The Girl from the Savoy Read Online Free PDF Page A

a wilted version of myself in shades of tea and stout as I place my shoes on the hearth, despairing at the dull practicality of them. More than any cap or apron, I’ve always felt it is a maid’s shoes that really distinguishes “Them” from “Us.” I stand in front of the fire, first to the front, then to the back, just like I did as a young girl standing beside my two sisters, our reedy bodies convulsing as we tried to get warm after the weekly bath. I smile at the memory. What would they say if they could see me now, standing half naked in The Savoy hotel in London? I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent prayer to them.
    When I’m a little warmer I take the photograph from my coat pocket and set it on the hearth to dry. “We made it,” I whisper, resting my fingers lightly on the image of his face, my heart contracting and expanding in great waves at the thought of him. Beside the photograph and my shoes, I lay out the pages of music, wishing I could understand the black dots and squiggles dancing across the lines. The heat from the fire lifts the faintest scent of him from the paper: whiskey and cigarettes.
    Perry Clements. Peregrine Clements. Mr. Clements.
    The name skips through my mind as I picture him staggering to his feet; fox-fur hair, gray puddles for eyes. The thought of our brief encounter sends goose bumps running over my skin and makes me smile, and yet at the same time I am saddened to know that it is someone other than Teddy who occupies my thoughts and sets my heart racing.
    I always knew the day would come.
    I always knew it would be too soon.
    I have to leave, Teddy. For reasons I can’t explain, I have to go away. I will never stop loving you, and if only things were different there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side.
    My thoughts are disturbed as the bedroom door flies open and three maids come tumbling in. I shriek and run to my bed, pulling off the counterpane and wrapping it around my shoulders to cover myself. I recognize Sissy from the maids’ room. She takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.
    â€œI’d get dressed if I were you,” she says, throwing herself down onto the bed beside mine and putting on a snooty accent. “This isn’t one of those hotels. This , darling, is The Savoy!”

3
LORETTA
    â€œHope is a dangerous thing, darling. It is usually followed by disappointment and too much gin.”
    T he soothing lilt of the piano drifts around the Winter Garden at Claridge’s. With a pleasing jazz medley the pianist captivates us all, the music mingling with polite chatter and the jangle of silver teaspoons against fine china cups. The sounds of afternoon tea. The sounds of luxury.
    I sit alone at my usual table for two, my brother being habitually late. One would think I would be used to his tardiness by now, but I find it irksome and unnecessary. Seated behind a huge date palm, I at least have a little privacy while I wait. A little, but not too much. The spaces between the foliage afford the guests an occasional glimpse, sending whispered speculations racing across the crisp white tablecloths. “Is it her?” “I thought she was in Paris.” “Yes, I’m certain it’s her.”
    I smile. Let them whisper and wonder. It is, after all, part of the performance.
    I sip my cup of Earl Grey as I watch the raindrops slip down the windowpanes. Mother always insists that tea tastes better when it rains, something to do with precipitation and dampness bringing out the flavor in the leaves. She is full of such tedious nonsense. Itis one of the reasons I visit her as infrequently as possible. The fact that she can barely stand to be in the same room as me being another. In any event, despite the inclement weather, my tea tastes peculiar, and there is nothing more unsettling than peculiar-tasting tea, particularly at Claridge’s.
    I sniff the milk jug as discreetly as it is possible for