Moments later Mrs Moffatt was leading Nancy onward, pointing out the halls that led to the cocktail lounge, the grill room and the Queen Mary, the first of the Buckingham’s six exquisite dining rooms.

As they walked, Nancy saw Mrs Moffatt’s eyes dart down to her leg. It was aching more than usual, but that was not unexpected; she had been cramped up on the train for what seemed a lifetime. ‘It’s a . . . childhood thing, Mrs Moffatt. It won’t stop me performing my duties. It hasn’t slowed me down yet.’

To Mrs Moffatt, this seemed explanation enough. ‘We demand perfection for our guests, Nancy, but Lord knows, none of us are perfect.’

Onward they walked in silence. After a time, Nancy found enough courage to ask, ‘Mrs Moffatt, is it true . . . you have royalty to stay? The doorman said that the King himself . . .’

‘The good King Edward is a friend of the Buckingham Hotel,’ Mrs Moffatt said darkly. ‘Something in the Buckingham appealed to the young prince and his associates. But don’t go thinking you’ll bump into him, young miss. He has matters of state to attend to and, well, that’s the business of kings and queens, isn’t it, and not for the likes of us.’ Mrs Moffatt paused. ‘It’s true that we’ll have royalty here, Nancy. If you’re still with us by New Year – and, Lord willing, I hope you will be – you’ll find His Majesty himself here to celebrate with us in our ballroom. Mr Charles is organising a Masquerade Ball – this, of course, being the King’s personal request.’

A Masquerade Ball, thought Nancy in awe. The very thought of it filled her with magic. New Years back home are all about the bonfire . . .

Mrs Moffatt was still talking. ‘Always remember that all of our guests should be treated as if they were royalty . . . don’t go thinking you’ll be changing the sheets of the high and mighty. We have the King’s cousins from Norway staying with us for New Year, but the suites reserved for royalty are attended to by our gentlewoman housekeepers.’ She paused. ‘That’s the way of things here. Some of our more highly prized guests are used to being catered to by ladies of a certain . . . breeding, shall we say. I don’t hold with it myself, but there’s one thing I want you to understand: when you step through the Buckingham door, Miss Nettleton, you are not from the country any more. You’re not from London and you’re not from Lancashire. You’re not a Scot or a Celt, an Irish woman or a Cornish woman. You’re not city or country. You are of the Buckingham. One of us. And that, as far as we who work in the hotel are concerned, is where it ends.’