Collum glanced at Phoebe, then Doug. “You two?”
“Gah, Coll,” Phoebe snipped. “We’ve got it, aye? I’m the new Lady Airth’s lady’s maid, sent by her git of a betrothed to serve on her journey.” She flicked a finger in Doug’s direction, though I noticed she still wouldn’t look at him. “He is valet to his Lordship’s barrister. And you . . .” She poked a finger hard into Collum’s vest-covered chest. “Are nothing but a boot-scraping serving lad, so get to work and leave us to do ours.”
The sting in Phoebe’s tone, so unlike her usual, cheery demeanor, took everyone aback, even Collum. To my astonishment, he nodded and stepped back, raising his voice only to be heard over the sidewalk clamor as he stooped to unlatch the folded steps attached to the side of the carriage.
“We’ll just be getting your luggage down then, sir, miss.”
Mac got out first, then helped me alight. As I wobbled to the sidewalk, Phoebe scurried after, straightening my gown and tucking stray hairs back beneath the massive hat, fussing around me, playing her role to perfection.
Doug’s entire demeanor changed as he took the bag from Mac and stepped back, head bowed as he assumed his part as Mac’s valet.
“Remember,” Mac murmured quietly to me as he straightened the bowler hat over his balding pate and jerked the wrinkles out of his coat. “If I have any trouble with the manager, you act the Southern belle. The staff won’t be able to resist helping a spoiled little rich girl.”
“Let me fix that for you, miss,” Phoebe said loudly, re-adjusting a pin where one of my curls had sprung loose.
“Ow,” I grumbled as pointed metal scraped across my scalp. “Spoiled brat, huh?” I said under my breath. “I don’t see that being a huge problem.”
Mac winked, and turned toward the bellhops lined up beneath the canopy that sheltered the ornate entrance. They exchanged glances before hurrying forward, likely bewildered at our lack of luggage. Most were probably used to guests who brought half their household rather than two sad-looking bags.
“My good man.” Mac addressed the oldest bellhop, a graying man with the most gold braid adorning his burgundy uniform. “If you could see us to your manager at once. The young miss here has had a horrific experience and is in sore need of rest and refreshment.”
That was my cue. Fluttering a hand at my throat, I tried to look petulant and pitiful all at once. After what we’d just been through, it wasn’t a big stretch.
“Right away, sir.” ?The bellhop bowed. “This way, sir. Miss.”
Mac tapped his gold-headed cane on the sidewalk and offered me an arm. As Doug and Phoebe took their assigned spots behind us, I half turned to Collum. “Oh, and get our bags, won’t you, boy?”
He tipped his flat cap and picked up the small—?the only—?leather traveling case we’d managed to save. Though he kept up the blank servant’s fa?ade, I saw his eyes tighten at the corners just a bit. Turning the snort that followed into a delicate, ladylike cough, I flipped a curl over one shoulder and sauntered through the double doors into the Waldorf Hotel.
Chapter 19
AN OLDER MAN IN A CUTAWAY BLACK SUIT MET THE senior bellhop at the door and gave our bedraggled lot a sly inspection. After a quick conference, the new man turned to us and bowed.
“I’ll fetch Mr. Oscar, shall I?” he said. “If you’d kindly have a seat for just one moment.”
From the instant we’d stepped through the heavy brass doors into the elegant lobby, I’d been trying not to gawp. It was hard. Soaring frescoed ceilings. Marble floors. Enormous mirrors that reflected golden light from ornate chandeliers. Everything was gilded and exquisite and perfect. Even the air smelled gorgeous, perfumed by massive floral arrangements tucked into golden vases.
“Cheese ’n crackers,” Phoebe whispered in an awed tone as she nervously smoothed down the front of her black maidservant’s gown.
“Easy now,” Mac muttered under his breath. “This should be the easy part.”
At this early hour, the expansive lobby was relatively empty, though guests—?mostly men in tweeds or black suits—?occasionally descended the curving double staircase. Some exited. But most crossed to a pair of walnut doors labeled with a brass sign that read MEN’S CAFé. Each time the uniformed attendant opened the doors for a guest, I caught a glimpse of dark paneling, leather chairs, and cast-iron chandeliers strung from stout chains. As the doors closed behind each gentleman, the scents of coffee, alcohol, and cigars wafted our way.
Rarely, the men escorted a corseted wife or daughter. Invariably, the women split off to disappear behind a set of white and gilt doors on the opposite side of the lobby. The plaque beside that segregated area read LADIES’ RECEPTION.
“Nice.” Phoebe scowled at the darkly paneled doors. “Hey, Hope, what do you say we hold a protest? Just march into that man cave over there and demand a brandy and cigar?”
“I like it. Let’s go freak ’em the hell out.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Collum growled.
“Jeez, relax, Coll,” Phoebe said. “We’re joking . . . and besides, it’s early yet for brandy. Wonder if they’d make us bloody marys instead.” Her mouth pursed. “Um, has the bloody mary been invented yet, Hope?”
“Nope. Not till 1921, by a Parisian bartender named Fernand Petiot. But we could show them how—”
Mac wheeled on us, though I saw him hide a grin beneath the fake walrus mustache Moira had glued into place. “Enough, girls. You’ll make poor Collum’s head explode. And must I remind you—?ah . . .”
A young man with the posture and perfectly pressed suit of an authority figure approached our group and bowed. “Good morning, sir. Miss. Welcome to the Waldorf Hotel. I am Oscar. And how may I be of service?”
The hard v’s and k’s of the man’s accent hinted at eastern Europe, and as I nodded a greeting, I realized we were meeting none other than Oscar Tschirky. Also known as Oscar of the Waldorf, the man who served brilliantly as ma?tre d’h?tel of the Waldorf—?and then the Waldorf-Astoria—?for fifty years and was credited with inventing the famous Waldorf salad, along with other culinary masterpieces.
As with any exclusive hotel in our own time, most guests would have made reservations weeks in advance. Step one was to convince this dapper dude that despite appearances, we were bona fide rich folks.
“Oh, Mr. Oscar,” I said. “I am so grateful to see you. I cannot tell you the trials we have suffered. Before I left home, my dear papa told me, ‘Now, my darlin’ daughter. Soon as you get yourself to New York, you make Mr. Oscar’s acquaintance, you hear? Oscar’s a good man. He’ll take care of all your needs.’”
Oscar Tschirky didn’t bat an eyelash. “And so we shall, Miss . . . ?”