Maisie stumbled.
The bar, you idiot. He means the bar at the Savoy. Was that the sort of place these people went after work? Her presence on its pavement would provide the doorman with a good laugh before he directed her back to the main road.
The voice continued. “They’ve got a new bartender, straight from the 300 Club in New York!”
“Any man can mix a drink, he puts his mind to it. Tell me when they’ve got that Texas Guinan and her girls!”
He pronounced it “Gwynen.”
Quite unintentionally, Maisie stopped and spoke into the din.
“Guy-nan. Her name, it’s pronounced Guy-nan. And she’s not one of the . . . er, dancers. She owns the club.”
And was, allegedly, a friend of Georgina, though a life’s experience had taught Maisie to query any information that sprang from the maternal font. Georgina described Texas Guinan as “no actress, nor beauty, but she has a force of personality, child (which Maisie still had to be, as Georgina never aged). Well worth cultivating” (because what else were people but hothouse lettuces?).
Through the vapor of her rising mortification, Maisie felt several people staring at her in amused interest, spurring a sudden fondness for her own well-cultivated disguise of Invisible Girl, the foe she had made friend, usually so useful in cloaking her. Even Rusty had abandoned his sacred duty to gaze upon his charge in wonder.
A young man loped up to her, all sunshine grin and summer freckles. His hair flopped over one side of his head in untidy brown curls, and he wore fashionable baggy trousers and what Maisie guessed was a school tie.
“You’re American?” he asked in a well-bred accent. “Are you from New York? You are, aren’t you?”
Maisie struggled to remember how to breathe. That grin. Those freckles.
“Well, I . . . sort of . . . I mean, I lived . . . grew up . . . in New York, but . . .”
Rusty, remembering himself, intervened. “Ever so sorry, Mr. Underwood, sir, but I must deliver the miss to Miss Shields for an interview.”
“Oh!” The young man looked stunned. “I rather thought you must be a Matheson acquisition.”
“Not likely,” someone said, and sniggered. A chorus of whispers ensued.
“Well, enjoy Miss Shields, then,” Mr. Underwood encouraged. Sapphire eyes smiled, charmer to her snake, but his tone suggested enjoyment was futile.
Maisie wished the blush burning her face and neck was hot enough to turn the floor liquid and let her sink into nothingness. She trotted robotically behind Rusty, taking no notice of the number of stairs, only waking up when they reached a hushed corridor, more polished and solemn than the lower floors, with every door closed.
Rusty strode up to one of the doors, gave it a respectful knock, then edged it open.
“Miss Shields, Miss Musgrave for you, miss,” Rusty announced in his best impression of refinement.
“Thank you, Rusty,” came a ringing voice. Maisie forced herself into the office, hoping her blush had dissipated. Miss Shields looked down her nose at Maisie, her handsome features unblemished by such frivolities as a smile. She wore a brown tweed suit whose simple lines spoke the epitome of quiet good taste. A gold watch was pinned to the lapel, reminding Maisie of the Sisters in the hospital, except their watches didn’t feature a spray of tiny rubies and a diamond.
“Do sit down, Miss Musgrave,” came the invitation, polite enough. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
Maisie hesitated. She never turned down refreshment on principle, and all the chill November had to offer had seeped through her worn shoes. On the other hand, she was shaking enough to possibly upset that tea all over her thighs. But this was not the sort of woman who brooked refusals, so Maisie nodded and smiled.
“Yes, please, thank you. Very much.”
Miss Shields gave Rusty the order. Maisie waited awkwardly, feeling rather than seeing the room, hot little pinpricks of excitement dancing up her limbs, forming pools of sweat under her arms. Quite a thing, sitting in an office all your own. Miss Shields’s chair had curved arms and swiveled. Maisie longed for every bit of it, and wondered how fast the chair spun around.
“Would you like milk? Sugar?” Miss Shields asked.
“Yes, please, both, thank you,” said Maisie, wishing the bounty extended to a tea cake or even just a cookie (or “biscuit,” as she’d taught herself to say). She didn’t remember what it was like not to be hungry in the long hours before supper.