‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? There’s lots of wealthy women float through the Buckingham Hotel. Most of them got married out of duty, not out of love. So when a dashing man like Raymond de Guise is around and happy to escort them . . .’

In a fit of mirth, Rosa picked up her broom and mimed kissing it. Then she danced across the ballroom floor until she was looming over Nancy. ‘Come on, Nance. You be LaPegna, or one of them Spanish girls. They know how to drive ’em wild, don’t they?’

Suddenly, the air was filled with a single sharp word, ‘GIRLS!’ Nancy looked up to find that Mrs Moffatt had marched through the reception doors. Smirking, the carpenters and painters returned to their toil while the head housekeeper, face purpling with anger, marched onto the dance floor.

‘How can you be so reckless, girls? You silly, silly creatures! What if it had been Mr Charles who’d walked in? There are some things I can’t protect you from, and what Mr Charles thinks of girls shirking their duties is one of them.’ The anger had ebbed out of her as she spoke and, in the corner of her eye, Nancy saw Rosa and Ruth looking strangely chastened. ‘Well, if you’ve got time to dance, you must be near finished, no?’ Moments later, Mrs Moffatt was standing over Nancy, appraising their work. She hesitated before saying, ‘Get to the fourth floor, girls. Mrs Whitehead can use some help. The floor’s filling up today. Mr Chaplin and his entourage are back in town.’

Mrs Moffatt lingered until after they were gone. ‘Will you finish up here, Nancy?’ Then, in a whisper, she added, ‘Time for one of those barley sugars, I should think.’

Soon, she’d forgotten the burning red of her cheeks. She’d wanted to dance. Even with a broom. But . . . she reached for her leg. Nobody had noticed, not yet. But they would if she started to dance.

She looked up. The ballroom was empty now the carpenters had disappeared for lunch. She had it all to herself. The brooms were lying where Rosa and Ruth had abandoned them in their haste. Perhaps . . .

Leaving the last pieces of chandelier behind, she ventured onto the dance floor and took one of them in her hands. Then she closed her eyes. If she let herself go, if she let herself feel it, she could almost hear the sounds of the Archie Adams Band striking up. It was not easy – more than once she gave up, opening her eyes and ruining the magic – but, with practice, she could hear the other dancers eddying around her. On the edges of her hearing, there was the raucous laughter of ladies and gentlemen at the surrounding tables. Glasses were clinking. Toasts were being made. Somewhere, somebody was tapping their feet in time with the percussion.