Frank had said. He turned to the music, he kicked and he hopped – and when, half a song in, he began to sense that people were dancing away from him, as if fearful they might be caught in the fallout from some disastrous move, he retreated inside himself, counting out loud. One, two .?.?. three, four .?.?. One, two .?.?. three, four .?.?. Something must have been wrong, because even counting wasn’t working. Soon, he had abandoned that as well, and just let it happen instead. The most amazing thing was: Ruth even let him.

‘Well,’ said Billy, when the orchestra was getting ready for another number, ‘maybe we should .?.?.’

Ruth grinned. ‘A glass of champagne?’

‘That sounds like just the ticket.’

Back at the balustrade, they watched the others cavort. Slowly, inch by inch, Billy danced his fingers along the rail, until they touched hers.

Ruth let them linger there for a time, before withdrawing her hand.

‘I’m sorry, Billy,’ she said, barely loud enough to hear.

‘It’s all right,’ said Billy. ‘It really is. I’ve known it all year, Ruth. In here – in my heart. It’s not anyone’s fault who they fall for, is it? Them out there, they’re the lucky ones – they fell in love with each other, right here in the hotel. It isn’t like that for everyone. Sometimes, you don’t know who you’re going to fall for, until it hits you in the face, and .?.?. You’re special, Ruth. You act like you ain’t, but I reckon you are. It’s your choice who you fall for – if you fall for anyone at all! And I hope you do, because—’

‘Shhh, Billy.’

He looked at her, and she was smiling.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘We can be friends, can’t we? We can have a laugh together? This year, Ruth, it’s—’

‘Nearly over,’ said Ruth.

Yes, thought Billy, but the rest of it isn’t.

The sneaking and the spying. The shadow men, trying desperately to waylay and propagate wars. The tasks Mr Charles asked of him, which seemed to be growing darker by the day. In the middle of all that, he needed some light. If it wasn’t to be love, it could at least be friendship.

‘I need to laugh,’ he said. ‘Who knows what next year’s going to bring? 1939, a mystery waiting to be solved! Until then, Ruth, it’d be nice to have a friend. It’d be nice to laugh.’

Ruth nodded. In the confusion of her heart, that was what she needed too.

‘Well, if it’s a laugh you need, then perhaps,’ she dared to say, ‘we ought to get dancing again?’

Billy Brogan smirked.

*

After the dancing: the dinner.

The staff in the Queen Mary restaurant, though under strict instructions not to neglect their duties to the hotel, had worked tirelessly to provide the de Guise wedding with the most delectable dinner with which a newly-wed couple had ever treated their guests. And so it was that, around the great dining tables set up in the Grand, Raymond and Nancy de Guise began their married life by breaking the crust of a Lancashire hotpot and toasting their guests.

Hélène Marchmont counted herself fortunate to have been seated beside Louis Kildare. It was, she supposed, a generosity on Raymond’s part to sit her with her very best friend. There was something about being here in the Grand, and not having to indulge anybody by stepping into their embrace, that pleased her. Perhaps the feeling would not last long, but today she felt freer than she had in weeks.

The toasts were about to begin. At the head table, Artie Cohen – who looked like a scurrilous imitation of his brother – was getting to his feet, unfurling a scrappy-looking leaf of paper and sizing up his audience.

Louis leaned close and said, ‘There’s a man who looks like he holds some secrets. What do you think he has up his sleeve, Hélène?’

Hélène whispered, ‘Nothing like the secret we kept, Louis, I’m sure of it.’

And Louis laughed. ‘Raymond has skeletons in his wardrobe. I’m sure of it.’ He paused, the laughter draining from his voice. ‘Hélène, we haven’t talked in so long. What Archie found for you, in Chicago .?.?.’

At the head table, Artie Cohen had lifted his champagne flute and, taking a little silver spoon, began tinkling out a melody on its rim. Table by table, an expectant silence spread across the Grand Ballroom.

‘Later, Louis,’ Hélène whispered – and, before she could say any more, Artie had begun.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, that was a show.’

Artie clapped his hands. At his side, Raymond – his hand clutching Nancy’s under the table – seemed to tense. The fact that his brother had no prepared notes in his hand was making his stomach sink.

‘Most of you don’t know me, but my name is Arthur Cohen, and I have had the honour and responsibility of being your man Raymond’s little brother ever since I was born. Yes, ladies and gents, when your dashing, debonair lead dancer was but a squalling little pup, there was I, right at his side. Raymond’s two years older than me, but even when we were little I still had a wiser head on my shoulders than your Ray would ever develop. Yes, if it wasn’t for me, Raymond might never have made it through those early years. He might never have become the man we see before us today – the man who, at long, long, long last, has had his feet brought back to ground by the love of our dear Nancy Nettleton. Because, you see, though you know him as Raymond de Guise, the darling of the ballroom, the truth is that our story begins in much less salubrious surroundings. Ladies and gentlemen, let me take you back to the beginning.?.?.’

So this is how it’s going to be, thought Hélène – and, as Artie Cohen rambled on, in a style fit more for a hearth or the back room of some East End taproom than the luxurious setting in which they now gathered, he matched her expectations word for word.

There had been a time, only a few short years ago, when the truth of Raymond’s upbringing had been a closely guarded secret at the Buckingham. The arrival of Nancy Nettleton had put paid to all that; as soon as she had entered his life, his secrets had started to disintegrate. Now, there were few in the hotel who didn’t know the story of how Ray Cohen had escaped the impoverishment of his childhood, rising up through the dance halls and competitions, into the tutelage of Georges de la Motte, and greater glories beyond. But to hear it told with such passion and drama – and not to mention the brotherly jibes that kept flying – was to hear it as if for the first time.

‘Of course,’ Artie said, getting ready to raise his glass, ‘we all thought he was lost. Lost to ballrooms and palaces. Lost to places as grand as this one we’re standing in right now. Lost, if I may say so, in his own dreams. Good luck to him, we thought. Maybe we’d catch sight of him one day, our dear, darling Ray, on the billboards in Piccadilly Circus. But then along came Nancy Nettleton. A force of nature, ladies and gentlemen. A force of goodness. An angel, in a chambermaids’ apron, who took one look at our Ray and decided she was going to save him from himself.’

Artie turned from Raymond, who had been weathering the storm with good cheer, and faced Nancy. For the first time, though the twinkle remained in his eyes, he was hushed and serious.

‘Nancy, we couldn’t ask for a finer girl to join our family – and, though we won’t share the same name, we’ll forever count you a Cohen at heart. You have come into our lives and shown us that there is goodness everywhere in the world, if only you care to find it – in gilded palaces like this, or the down-and-out corners where the Daughters of Salvation do all their work. But, more than anything, you’ve brought out the very best in my brother. You’re kind and gentle – and a little bossy, if I’m honest, every now and then. And that’s what my brother needs. You complement each other more beautifully than two ballroom dancers ever did. There isn’t anything more important than being with the people you love’ – here, if Hélène was not mistaken, Artie’s eyes flashed to Vivienne Edgerton – ‘and especially in times like the ones we’re living through right now. Nancy, we love you for it, and we always will.’

Now that he’d said what he needed to say, the devil came back to Artie Cohen. He thrust his glass high, sloshing champagne over his own head, and cried out, ‘To Mr and Mrs Raymond de Guise!’

All around the ballroom, the cheers rose high.

As Artie sat down and, at the other end of the table, Frank nervously rose, the hubbub of quiet conversation could be heard rippling around. Catching Louis’s eye, Hélène said, ‘It’s what everybody needs, isn’t it? What Artie said – family comes first.’

‘It’s their loss, Hélène,’ Louis whispered. ‘You gave them every chance.’

Hélène said, ‘I didn’t mean them. I mean me. What am I doing, Louis? Why is there even a choice? I can’t live my days like this. She’s growing up so fast. I should be there for her. I should be there with her.’

She tried not to focus on it, because Frank was getting ready to speak, but you did not get to choose when moments of such clarity descended on you. Suddenly, she knew.

‘I can’t last here, Louis. It’s right that I shouldn’t. I’ve been clinging on to it. Just wanting things to go back to how they were. But .?.?. how they were isn’t how they should have been. I have that choice now. I can go to Chicago and .?.?. ’

Frank stuttered out his first words and, around the Grand Ballroom, silence returned.

‘W-wow,’ he said. ‘One moment dreaming of d-dancing in here .?.?. and the next, not only d-dancing, but giving a speech as well. Where to begin .?.?. ?’

Frank might not have been the natural raconteur that Artie was, but he’d prepared so diligently that it hardly mattered. The notes were in his hand, but they were imprinted upon his heart as well.

He began to speak of his childhood: how Nancy had cooked and cleaned for him; how she’d taken him to school and read to him afterwards; how it was Nancy who’d made sure he could cope after their father’s death; Nancy who had blazed the trail that he followed down to London.

Hélène heard the tapping of footsteps behind her, and was startled to feel a hand gently touching her shoulder. When she craned around, Mr Arkwright, the day manager on the check-in desks, was behind her.

He bent low and whispered into her ear, ‘Telegram, Miss Marchmont. Delivered to the desk. I’m afraid it’s urgent.’

‘You’re my world, Nancy,’ Frank was saying, ‘but if I have to share you with Raymond, well, I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather share you with. Mr de Guise, may you treasure Nancy, as I know you will, for all of your years. May I live by the example you set together. And may we all live many years of happiness together – one family, from now and evermore – whatever the world throws in our way.’

‘Can it wait?’ asked Hélène, in a hushed whisper.

‘I’m afraid not, Miss Marchmont.’

Hélène looked at Louis, whose face was creasing in concern, and, with as little fuss as possible, followed Mr Arkwright out of the Grand.

In the reception hall, where the business of the Buckingham Hotel went on unabated, a party of Swiss financiers were checking in. Hélène slipped past them and reached the desk. Tobias Bauer was waiting in line, but she sashayed past him and took the telegram from behind the desk.

‘A messenger from the Royal Mail office arrived not ten minutes ago, Miss Marchmont.’

The paper was folded in her hands. She fancied she already knew who had sent it. Her parents had never been fond of using the telephone; they held with the older, more trustworthy ways.

She opened it up.

HéLèNE. YOUR FATHER HAS PASSED. DARLING, PLEASE BE IN TOUCH. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT TO BE READ AT LAWTON LAWTON, FRIDAY 16TH DECEMBER. WITH LOVE, AUNT LUCY.

Hélène must have stood there, lingering over the telegram for too long, because soon a voice said, ‘Is everything all right, Miss Marchmont? My poor girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

When she looked up, Bauer was standing there with an expression of such gentlemanly concern on his face that it almost thawed her. Then she said, ‘Quite all right, Herr Bauer,’ and began to drift back towards the Grand Ballroom.

When she got to the door, she saw that the guests had shifted. Many of them were still seated, but others had stood, and all were holding their champagne glasses aloft. Raymond and Nancy, still hand in hand, had left the head table and now stood together at a table near the dance floor’s edge, where a three-tier wedding cake, cloaked in white fondant with swirls etched delicately into it to give the appearance of the finest lace, was waiting to be cut. Mrs Moffatt had been the one to hand them the knife (at Nancy’s request, she had been the one to bake the cake itself, though the decoration had been left to an artist from a Regent Street boutique), and now she was hurrying back to a seat beside Archie Adams.

Hélène looked over it all. The guests held their breath while, as one, Nancy and Raymond brought the knife down, carving a thin slice. And it hit Hélène, then, as she saw the smile that lit up Nancy’s face, how simple things could be, if you stepped back from the splendour, if you closed yourself off from the clamour of voices, if you knew what your heart had been telling you all along.

There wasn’t much you needed in life. There was the air that you breathed. There was the food that you ate. And, to give everything meaning, there was the love that you felt.

It didn’t have to be the love of a husband, nor lover.

It could be the love of the girl who called you ‘Mama’ and clung on so tight every time you had to leave.

It wasn’t so hard, when it came down to it. The truth was, it had been staring her in the face all along. Perhaps all she’d needed was for the story of her old family to truly end, before she could start forging the story of the new: just Hélène, Sybil, and the city of Chicago.

The Archers would be heartbroken, and this would forever cause her pain. But she’d make love replace that regret. Sybil would feel that love, and that would make everything worthwhile.

In the ballroom, Archie had left Mrs Moffatt behind and wended his way to his piano. So had Georges de la Motte. Together, they were weaving a song. Georges had a rich, baritone voice. It rose up and filled the vaulted ceiling above.

On a night like this, wonders could happen.

She felt as light as the air.