The Girl from the Savoy Read Free Page B

“I’m very sorry. I bumped into someone you see, miss, and the rain—”
    A brusque wave of the hand stops me midsentence. “Your excuses do not interest me and I most certainly do not have time for them.” She consults the watch fob again, as if it somehow operates her. “Hurry now. Get your bag. Come along.”
    She turns and sweeps from the room. I pick up my bag and scuttle along behind, following the familiar scent of Sunlight soap that she leaves in her wake. She moves with brisk neat steps, the swish swish of her skirt reminding me of Mam rubbing her hands together to warm them by the fire. We go up a short stone staircase that leads to a series of narrow sloping passageways, the plain walls lit by occasional lampless lights. We pass a large room where maids are stooped over wicker baskets sorting great piles of laundry, and another room where a printing press clicks and whirs and men with ink-stained aprons peer through spectacles at blocks of lettering. The air is laced with a thick smell of oil and tar. It is stark and industrial. Far from the sparkling chandeliers and sumptuous carpets I’d imagined.
    â€œYour reference from Lady Archer was complimentary,” O’Hara remarks, looking over her shoulder and down her nose with a manner that suggests I don’t match up at all with the girl she was expecting. “And the housekeeper spoke highly of you.”
    â€œReally? That was very kind of them.” I’m surprised. I can’t believe Lady Archer would be complimentary about anything, let alone me. I worked for her in my last position at a house in Grosvenor Square. She can’t have said more than a dozen words to me in the four years I spent there and most of them were only to remark on my appearance and suggest how it might be improved.
    â€œIt wasn’t kind, Dorothy. It was honest. Kindness and honesty are very different things. You’d be advised not to confuse one with the other.”
    We walk on a little farther until she takes a sharp left and stops. “We’ll take the service lift,” she says, checking her watch fob again and tutting to herself as she bustles me into a narrow lift and instructs the attendant to take us to second. He mutters a good afternoon before pulling the iron grille across the front and pressing a button on a panel in the wall.
    â€œI presume you haven’t been in an electric lift before,” O’Hara says as the contraption jolts to life and we start our ascent.
    â€œNo. I haven’t.” I push my palms against the wall to steady myself as the passage slips away beneath us. I’m not sure I like the feeling.
    â€œThe Savoy is the first hotel to be fully equipped with electricity,” she continues. “Electric lifts, electric lighting—and centrally heated, of course. No doubt there’ll be plenty of new experiences for you here.” She pushes her shoulders back and stands proud. “You’ll soon get used to it.”
    â€œYes. I suppose I will.” The sensation of the lift makes me queasy. My mouth feels dry. I could murder a brew.
    Stepping out of the lift, I follow O’Hara along another corridor and into a large room, similar to the servants’ room at Mawdesley Hall. She tells me this is the Staff Hall Maids’ Room, where I will take all my meals. At least a dozen maids sit around a long wooden table, their faces lit by electric globe lights suspended on a pulley from the ceiling. The walls are distempered a sickly mustard yellow.
    O’Hara waves an arm toward the table. “I’m sure you’re capable of introducing yourselves. Afternoon break is ten minutes. Breakfast, lunch, and supper are all served in here. The tea urn can be temperamental. Wait there.”
    She departs in a rustle of silk. I put my bag down and shove my hands into my coat pockets. “Seems like the tea urn isn’t the only thing that’s