Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Mary heard him speaking to someone behind a closed door. ‘Miss Maguire has been found. Finally. I have her here.’

  A man’s deep voice answered. ‘I’m not decent. Tell her to wait.’

  Daniel du Barry’s penthouse reflected the man he’d become since returning from the Front in 1918. Having been disillusioned by war and the feverish gaiety that followed, he’d opened himself up to new ideas. The penthouse was full of hard-edged sculpture, extraordinary modern furniture and contemporary paintings. It resembled an art gallery. Even the foyer was hung with savage Cubist and Vorticist paintings depicting men as mechanical monsters tearing the world apart. Mary felt overwhelmed by the power of the paintings but intuitively understood what the artists were getting at.

  After a few tense minutes, Sebastian unceremoniously shoved Mary through the door of the breakfast room.

  ‘In you go, Miss Maguire. And do try to keep yourself nice for a change.’

  Stuck-up prat.

  Mr du Barry was seated at a dining table in a green quilted satin dressing gown. Mary caught a quick glimpse of a broad muscular chest and flat stomach before he hastily closed the robe and retied the cord. He was unshaven with dark circles under his eyes and his slick black hair glistened with the most delectable pomade. Cor, what a nice pong. On his tanned feet Mr du Barry wore monogrammed slippers. The boss has got some top-shelf threads. But he’d still look like fucking royalty even if he had to wear a lumpy porter’s uniform.

  Daniel was the only surviving son of Maurice du Barry. His other two soldier sons had not survived the landing at Gallipoli. Maurice, a self-made man, had added the du to his name in an effort to elevate his social standing. Without actually claiming nobility, the presence of the du implied descent from a long line of aristocrats. In actual fact, Maurie Barry had founded his empire on a successful string of brothels before investing in luxury hotels. After he’d made an indecent amount of money, bought off his detractors and married a penniless but beautiful aristocrat, nobody dared question his background.

  Maurie’s only surviving son now featured regularly in the society pages and was often mentioned as being engaged to assorted beauties. Yet he never quite seemed to make it to the altar. Daniel was reputed to be witty, educated, charming and loaded. He was also a decorated war hero and, as Mary thought standing before him now, Gawd, it’s true. He really does look like a sexy leading man from the moving pictures.

  Looking around, she couldn’t believe the number of books in the apartment; it reminded her of the London Public Library. Mary had visited there once when she’d been caught short and needed to use the Ladies lavatory. Even the sofa was sagging under the weight of piles of leather-bound books. For unlike his late father, who only ever studied the racing form guide, Daniel had studied at Eton and Oxford University and was a voracious reader.

  Daniel du Barry was the troubled king surveying his kingdom from nine floors up. His long fingers toyed with a silver knife and his noble brow was furrowed. At first Mary thought he was alone but then she noticed a handsome figure in a black tuxedo lounging on a wing-backed chair. On second glance, Mary realised the gentleman was actually a cut-out, life-size painting of a blond man. His arms were cleverly hinged and had been draped over the armrests. Between his fingers burned a lit cigarette and a cup of black coffee sat untouched in front of him. The painted figure was so real that Mary thought his piercing blue eyes were glaring at her. His irises were two glittering sapphires glued onto painted eyeballs. He even sported a real white carnation in his lapel. Mary had never seen anything so bizarre in her life. And this was the girl who had turned down the bed sheets of numerous drug-addled heiresses.

  Daniel stood up. Being significantly taller than six feet, he towered over Mary and she had to look up at him. Gawd, I’m getting a cricked neck here. He gestured tersely at the baby’s soup tureen. It had been placed slap-bang in the middle of his elegant dining table. ‘Well now, Mary,’ Daniel stated in measured tones. ‘You know why you’re here. I demand an explanation as to why your baby was hidden under my drinks trolley. You’ve broken the house rules. Staff are not allowed to retain children on the premises. Furthermore, the Hotel du Barry is not a repository for illegitimate children.’

  He stared hard at her until the silence was broken by her weeping. She hoped to soften him up with a touch of the female prerogative. Mary had learnt early in life to produce tears on demand. Daniel sighed and indicated that she should sit down. He rubbed his forehead and frowned.

  ‘Does the father of your child have any intention of marrying you?’

  Mary’s mind darted around feverishly. If she admitted the baby was not hers, all hell would break loose. The entire staff would be dragged over the coals. Jim Blade reckoned the economy was in trouble and the upper and middle classes were culling the number of servants they employed. To lose a job now would be fatal. But if she claimed the baby as hers, she could blame her actions on foolish mother love and perhaps get everyone off the hook. Mary took a deep breath and simply told the truth, ‘I don’t knows the father, Sir.’

  ‘Don’t know who the father is? Come, come, Mary. Tell me his name and I’ll string the bastard up by his testicles, until he’s begging for the privilege of marrying you.’

  ‘It’s not a staff member, Sir. It mays have been a married man.’

  Mary coyly lowered her head and covered her face. Her pose signified shame and remorse. She watched him carefully through splayed fingers. Daniel was bending over the soup tureen with a look of compassion. Very gently he stroked the baby’s cheek. Her skin was exquisite, having been nourished on the best his magnificent hotel could offer. His eyes moistened.

  Mary realised, he can be had. It made her bold. She spoke up, ‘Sir, who’s that other fella sitting there?’

  ‘Mr Matthew Lamb. Surely you recognise him?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘He was ambitious. Greedy. Gave up his job as a hotel manager to become a gigolo.’

  Mary nodded wisely. ‘I knows the type.’

  ‘Matthew was clever, discreet, great company and quite manly.’ Daniel paused and turned away from her. ‘But I killed him.’

  ‘You killed him!’

  ‘He crashed the Duesy I gave him on his birthday a few months ago.’

  ‘Duesy?’

  ‘A Duesenberg automobile. A foolish gift. Matthew was a lousy driver. Slammed straight into a brick wall and died in an inferno. His passenger survived but remembered nothing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘A friend of mine – who is a psychiatrist – suggested I get a miniature portrait made of Matthew. Part of the grieving process. The theory is one must mourn to the point of no return and then resurface. Instead I had a life-size portrait made with hinged limbs. The two of us have just returned from a late-night supper party. I probably still look inebriated.’

  ‘Not at all, Sir.’

  A small lie. She’d already decided to overlook the large brandy glass in his hand.

  Daniel put the glass down. ‘I have a private box at the opera for my exclusive use. Family tradition. Last night it was La Bohème, Matthew’s favourite. He always did have a penchant for the overstated.’

  ‘But you was named Most Wanted Bachelor of the season.’

  ‘Mary, I think you actually mean Most Eligible Bachelor. Suppose it’s the same thing, really. I’m a wanted man all over Europe. Women tend to throw themselves at men who are disinterested or unavailable.’

  Mary didn’t think it wise to point out that women also tend to throw themselves at men who are filthy rich. Even if Daniel closely resembled an ogre, he’d still be considered eligible. It occurred to her that Daniel du Barry might be a bit naive. She needed to get to the bottom of the matter, ‘But don’t people stare at your Mr Lamb?’

  ‘Discretion is all. You see, Matthew folds up neatly into a specially made attaché case. Sebastian carries the case into the theatre, unfolds Matthew and props him up in the shadows. Then we can enjoy the opera in
private. Just like we used to . . . before he died.’

  Daniel emitted a strange guttural sound and dropped his head. Mary was terrified. It was the sound of an animal in gut-wrenching pain. Loud sobs surged up from his deepest most primal being. She didn’t know what to do. After all, he was her esteemed boss, an inhabitant of the upper regions of society where the air was pristine and perfumed. And being a decorated war hero he exuded toughness and virility. On the other hand, she was just penniless Mary Maguire. A girl with no family or home to call her own. And soon to be a recruit to the ranks of the unemployed. She had nothing left to lose. So Mary stepped forward and tentatively touched him.

  Daniel hadn’t expected kindness and his anguish intensified. Mary wasn’t to know this, but nobody had touched Daniel for weeks. He was lonely, unloved and skin hungry. For the first time, he allowed himself the indulgence of mourning his losses. Daniel wept for the mother who had died giving birth to him. He wept for his two older brothers and his chums who’d been cut down at Gallipoli and Flanders. He wept for the futility, horror and filth of war. Then he surrendered completely and wept for Matthew Lamb, in full knowledge that the object of his affections had been unworthy of his love. Daniel was a madman howling into a bottomless void.

  The hair on the back of Mary’s neck stood up. She was surprised the whole hotel hadn’t come running. If she didn’t calm Mr du Barry down, they would. All gaping, aghast and gossiping. Without further ado, Mary gingerly perched herself on Daniel’s knee and gently drew his head down to rest comfortably on her prominent bosom. He didn’t resist and nuzzled closer. So she gave him tiny kisses on the crown of his head, rocked him ever so gently and made the same soothing sounds she made when the baby cried. ‘There, there, there. Shhhhhhhh. Everything will turn out for the best. You’ll see. Shhhhhhhh.’

  Daniel became a child again, the unlicked cub he’d always secretly been. His tears drenched the starched bodice of her uniform. Eventually his howls subsided and they clung together, frozen in time and grief, as the gloomy morning sunlight crept in through the penthouse window.

  From the street below, Mary heard the sound of screeching brakes as two automobiles collided. A broom swept along the landing outside and a workman walked past, whistling. The baby lay back in her stolen mink cocoon and gurgled. It would be years before she’d have to bear the full weight of adult anguish.

  Quietness descended. Daniel du Barry clung to Mary Maguire like a drowning man. The sunlight infused her creamy skin and haloed her red hair. She’s exquisite, Daniel thought, like a Pre-Raphaelite angel.

  Unlikely. Perhaps a fallen angel.

  For the first time in weeks, he gave a shy, boyish smile. A smile of trust. Mary smiled back. It became very quiet in the breakfast room and the scene was witnessed only by the cold, glittering blue eyes of Mr Matthew Lamb. He didn’t know it yet but his days were numbered.

  The first thing Daniel said to Mary as she slid off his knee was, ‘In light of this, I am going to have to relieve you of your duties.’

  She took a deep breath and counted to five. ‘I was expecting to be given the boot but I wants you to know, Sir, I’ll always be grateful to the Hotel du Barry. It’s the only real home I’ve evers known.’

  Being an orphan, Mary had learnt to expect nothing. She’d played her best card and lost. Genuine tears threatened but she was determined not to cry. She retreated into her dignity and became almost invisible.

  Daniel looked perplexed. He said quickly, ‘No, no. You don’t understand, Mary. I meant that I will arrange for someone else to carry out your duties this morning. I’ve got no intention of dismissing you. In fact, I thought perhaps we could have breakfast together. I loathe eating on my own and we need to discuss this . . .’

  He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the soup tureen. Daniel continued, ‘Is your baby hungry? Do you require privacy to feed her? And for God’s sake, don’t call me Sir again.’

  She told no lies. ‘I can’t feed her meself. She’s bottle-fed.’

  With this, Mary calmly plucked two linen napkins from the table and stepped into the hallway, where she quickly changed the baby’s dirty nappy. She was concerned a stinky nappy might set the baby off and spoil the mood of reconciliation.

  Soon the baby was sucking on a warm baby bottle and flashing her big eyes at Daniel. As Mary said later to Bertha Brown, ‘The poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.’

  Daniel looked Mary straight in the eye. ‘What do you intend doing about your baby?’

  ‘Send her to the orphanage. I can’t support her.’

  ‘You know, she could become my ward initially. Then, if you still wanted to put her up for adoption, I could give her my name and raise her as my own. I’m about to marry Matthew’s sister, Edwina Lamb. It will be a marriage of convenience, a business arrangement, so to speak. We are currently clarifying the issues with my lawyers.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘As a married man I’d be in a position to provide a stable home for your baby. For obvious reasons there will be no offspring from my union with Miss Lamb, so your baby would be an only child. This is confidential information. Don’t answer me now. Take a few weeks to think it over. I don’t want to take advantage of your unfortunate situation.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Sir. I mean, Mr du Barry.’

  He smiled. ‘Call me Daniel. I’ve learnt that death doesn’t discriminate between the classes. The foot soldier dies the same death as the general. Death always wins.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Look, I’ll be frank. I’m yearning for a child and the stability of family life. A man gets to an age where he fears he’s turning into a confirmed bachelor. I’m tired of eating dinner alone and drinking myself into a stupor at my club.’

  ‘But with yours kind of money, you can do what you damn well please. Why bother getting shackled with a wife? Wish I was a man like you.’

  He shrugged. ‘In the world I inhabit anything is acceptable, provided one puts up the right facade. Think of the concept behind this hotel. It’s a fabulist’s construct, yet the frame of the hotel is cold, hard steel. The hotel is a blend of grand European styles and American engineering, yet its appearance does not give the game away.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Daniel gestured violently. ‘Take for example our Toucan Court. It’s calculated to seduce: creamy paintwork, pink marble columns and silk curtains. The hotel presents itself as a palace of pleasure and luxury. Clients credit my hotel with a sumptuous beauty it doesn’t possess. They ignore the hotel’s mercenary intent. The Taj Mahal is genuinely beautiful but the Hotel du Barry can only ever be a mere pretender.’

  Mary licked her lips. There was a whole world out there she didn’t know about.

  ‘I’ve never heard of the Tarj Mall Hotel.’

  ‘It’s in India. And is usually described as a monument to a great love, rather than a traveller’s hotel.’

  He smiled kindly. Mary laughed. She liked the way Daniel didn’t make her feel small about her lack of education. Even when she didn’t know what the fuck he meant, she revelled in the smooth cadence of his deep voice and intelligence. She could learn a lot just by listening to him. So Mary said, ‘I still don’t get the bit about appearance.’

  ‘In my social set, appearance is the only thing that matters. If I make a modicum of effort and appear to be in line with society’s conventions, I’ll be left in peace with the Matthew Lambs of the world. That was Oscar Wilde’s big mistake. He took a moral stand when he could’ve simply retired to France for a few months and let the whole filthy scandal blow over. After all, he was known to the public as a respectable married man with children. Unfortunately his integrity got in the way of his wellbeing.’

  ‘Who is Mr Wild?’

  ‘A brilliant wit, writer and playwright. Condemned by society after he declared his love for another man.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And does Matthew Lamb’s sister not want a husband all to herself?’

  ‘It was she who sugges
ted we get married. Eddie gains money, position and prestige without having to give up her freedom. She’s clever and ambitious like her brother and I can provide her with the means to do whatever she wants.’

  ‘Yes it would be great knowing you’d never have to cook, clean or make another bed. Ever.’

  Daniel rang the servant’s bell. ‘Mary, do you know how to type?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. I need a new secretary. The current one is still around but can barely thump the keys. She won’t last much longer. An old mistress of my late father. Still extremely charming and well spoken. It wouldn’t be right to sack her. So I want to employ someone younger to do the typing and shorthand. Mildred could still answer the telephone and manage my appointments diary. You know, you really should think about learning to type.’

  Sebastian was a shameless eavesdropper and over the years had honed his skills in dutiful service to the du Barry family. So even before Mary had left Daniel’s penthouse, the good news had seeped downwards through the hotel, whispered from one staff member to the next until even the lowliest kitchen scrubber knew that Mary Maguire and the babe were safe from the vagaries of fortune.

  Late that night, the hotel staff held a party down in the labyrinth to celebrate. Times were tough and they couldn’t sleep for worry about losing their jobs. So they downed tools and raided the larder as well as Daniel du Barry’s private wine collection. Sean Kelly had stolen a duplicate key to the cellar. The head grill chef whipped up several dozen devils on horseback and they went down a treat. Mary was the heroine of the hour. She’d saved everyone’s bacon.

  Luckily Daniel still had several cases of Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne stashed in his private cellar. Sebastian slept with the key beneath his pillow. It gave him nightmares, as he thought the staff were out to rob him. They were. But they weren’t greedy about it and only liberated a few bottles for special occasions. Even Sean had developed a discerning palate. He said, as he downed a glass of the boss’s finest, ‘Hasn’t Danny Boy got great taste, eh? These bubbles are the best. So light they fly up your fucking nose and tickle your brain. I could die from joy just drinking this stuff.’