The Housekeepers(101)

“If I were you,” said Mrs. King softly, “I would start looking to make some new friends. Protection. In case anyone else works it out.”

Miss de Vries disliked this: it showed in her face. “I don’t need protection,” she said.

“I can help you.”

“How?”

Mrs. King reached into her coat, drew out a small silver watch. The letters flashed at them: WdV. Miss de Vries took a tiny breath.

“Sell it,” Mrs. King said. “If you like. It’s an heirloom. It will have enormous value.”

“You’re mad,” Miss de Vries replied. “I could report you.”

Chairs scraped in the room at the back of the shop. The girls were getting up from the workbench, ready for their lunch.

Mrs. King held out the watch, but Miss de Vries remained motionless.

Mrs. King felt a quiver of irritation. Move, she thought. Fight me. Say something. She’d taken such care over her costume, over her appearance, wanting to communicate something: strength, honor. Clearly, she transmitted nothing to Miss de Vries. She carried no currency at all.

“Take it,” she said. “I wish you would. You deserve something.”

Miss de Vries shook her head. “I’d rather bet on myself,” she said.

Bets, games, risks, odds: long ones, short ones. Mrs. King could see the light sparkling in Miss de Vries’s eyes, and she looked so entirely like their father that it twisted her in the gut. But if Mr. de Vries were present in the room, as a specter or a memory, he made almost no impression; he was very nearly forgotten. His name would die; it would simply fade away.

“Fair enough,” said Mrs. King.

What had she expected? That they would talk, that they would speak of their own betrayals, and compare notes? Mrs. King could see it, almost: the two of them, ladies of an equal height and temperament, taking a brisk walk together around the park. Mrs. King realized that she had come here to find a sister, but there wasn’t one to be found.

She reached into her pocket. Drew out an envelope. “This isn’t from me,” she said. “And it’s not a gift.”

Alice had given her the instructions. Indeed, she’d purchased all the tickets. The train to the coast, the cabin for the crossing from Plymouth, the trains from France to Italy. “Don’t say anything,” she’d said to Mrs. King. “Just give them to her.”

Miss de Vries took the envelope, puzzled. She didn’t open it. This didn’t surprise Mrs. King. She wouldn’t have done so, either—not in public, not under observation.

She said, simply, “Good day.”

And then she left the shop, not looking back, not even for a moment.

43

June 1906

Mrs. King waved her hands to clear the dust from the air. She looked across the street. She could see secretaries, lawyers, men from the auction house, all huddled on the pavement. A lot of top hats gleaming.

“We’ve got all the ghouls out today,” said a voice.

Mrs. King turned, heart lifting. There was Mrs. Bone, leaning against the railings. Beside her stood a bicycle with a basket so large it made Mrs. King start laughing. “What d’you want that for?” she asked. “Have you stolen a ham?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“Tell me you didn’t ride that here.”

“I’ve got to keep my joints going!”

Mrs. King hugged her. She did it before Mrs. Bone could protest or pull away.

“You’ve gone soft,” Mrs. Bone said, voice muffled.

“And you’ve turned into a lady.” Mrs. King straightened, stepped back. “What’s that smell? French perfume?”

Mrs. Bone scowled. “Fix your veil, girl.”

Mrs. King adjusted the Russian netting tied under her chin. She knew her face was perfectly concealed. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Bone reached for her, a sudden move. Her fingers were gentle. “Listen. I don’t like interfering in people’s business. And I won’t be used as a go-between.”

“All right. Where is he?”

Mrs. Bone tilted her head, a quick sideways jerk, and Mrs. King looked over her shoulder. She felt her heart expanding. “Good. Clear off for a bit, would you?”

She raised a hand, a solemn gesture, and William—at a distance, hat pulled low over his eyes, raised his slowly in return.

“Let me know, won’t you?” Mrs. Bone said, squinting up at the de Vries residence. A worried look entered her eyes. “What you decide.”

William came across the grass toward her: straight, purposeful strides. Mrs. Bone scuttled away, her bicycle jolting as she went, and disappeared into the trees.

Mrs. King spoke first. “I didn’t put a call out for any hired hands.”

William tipped his hat. “How about sweethearts?”

“Not advertising for those, either.”

“Well, fair enough.”

“Look at it,” she said, pointing to the house.

He followed her gaze. White plasterwork, pillars. The great bow windows, the awnings. The huge heft and height of it.

“Smartest house in London,” Mrs. King said.

“They do say that.”

“And up for sale, too.”

The auctioneers were fanning themselves in the heat.