Page 28 of Bookshop Cinderella

But now, as the cab rolled into the courtyard of the Savoy and Evie eyed the splashing fountain, potted trees, and elegantly liveried footmen standing by the entrance doors, she appreciated that here there would be no book to hide behind, and she was seized by an unreasoning jolt of panic. Staying with Margery, she suddenly felt, would be a much better option.

But then the cab came to a stop, and Evie was forced to shove trepidations aside as two of the footmen rushed forward, one to open the carriage door and one to remove her suitcase and hatbox from the back. If they noticed the paucity of her luggage or the decidedly middle-class cut of her clothes, they did not let on.

Evie turned toward the plate glass entrance doors and took a deep breath. “Here I go,” she muttered and started forward. “Straight into the lion’s den.”

She passed through the door held open for her by a third footman and stepped into the entrance hall, a wide expanse of Corinthian columns, black-and-white marble floors, and plush crimson carpets. Ahead of her, arched doorways framed in polished mahogany led into a dining room crowded with guests. Some of them, she noted in amazement, were women.

Nearby where she stood were more ladies, clustered around small tables and sipping cups of early tea as they engaged in conversation. Gentlemen in morning coats and cravats lounged in wingback chairs reading the papers. A woman swathed in sable strolled past where Evie stood, a Baedeker in her hand and a leashed Afghan hound by her side.

To Evie’s eyes, it was a scene of contrasts. The din of hundreds of voices poured from the dining room’s open doors, bellboys rushed to and fro with clattering luggage carts, and waiters scurried about, handing out newspapers and serving tea, but despite all the hustle and bustle, there was an air of infinite leisure about the place, giving her the distinct impression of a duck sailing smoothly across a pond with its webbed feet paddling hell-for-leather beneath the surface. It was exciting, and stylish, and terribly modern, and Evie felt more like a fish out of water than ever.

“Checking in, miss?”

Evie turned to find that the footman who’d taken her things down from the cab had vanished, and in his place was a bellboy, holding her suitcase and hatbox.

“Front desk is to your right,” he told her. “By the palm trees.”

“Ah.” Evie started to reach for her luggage, but the bellboy stepped back at once. “I’ll see to your things, shall I, miss?”

“Oh, of course,” Evie mumbled, quite self-conscious as she appreciated the fact that the Savoy wasn’t the sort of place where you did anything for yourself. “Yes, thank you.”

He didn’t depart, but waited, staring at her expectantly. “Yes?” she prompted.

“Your name, miss?”

As a fish out of water, she feared she was now flapping helplessly on the sand. “Harlow. Miss Evangeline Harlow.”

With a nod, the boy turned away and walked off with her things, and Evie made her way to the carved and gilded opulence of the front desk.

Having never stayed in a hotel in her life, she wasn’t certain how one handled the business of “checking in,” but she needn’t have worried. Upon learning her name, the clerk located her reservation in the opened volume before him. “Ah, yes, here we are,” he said, looking up. “You are staying with Lady Delia Stratham, I understand?”

Evie frowned, puzzled. She already knew, of course, that Delia lived at the Savoy, but the duke had mentioned the other woman had gone to Rome. Either way, it was clear the clerk’s question was a perfunctory one, for he turned to retrieve a key from the bank of cubicles behind him without waiting for an answer, and Evie put her bewilderment aside. Perhaps Delia had changed her mind.

“Number fifty-seven,” he informed her as he faced her again and handed over the key. “Fifth floor, of course.”

She nodded, doing her best to seem worldly and ho-hum. “Of course.”

“I shall send the bellboy up with your luggage. Would you care to go straight up, or would you like to take tea and refreshments in the restaurant after your journey?”

The question made Evie want to smile. A two-block cab ride that had taken barely five minutes was hardly a journey, but she didn’t say so. “No tea just now, thank you,” she said instead. “Which way do I go?”

“The electric lift is through there,” he said, gesturing to a doorway at the other end of the long gallery.

“Lift?” Evie’s voice squeaked as her heart gave a leap of exhilaration. She’d always wanted to ride in one of those things.

“If you prefer the stairs,” he began, seeming to take her excitement for fear.

“No, no,” she reassured him at once, laughing a little. “The lift is perfect. How do I operate it?”

The clerk smiled, making it clear that question was one he’d heard many times before. “There is a lift attendant. He will operate it for you.”

Perfectly understandable, she supposed, but a few minutes later, as she watched a boy of no more than twelve select the desired floor with the turn of a dial and send the lift carriage into motion with the pull of a lever, she couldn’t see why an attendant was needed at all. Why, operating the cash register in her shop was more complicated!

Aristocrats, she could only conclude as the boy pulled back the iron gates to let her out at the fifth floor, must need assistance with everything.

Number fifty-seven proved to be a suite three times the size of her flat, with a sitting room, two bedrooms, two dressing rooms, and a splendid view of the Thames. Between the bedrooms was a luxurious bath with a tiled floor, enormous tub, and taps for both hot and cold.

There were three marble fireplaces, thick pile carpets, electric lights, and a speaking tube to receive room service, proving that the accommodations at the Savoy were every bit as luxurious as the newspaper accounts and advertisements claimed.

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