Coronation Year, page 13
Rather startled by Miss Sutton’s American accent, Edie shook her hand and smiled in return. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Welcome to the Blue Lion.”
“Thanks so much for agreeing to speak with me. I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you, and of course seeing the hotel. It has quite the history.”
“It certainly does. Would you like me to take your mackintosh? I can hang it up in my office. I won’t be a moment.”
When she returned Miss Sutton had already taken a notepad and pencil from her bag and was busily making notes. “Please don’t mind me. I thought of a few things on the way over and I just need to jot them down before I forget.”
“I quite understand,” Edie said. She felt oddly hesitant, for Miss Sutton, though perfectly pleasant, was not a guest of the hotel but rather a reporter, and in that capacity she might choose to write unflattering things about the hotel. “I’m not sure how to start,” she said, deciding to begin with a measure of honesty. “Would you like a tour of the hotel? And then we can sit down and talk a bit more?”
“That’s exactly what I hoped you would say.”
Edie dutifully led Miss Sutton from room to room, beginning with the lounge, then a quick peek into the library, and upstairs to one of the guest rooms. As the Hons had not yet been dislodged from their rooms, Edie had asked the maids to freshen up a second-floor room directly above, for it had an excellent view of Northumberland Avenue, was close to the bath and WC, and had a bedspread, draperies, and carpet that, while far from new, were still very pretty. The furniture was a mix of Georgian and Regency pieces, plain and solid and shining with polish, and the room looked, Edie thought with satisfaction, like the sort of place one might happily stay for days on end. Miss Sutton made gratifyingly positive comments about the niceness of the decoration and the convenience of the hotel’s location, all the while taking down everything Edie said.
“The sign by the door says it was founded in 1560,” Miss Sutton said, having finished her inspection of the room. “Was it owned by your family even back then?”
“It was. Jacob Howard was the first proprietor, and I’m his direct descendant.”
“And the name—is there a story behind it?”
“If there is, it’s lost to history. A blue lion is associated with the heraldry of the dukes of Northumberland, but my family was connected to the dukes of Norfolk, and then in only the most distant way. I’m not sure their grand cousins ever knew they existed. Certainly there’s no record of any of the dukes or their immediate family staying here.”
“All right. Can you tell me more about the building itself? When was it built?”
“The original structure dates to the late 1300s. It was likely a farmhouse to begin with, and at first there were only two floors. The upper stories were added when the area was rebuilt about a hundred years ago, and the entire building was enlarged then, too.”
“So back then, this was the countryside?”
Edie nodded. “Nothing more than hunting grounds and farmers’ fields and the occasional manor house. But it wasn’t in the middle of nowhere, either. Charing Cross was just to the west, and the Thames was only a few hundred yards to the east. By the time Jacob opened the inn, it was much busier here. The palace of Whitehall was nearby, and the roads themselves were getting better, and before long there were travelers coming and going from the stagecoaches near what is now Trafalgar Square.”
Edie stopped short, conscious that she’d been providing far more historical tidbits than Miss Sutton likely needed or wanted. “I’m sorry. I do have a tendency to ramble on about the history of the hotel.”
“Don’t apologize. This is exactly the sort of stuff I want for my story. Let me just go back to what you said about the area being rebuilt. That wasn’t because of the Great Fire, was it?”
“No—the fire was farther east. The streets around here were straightened out and modernized in the 1730s and again in the 1850s. That’s when the Victorian facade was added. Have you seen the illustration that James Geddes did of the original exterior?”
“I have. It’s very good. You can really get a sense of the age of the hotel from it.”
“It can be hard to tell, you know, what with all the changes that have been made over the years. But the really old bits are still here. One just has to look a little harder for them. Some of the paneling in the hall downstairs is original, along with parts of the staircase, and here and there are some very old beams. Usually at just the right height for our taller guests to catch their heads if they aren’t careful.”
“Do you have any ghosts?” Miss Sutton asked, a thread of mischief in her voice.
“None that I’ve ever encountered.”
“All things considered, that’s probably a relief for your guests. You do have a legend attached to the hotel, though.”
“Oh, yes. Elizabeth the First and the great storm of 1564.”
“Go on.”
“As legends go, it’s fairly straightforward. The queen had gone out riding, and although the weather had been fair when she and her party left, a blizzard descended without much warning and they lost their way. Somehow they ended up on the Blue Lion’s doorstep. Naturally they were welcomed in and showered with every comfort that Jacob Howard had at hand. Food, wine, a seat by the fire for the queen, and shelter for the horses, too. We still have the chair she sat in—remind me to show you when we’re in the dining room.”
“Did she stay the night?”
“No, sadly. They continued on their way as soon as there was a break in the weather. Jacob was sent a purse of coins to thank him, but they were soon spent. And that is the legend. No dragon, no miraculous path through the snow for the Virgin Queen. Only a warm seat by the fire.”
“And it was your ancestor, Jacob Howard, who greeted her?” Miss Sutton asked, scribbling away.
“It was, assuming the legend is true. I’d like to believe it, but we’ve no actual proof, and it does seem rather improbable to me. At least in parts.”
“Which parts?”
“It was the countryside then, but it was far from empty. There would have been any number of manor houses scattered around, all of them far more grand than the Blue Lion. For that matter, the palace of Whitehall was barely three hundred yards south of here. Why not simply press on home?”
“If the blizzard was a sudden one, they might have been desperate to find any shelter at all,” Miss Sutton mused. “I grew up in New Jersey, and once or twice a winter we used to get storms where the snow was so bad it actually stung when it hit your skin. Maybe it was like that.”
“Maybe it was,” Edie agreed.
“I don’t think it really matters if the legend is true, you know. It’s a good story, even if there aren’t any dragons or knights in shining armor or enchanted swords. Besides, the part of the story that is true, your family’s connection to this place, is just as interesting as the queen’s visit. At least I think so.”
“You’re very kind to say that.”
“Does it make you proud, or would you say that it’s a burden?”
It was the first of Miss Sutton’s questions to flummox Edie. “I’m not sure . . . a bit of both, I think? I love this place, and I feel a great obligation to preserve it, and to care for the people who work and live here.”
“I don’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s only that I can’t imagine how I would cope if I were in your shoes. Have you ever thought of selling up?”
“Not seriously, no.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but if she were to admit to doubts and worries, let alone hint at the repeated offers from Mr. Bamford, she’d have to explain to her employees and guests, likely more than once, that she had no desire to sell the hotel, not if she could help it. “There have been offers over the years, but none worth considering. Running this hotel is my life’s work.” That part, at least, was true.
Miss Sutton nodded, still scribbling away. “Why don’t you tell me about your plans for the coronation?”
“Well, we’re very lucky to be located along the procession route, and have every room booked for the weeks before and after Coronation Day. Of course, anyone who wishes to stay with us later in the year can be certain of a warm welcome. We also serve a traditional afternoon tea each day, including Sundays, and nonresidents are most welcome.” She checked her watch, and was gratified to see it was exactly half-past four. “For that matter, it’s teatime now. Would you care to join me?”
“Yes, please,” Miss Sutton said eagerly. “Though I hope you don’t mind if I abstain from the tea-drinking part of things. I’ve lived in England for more than ten years, but your adoration of tea continues to mystify me.”
Edie didn’t forget to show Miss Sutton the queen’s chair, now installed on a low platform next to the enormous hearth in the dining room, and as there was nothing much of interest about the chair, apart from its age and connection to royalty, they were soon seated at Edie’s table by the door to the kitchens. The room was empty apart from the Hons, who, to Edie’s relief, were absorbed in their conversation and barely looked up. Ginny hurried over the minute Edie and her guest sat down, plates of delicacies in hand, and that helped to soak up some of the awkwardness Edie felt at the lack of guests.
“Would you like some coffee?” Edie asked. “We make it strong, and it’s real coffee. None of that bottled essence.”
“Yes, please. But only if it isn’t too much trouble.”
Edie looked to Ginny. “One coffee, please, and a pot of tea for me. Thank you.”
“Yes, Miss Howard.”
“Do help yourself to everything,” Edie said. “I’m sure you must be hungry.”
“Thanks. It looks delicious.”
“Cook works miracles for us, I must say. You’d never know that butter and sugar are still on the ration.”
Ginny returned with the coffee and tea, and Edie and Miss Sutton doctored their cups, and then it was time for another round of conversation. Edie knew she ought to say something more about the hotel, but she’d been twittering on for ages and was feeling heartily sick of her own voice.
“You said earlier that you’ve been in England for—how long was it, again?”
“It’s actually been almost thirteen years. I was only meant to stay for a year or so, but the city, and the people, got under my skin. I feel at home here in a way I never did when I was growing up in the States.”
Edie then noticed Miss Sutton’s wedding and engagement rings. “Is your husband a journalist as well?” she asked.
“Ha! No, Bennett is a barrister. We were introduced by his best friend, Walter Kaczmarek. My editor at PW.”
“Oh, yes. I spoke to Mr. Kaczmarek just the other day.”
“Bennett was the first person I met when I got here, if you can believe it, and the man made quite an impression.” Miss Sutton smiled, as if prompted by fond memories. “Then I hardly saw him for years. He was off doing mysterious things he’s still not meant to talk about. But he survived the war, and he came home to me, and since then we’ve hardly spent a day apart.”
“That sounds terribly romantic. Do you have any children?”
“We do. There’s Victoria, who is five and a half, and Vanessa, who is just coming up to four. I stayed at home when they were little, but now that Victoria’s in school, and her sister is in nursery school a few mornings each week, I’ve gone back to work.”
Edie nodded, rather bowled over by the other woman’s effervescent energy, and felt briefly envious of the aura of happiness that radiated from her. “I expect it was quite nice to have those years at home with them.”
“Oh, it was. They’re very sweet girls, though of course I’m biased, and there are days when I would much rather be at home reading them stories and going on long walks with the dogs and laughing when they try to imitate my accent. At the same time, I also want them to see that my work is interesting and important to me, just as their father’s work is important and interesting to him. Does that make sense?”
It made perfect sense. “Your daughters are very lucky to have you as their mum,” Edie said.
“Thank you.” Miss Sutton glanced at her watch and frowned. “I’m so sorry, but I have to run. The girls are with their great-aunt for the afternoon, and I said I’d collect them at half-past five, and here it is, five o’clock already, and they’re all the way over in Kensington.” With this she downed what was left of her coffee, polished off her last bite of scone, and gathered up her notepad and pencil. “I think I have everything I need, but if I remember anything later on, do you mind if I ring you up?”
“Not at all. Let me fetch your coat.”
They said good-bye, shaking hands, and Edie watched from the door as Miss Sutton ran out into the rain, her umbrella still furled, her bag slung any old way over her shoulder, her left hand clutched to her hat, as if she was expecting a sudden gust of wind might tear it from her head.
Edie waved good-bye, and then she retreated back inside, back to the warmth and comfort of the Blue Lion, its centuries of secrets, and her solitary life within.
Chapter Fourteen
Stella
Sunday, April 12, 1953
7 April
My dear Signorina Donati (or rather Stella, as I hope you will allow me to call you),
My Walter has told me so much about you, and I feel I cannot wait any longer to make your acquaintance. If you are agreeable I do hope you will come to dinner this coming Sunday evening.
We live in Hampstead but the journey is not a difficult one and I think you will find it a pleasant change from the city. Would you be able to join us as early as half-past five? The children eat at six o’clock and I should love for you to meet them, but if you prefer to dine later in the evening that is quite all right. Either way do let Walter know if you are able to come, as I am eager to meet you and hear all about your photographs that have so impressed my husband.
With my warm regards,
Miriam Dassin
Kindly written as it was, there was no doubt in Stella’s mind that Miriam Dassin expected her to be present for dinner on Sunday. “I would be delighted to come to dinner,” she told Kaz later that day. “Is there anything I may bring?”
“Only yourself, and a degree of tolerance for excitable children who forget their manners in front of honored guests.”
Along with her invitation, Miriam had enclosed a detailed set of directions that specified, down to the meter, the way to her and Kaz’s home on a narrow lane called Holly Walk. Compared to the busy and built-up streets around Charing Cross, Hampstead felt like a much smaller town, with winding streets, scarcely a motorcar to be seen, and enormous old trees that cast a dappled, green-gold veil over the pavements they overhung. The house was set back from the road behind a low stone wall, its rosy bricks curtained with ivy, its slate roof mossy with age. The path to the front door was flanked by beds of still-dormant lavender, nodding heads of fading daffodils, and pale pink tulips that were just coming into bud, and a child’s tricycle had been abandoned at the bottom of the steps.
Stella straightened the tricycle, moving it to the side so no one would trip over it later, and knocked on the door. Kaz opened it promptly, his pale eyes brightly welcoming behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. A whimpering toddler was secured in the cradle of one arm. He smiled, and she smiled back, suddenly nervous, and he stepped out of the way so she might enter.
“Hello, Stella, and welcome.” He nodded toward the little boy in his arms. “This young chap is my son, David. He was keeping watch from the front window, and I’m afraid that in his excitement to help answer the door he took a tumble.”
“I am very sorry that you fell down. Are you all right?” she asked David.
He nodded, sniffling loudly. “Ow.”
“Ow, indeed,” said Kaz. “Do come in. Miriam’s in the kitchen with Sarah. They made a cake in honor of your visit and they’re just pulling it from the oven now.”
A pleasing sort of homely chaos had taken over the front hall and what she could see of the house. There was a jumble of shoes and boots in the front hall, both enormous and very small, and the walls were shingled with framed photographs. She spied Miriam and Kaz on what looked to be their wedding day, as well as other less formal occasions: Kaz at his desk, the entire family on vacation at the seaside, and Miriam in an artist’s studio, her back to the camera, her hands raised as she pinned scraps of material to a bulletin board.
Her attention fixed on the photographs, Stella almost missed the framed document on the opposite wall, its Hebrew text beautifully embellished with gold and jewel-bright details. Her parents’ own marriage contract, their ketubah, had once hung in the sitting room of their flat in Livorno; she would not have comprehended the purpose of the document otherwise. It had to mean that Kaz, or Miriam, or more likely both of them, were Jewish.
“You recognize it,” Kaz said. “Not many people do.”
“Did you know I am a Jew?” she asked.
“Not until now. Come along and meet my wife.”
She followed him into the kitchen, and her first thought, upon entering, was of how much it reminded her of Zia Rosa’s kitchen back in Mezzo Ciel. Not in its particulars, of course, for it was quite a different room, but more in the way it made her feel.
There was a big range instead of a hearth, and in the middle was a sturdy wooden table, an art project left half-done at one end. A black cat with white socks was snoozing in a lumpy armchair drawn close to the range, and by the back door was a wicker basket crammed with gardening tools and muddied gloves and a stack of small clay pots.
The garden itself was being swallowed up by the growing dusk, but through the kitchen’s windows Stella could just make out brick walls trellised with rose canes and winter-bare vines, a patch of overgrown lawn, and a child’s swing hanging from the gnarled branches of an apple tree. A greenhouse was set in the far corner, with a well-trodden flagstone path leading from its door back to the kitchen.
