The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro

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      Mrs Ronald, the Head of Housekeeping, leaned back in her chair and sighed. ‘This is very unusual. We normally go through an agency. This is not how it’s done at all, Mr Dorsey. Not at all.’

      Antoine d’Orsey, the Senior Sous-chef, stood very still but said nothing, staring patiently at the space between his feet on the floor. He was making an awkward request and, in his experience, the most effective way to get what he wanted was to simply wait it out. Years of marriage had taught him that; say what you want and then hold your ground. Also, after working at the Hotel (as the Warwick was known to the staff who ran it) since it opened, he was familiar enough with Mrs Ronald to know that her tough exterior masked a sentimental disposition, along with a keen, practical mind. It was well known that she was short of staff and the summer season was only beginning. In the end, she needed his help too.

      Not that she was willing to admit as much. ‘Does she even speak any English?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ He shifted slightly. ‘You see, my wife has taken a job with a family in Westchester. There is nowhere else for her to go.’

      Mrs Ronald considered this, sucking hard on her back teeth. She felt for Antoine. She knew him to be hard working, quiet, stubborn; perhaps a little too fastidious. His nickname was ‘Escargot’ because the Head Chef claimed he moved at a snail’s pace. However, he was always one of the first people to arrive and one of the last to leave; a cornerstone of the kitchen staff.

      Sighing again, she surveyed the young girl who stood in front of her.

      Small and thin, she had dark hair that hung lankly to her shoulders. Her face was more unfortunate than pretty, with wide-set, oddly coloured eyes that curved upwards like a cat’s and a rather long, narrow nose. They were aquiline features, with a sensual, curving mouth that struck Mrs Ronald as somehow obscene; far too large for her face. She was dressed very plainly, in a simple navy skirt and white blouse, the inexpensive fabrics worn from use but neatly pressed. She kept her eyes on the floor.

      Mrs Ronald turned back to Antoine. ‘She doesn’t look old enough.’

      ‘She’s fourteen,’ he said. ‘She’s just small for her age. She’s already been working for two years – she has references from a family in Brooklyn.’

      ‘And why did she leave their employ?’

      ‘They were from Austria and were only here for a short time.’

      He nodded to her and the girl took an envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Mrs Ronald.

      ‘Eva,’ Mrs Ronald read aloud, her lip curling. ‘That’s an odd name. Eva Dorsey.’ She managed to make it sound ugly.

      Antoine was straining to correct her, only it did no good. Mostly he was used to his family name being butchered, flattened out to its nearest American counterpart. Today, however, it grated.

      ‘She’s my wife’s sister’s child. Both her parents are dead now. I gave her my family name when we came over.’

      There was hardness in his voice. He resented his niece’s history and there was a lot of it he avoided recounting to people like Mrs Ronald. But the last thing he wanted was anyone mistaking Eva for his own child.

      She was a quiet girl, conscientious and obedient, but he mistrusted her instinctively. Her mother had been pregnant out of wedlock and died of tuberculosis. Eva was invariably cut from the same cloth; an unwelcome drain on both his time and his resources.

      Mrs Ronald raised an eyebrow. ‘I see you worked as a lady’s maid. That might be useful.’ She handed the letter back to her. ‘We have several female guests who fancy themselves as ladies, though nothing could be further from the truth. Come here,’ she ordered. ‘Let’s see your hair.’

      Eva bent her head down while Mrs Ronald searched her scalp. ‘No sign of lice. Good. Show me your hands.’

      Eva did as she was told.

      ‘She’s clean,’ Antoine assured her. ‘My wife is very strict about that. And in good health.’

      Mrs Ronald crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘Still, it’s hard graft. I’m not convinced you could handle the work.’ (She didn’t like to give in too easily.) ‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

      Eva paused, looking from one to the other. ‘I think, ma’am, that you know best. However, I would be grateful for the opportunity to try.’

      The girl was smart and polite. And she knew how to address a superior.

      Mrs Ronald nodded. ‘I appreciate your confidence in my judgement.’

      Antoine’s shoulders relaxed.

      ‘I will take her on trial,’ Mrs Ronald decided, looking across at him. ‘I can’t promise beyond that. Now,’ she made a quick notation in the ledger in front of her, ‘there are things you need to know about working here. Be warned, Miss Dorsey. The Warwick is different from any other Hotel in New York City. And with good reason. Mr Hearst built this Hotel at the same time he built the Ziegfeld Theater. The stars from the Follies depend on us; above all, they want somewhere comfortable and discreet to stay. We are their home away from home. Everything you see, everyone you encounter, stays here, within these walls. Do you understand?’

      Eva nodded.

      ‘Many of these people are dancers, performers; they behave like cattle sometimes, believe me. However, they are still Mr Hearst’s guests. Whatever a client wants, he or she gets. And we do things here in the old-fashioned way – your presence is felt, not seen. You’re here to be part of the woodwork. That means no face powder, no jewellery, no lip rouge; caps must be worn at all times. If a guest notices you, especially a male, you’ve failed in your duties.’

      She stood up, taking a heavy set of keys from her pocket, and unlocked a closet on the far side of the office, hanging with spare uniforms. ‘I expect you to be early rather than late, to anticipate your guests’ needs rather than waiting to be called, and above all, you must be polite.’ She rummaged through, searching for the correct size as she continued, ‘We take a very serious view of stealing. Everyone is always prosecuted. No exceptions.’ She held up a grey cotton uniform. ‘This is going to be too big but I’m afraid it will have to do. Can you sew?’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      ‘Then take it in. Not too tight, mind you.’ She locked the closet again. ‘And if I hear that you’ve spoken to the press or to a gossip columnist, you can expect to pack your bags immediately. Do you understand?’

      Eva nodded.

      ‘Each chambermaid is responsible for cleaning and maintaining fifteen rooms. However, when you’re on duty, you’re entirely at the clients’ command. No request is to be denied if at all possible. We have standards here, much higher, much more obliging than other establishments.’

      She turned to Antoine. ‘I suppose she’ll need accommodation.’

      ‘Well, if it’s not too much—’

      ‘She’ll have to share,’ Mrs Ronald cut СКАЧАТЬ