‘It’s things like this, Nancy. This answering back. Do you know what not knowing your place could cost you, Nancy?’ There had seemed such fury in Mrs Moffatt’s voice, but now she softened. ‘I’m saying this because I like you. I’ll talk to Mr Simenon. I’ll smooth it out. But that man, his mother didn’t love him hard enough, or his father was too free with his cane, and he’s a difficult man to convince . . . If one more complaint was to be lodged with Mr Charles—’

‘One more, Mrs Moffatt? Who’s . . . ?’ Nancy was about to ask who on earth could have complained about her before, when realisation hit her like a freight train between the eyes. ‘Miss Edgerton,’ she breathed.

‘Miss Edgerton is the daughter of the head of the hotel board.’

Better than me, thought Nancy. Better, and all because of who she was born to, or which family her mother married into. And isn’t that what this hotel is, through and through? One door for the likes of me, one door for the likes of them. One of us to clean their bedsheets; them to sleep, safe and sound.

‘You were seen in the ballroom, Nancy. By the look of you, I’m given to understanding that you thought it had not been noticed. Well, I’m afraid that was never the case. Nancy, I’d do anything for my girls. I’ve managed to keep it from Mr Charles, but that was only because Miss Edgerton was so indisposed that evening. Is it illegal? No. Is it against hotel rules? Well, nobody told you not to. There is that in your defence. But some rules don’t need to be written down.’

Nancy bristled. Beneath her breath, she whispered, ‘Rules like, know your place.’