A/N I forgot to mention 2 other versions of A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square; Nat King Cole (awesome, obviously) and Hutch Hutchinson (the singer that Jack Ross was based on). Both are on youtube.
As they passed into the foyer, it occurred to Elsie how rarely she had ever entered a stately home through the front door. Usually, she was shunted away to the side, down a set of stairs and in through the servant's entrance. She had to admit, the effect of walking into a lofty entryway was breathtaking. A grand staircase carpeted in rich burgundy lead up and away from the white marble at the doorway.
"Will sir be playing cards this evening?" The bouncer inquired as a rather scantily clad woman assisted Elsie with her coat. He gestured towards the stairs.
"No, we are here for the music." Charles informed him.
"Through there." They were instructed.
They passed through a set of double doors into a room that would have been a daytime drawing room for the family that had previously occupied this house. In this incarnation, it was simply a barroom. The crowd was loosely gathered in small groups or couples. It reminded Charles of the 'indoor picnic' Mrs. Levinson had orchestrated several years ago at Downton, only the patrons here were not so finely dressed. Some lounges and chairs were scattered about, but the main feature of the room was the oak bar with several tenders and a wall of alcohol behind it. Charles had not been to a club like this in years. They had not changed much, except for the fashions the women were wearing. Though that was certainly difference enough to make him a little unsure of what he had brought Elsie to.
Hiding his discomfort well, Charles drew her towards the bar. "What would you like to drink?" He offered.
"I've been told that I am limited to coffee only." Elsie reminded him.
"I was only jesting. I am not your keeper, Elsie. You may have whatever you wish."
"Oh? In that case, surprise me. I'd fancy something sparkling."
A bar tender approached them, looking hurried and impatient. Charles ordered quickly, much to the man's apparent relief. "Dewar's neat and a French 75 for the lady."
"What is a French 75?" Elsie asked as the man scampered away. She thought that sounded a bit risqué.
"Gin, lemon juice and champagne. I think you'll like it. It's very refreshing. It is not as dry as champagne nor as sweet as Prosecco."
"And why is it called that?"
"I think it is referring to a large caliber artillery gun. The implication being that it packs a kick."
"Oh, dear!" She exclaimed, chuckling.
"I would recommend it be the last alcohol of the evening, it might be rather strong."
"Were you not just telling me that you are not my keeper?"
"That does not mean that I cannot look out for you."
"How do you know so much about cocktails?"
"It's my job to know these things. And the research isn't too tedious."
"I should imagine not." Elsie watched a cigarette girl walking amongst the patrons. She was wearing less than the sea bathers they'd seen yesterday. Elsie wondered if he came to places like this often when he was in London. There was a slight pang as she realized how little she knew about this segment of his life and how much more she wanted to know about him.
The drinks arrived and were paid for swiftly. Elsie could tell from the barkeep's expression that Charles had left a handsome tip. She wondered if he was always so free with gratuities or if it was something he was adopting tonight for her benefit. She could see him truly appreciating a job well done, but she could also see him considering it a basic expectation that did not warrant special reward. But he had always been generous with his praise for exceptional service, so it was reasonable to assume he would be generous with his money. The easy and almost surreptitious way he handled the money made her believe she was not meant to notice. She concluded he was probably always like this.
They followed the distant sound of a clarinet into the next room, which Elsie judged was a repurposed dining room. All furniture had been removed and the lights were subdued. Couples swayed on the open floor or canoodled in the low lit corners. There was little connection between the movements of the dancers and the music.
The band was still unseen. In unspoken agreement, they continued to follow their pied piper. The atmosphere in the next room was warm and vibrant. A band of five sat on a raised platform in the middle of the room with their leader strutting around in front of them. Enthusiastic dancers jittered and jived around them. There were some seats scattered around the periphery of the dance floor but these were all occupied. It was too loud here for conversation anyway, so they continued out of the music room into a conservatory. One side of the glass room was open to a private garden into which they now strolled. Charles and Elsie found a low bench that backed directly against the glass of the conservatory and sat down, side by side in the warm night. Finally, they could speak again.
"How is your cocktail?" Charles asked, leaning back against the glass, but slightly towards her.
"Very refreshing, but I'm waiting for the kick." She teased.
The music was still clearly audible through the glass and the open door. The volume was such that they could hear each other easily, but Elsie spoke softly and Charles took the opportunity to lean in closer to her. The band leader had begun to sing something about bee's knees. "The band is quite good, I think, though I've little experience. I believe Mr. Ross was better." Elsie ventured.
Charles nodded his agreement. "But Mr. Ross plays the better clubs. I'd say this place is high end working class, but it is still distinctly working class."
"I think it's amazing. Remind me to thank Hans."
"Who's Hans?" Charles asked, taken aback.
"Mr. Kirkpatrick. You told the doorman…"
Charles laughed and shook his head. "No. That was the passphrase. These places are technically legal, but they don't like to advertise themselves too much. They like to stay mysterious and exclusive, so they use inconspicuous storefronts and passwords. It was always like that, but they are probably trying to emulate the American Speakeasy now to give it that authentic jazz feel. Mr. Kirkpatrick's first name is Douglas."
"Well who is Hans, do you think?"
"I assume 'Hans' refers to Hans Christian Anderson who wrote the story about the Nightingale." He was still laughing as he looked up into the large plane tree that dominated the back garden. "There, I believe, is the Nightingale herself."
Elsie's gaze followed his pointing finger to a small, dazzling bird ornament hanging from the lowest bow of the tree. "I don't remember that story very well. My favorite tale from Mr. Anderson was the Little Mermaid. Do you remember how the story went?"
"I could hardly forget it, it was one of Lady Mary's favorite stories. I must have read it a hundred times if I read it once." She nodded for him to continue. "According to Mr. Anderson, the Emperor of China captured the Nightingale and held her captive for her song. She was praised throughout the land and was taken for walks with twelve attendants holding onto twelve ribbons tied around her leg. Eventually, the real Nightingale was replaced by a mechanical one covered in jewels and the genuine song was replaced by a tin copy played by this mechanical bird that could only sing waltzes. In the excitement over the bejeweled nightingale, the real Nightingale was ignored. She took the opportunity to escape and flew away. The Emperor thought her an ungrateful creature and banished her from his kingdom. Eventually, the mechanical bird became fragile and could only be wound up to sing once a year. Years later, the emperor fell ill and everyone expected him to die. The Nightingale, hearing that he was soon to die, returned to sing by his bedside. When she arrived, Death was sitting on the Emperor's chest. Death was so moved by the Nightingale's song that he allowed the Emperor to live as payment. The Nightingale was then free to fly about the land, bringing news and stories back to the Emperor and singing at his window."
"So the jeweled Nightingale was a pale imitation of the real thing? Funny they should name the club after the artificial creature."
"I doubt whoever named it thought anyone would think too deeply about the reference. Or they are having a laugh at their patrons' expense with most of them being none the wiser. I suppose a working class club could be considered a pale imitation of a real club."
"Well, I obviously don't know any better because it feels like a real club to me. I remember the story a little better now, but I don't remember the Nightingale being a 'she'."
"In the book, the bird is only referred to as 'it', but Lady Mary assumed it was feminine, so I've come to think of it as such."
"Speaking of Lady Mary, what is your opinion of her gentlemen?" Elsie had long been dying to know his thoughts on Mary's suitors, but had always thought it unwise to ask at Downton.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Lord Gillingham smiles too much, Mr. Napier is too nice and Mr. Blake is too short."
She laughed at his curt dismissal of each of the men. Of course he would not think anyone worthy of Lady Mary. "Perhaps Lady Mary is too tall. She and Mr. Blake seem about the same height."
"Not when she is wearing heels."
"Should you like him better if he wore heels too?"
"I should definitely find him more interesting." He joked.
"They are all rather dull, aren't they? But I remember Lord Gillingham from when he was a lad. He used to come downstairs looking for the girls."
Charles smiled to remember. "They would hide in your office or mine during the large house parties. I think they got tired of all the attention and pressures of those events. I didn't know he came downstairs looking for them."
"The first time he came downstairs, he was looking for them. They were in your office. I gave him some sweet tea and some biscuits and sent him back upstairs." Elsie recalled. "After that, he would come downstairs every time his family visited, which was quite often in those days. I think he preferred the quiet downstairs to all the adult conversation upstairs. He was a sweet boy."
"So you think Lady Mary should choose him?"
"She should choose whomever she loves." Elsie reminded him.
"The fact that she cannot choose between them only proves that she does not love any of them."
"Not yet, perhaps."
"And they all have their own estates to worry about. What if something happens to His Lordship? None of them will care two figs for Downton. Who will guide the estate until Master George is of age?"
"What if? What if the sky falls? What if the banks fail?" Elsie could see he was getting upset by this topic. It was probably time to end it. "At least any of them would be an improvement over Mr. Carlisle."
"Pray don't mention that odious man." Charles growled, still irked by the memory of the newspaper man who had almost taken him away from Downton.
"I'm only observing that she would probably be fine with any of them. So we needn't worry."
"Fine? Is that what she is to settle for now? Fine? I don't see why she should have to settle for any of them. She is a strong, independent woman. Such a woman has very little need for a man."
"I don't know. I hear men have their uses." That got Charles' attention. "Oh, dear. Did that sound risqué?" She asked, coyly.
"Very." But his smile declared risqué was acceptable this evening.
"Good. Now, forget about Lady Mary and come dance with me." She sat down her empty flute. "I think I'm starting to feel that kick you warned me about."
Charles' glass was empty too, so he abandoned it as he let her pull him up from the bench and back into towards the band and the dance floor.
TBC…
Just assume they are dancing happily the whole time between now and the next update.
And also, Blake is too short, it annoys me. Yes, I am that shallow.