The first was how opulent, how grand the crystal chandeliers, the thick rugs, the vases filled with elaborate floral arrangements, the gilded mirrors and the people walking through the palatial hall appeared to be. It all reminded me of the dolls and the dollhouse Diana and I had once played with as children, a fantasy world with imaginary people. The second was how absolutely out of place I was, how I had most certainly taken a wrong turn when I’d made the rash decision to shake myself from my melancholy. I should have opted for a weekend in the Cotswolds instead.
The bar to the left seemed filled with more well-dressed people, all having highbrow conversations because they looked the sort to know a lot about everything. A burst of laughter floated out from the dimly lit room, and I found myself cringing, certain that they must be laughing at me.
Another uniformed man approached and introduced himself as the hallway manager, his French name quickly forgotten in my embarrassment at being noticed, then escorted me to a desk near the bottom of the wrought-iron wrapped staircase. I peered past the enormous tapestry hanging on the stairwell wall, upward through the loops of gleaming brass banisters to the upper floors.
A woman’s voice caught my attention. “I thought this was the Paris Ritz and not some hourly motel. Because I just can’t understand why the flowers that arrive in my room in the morning are sad little crawdads on the wrong end of a fishing net by afternoon. You must be giving me day-old flowers, which isn’t what I expected at all. If you can’t get it right, then I’d prefer no flowers in my room at all.” Her words were light and airy, carrying with them a strong accent that brought to mind Scarlett O’Hara. I turned with interest, as it wasn’t just the accent that reminded me of that particular indomitable and stubborn heroine.
“Miss Dubose, I assure you,” began the young man behind the desk in perfect English, his face a mask of understanding. “Our flowers are cut fresh every morning. Perhaps they’re sitting in the sun in your room? We can certainly place the vase . . .”
“Pardon me,” I said, a feeling of familiarity a welcome reprieve. If there was one thing I knew, it was flowers. I’d had my own flower patch in my mother’s garden since I was small, kneeling in the dirt beside her as she worked. I was more at home with my hands in the rich soil than holding a delicate teacup. The hardest part about doing without during the war had been the requisitioning of my flower garden to grow vegetables.
The woman looked at me, and I realized we were both tall, our eyes level. She was older than me, perhaps in her late forties, but it was hard to judge by exactly how much because of her exquisite skin and flawless makeup. Beneath her elegant hat, her hair was that lovely color of blond that caught the light at every angle, and her slender figure was evident from her form-fitting silk skirt and jacket in the most extraordinary color that reminded me of the sunsets over the lake at Langford Hall.
She was looking at me expectantly, so before my better judgment could intervene, I pressed on. “You see, if one should sear the stems in boiling water, the blooms will perk up as if they’d just been cut from the garden. And a drop of bleach in the vase is all they’ll need to remain shipshape for two to three days.”
The woman didn’t say anything as her gaze swept my person from head to toe and then back again. Then she turned toward the young man behind the desk and said, “That sounds like very good advice. I would appreciate it if your people would do as . . .” She paused, waiting.
“Mrs. Langford,” I supplied.
“As Mrs. Langford has suggested.”
The man nodded once. “Of course, Miss Dubose. I will see to it personally.”
Miss Dubose turned to me again, her clear blue gaze on me. “You’re British, aren’t you, dear?”
I frowned, having the distinct impression that it hadn’t been my accent that had given me away. “Yes, actually. I am.”
She smiled tolerantly as if she might be speaking with a young child with food on her face. “Of course you are. I’m American. From Memphis, Tennessee,” she said as if I’d asked. “Are you staying at the Ritz?”
“I’m just now checking in.” I looked expectantly across the desk.
The young man handed me a key. “Everything is arranged, Madame Langford. Enjoy your stay.”
Miss Dubose reached over and took the key from his hand. “Really, Jacques. Is that the best you can do for Madame Langford? She’s come all the way from England, has just given you expert advice on keeping flowers fresh, and you give her a tiny room on the wrong side of the hotel? That won’t do. Please find her another room—preferably one of the suites on the Vend?me side?”