The Housekeepers(102)

William’s voice was cautious. “Right.”

Mrs. King felt the warm breeze coming across the park, heard the roar and grind of the traffic coming around the bend. Saw the fierce glitter of the windows.

Then William said, “I thought we’d meet sooner.”

“I told you: I had to take myself out of circulation.” She smiled through her veil. “Temporarily.”

He touched her arm, and her heartbeat accelerated. She’d taken care, such enormous care, to stay away from him. She did it to preserve her safety, and his. But now, at last, she felt herself bending. She had missed him, and she let herself feel it, the tingle as it passed through her chest, her skin.

“Hmm.” There were questions William could ask, whole barrel loads of them, but he didn’t. She loved him for that. He said only, “I don’t want you to think I’m coming for your money.”

Mrs. King folded her hands. “Money? Who says I’ve got money?”

She felt the weight of her hat, piled high with roses. The expensive lace at her throat, the ruby on her little finger.

His expression narrowed. “Dinah. What they’re saying about the girls…” He studied her face. “Did you know?”

“Did you?”

He considered this. “No. But I don’t feel any better for it.”

“Then you’d better repent, same as me. Let’s talk to the vultures.”

For the first time she could remember, a whole crowd of gentlemen lifted their hats as she approached. She had an appointment, after all. She imagined she looked strange to them. A lady, but an anomaly. Tightly buckled. Lips the color of garnets. She’d given them a false name, of course. She tightened her veil.

The house was calm and still. It seemed to her that something made of brick and white plaster and sandstone couldn’t really harm anyone. It possessed neither good powers nor bad. It possessed nothing at all—it was nothing. Yet still it possessed a certain pull. A small temptation. She had to test herself, just to see if she was making the right choices.

“Would you like to go inside?” said a gentleman, putting his top hat back on.

She nodded. “Alone.”

She entered through the porch, not the tradesman’s entrance. Not the garden door. Not through the mews. The front door.

“Will you wait for me?” she said to William in a low voice.

“Long as you want,” he replied, and she felt the pressure of his fingers. She left him on the front step.

She walked through the house by herself. She allowed herself to touch everything, the marble and the iron. Someone had opened all the windows, and the air was cycling around and around, a tumbling and scattering of particles. The house smelled different. Clean.

She hadn’t been entirely truthful with Miss de Vries. There was one thing left in the house, a wooden box, concealed in a recess behind the old housekeeper’s room. She winced, reaching for it, struggling to draw it out. She had to brush all the dust off her sleeve.

“Dinah?” She heard William’s voice calling her from a distance. It seemed to her that the floors were thrumming beneath her, that there was a high whistle in the air.

She came outside, carrying the box under her arm. She heard the gentle rumble of a motor, her own vast and splendid Rolls waiting for her by the curb. The men in top hats all peered at her, expectant. She could afford this place, she supposed. If she spent everything she’d earned, every last penny.

William came to her, squeezed her arm. “All right?” he said.

“Do you want it?” she asked, meaning the house.

He went quiet then. “Do you?” he asked.

She shook her head, serious. “No.”

She lifted the veil. Looped her fingers into the crook of his elbow. Kissed him.

He kissed her back.

The auctioneer stared at them, agog. “Not for me, I think,” she said to him, gently.

William laughed, a low chuckle. She felt the warmth of him, his nearness. “Come on,” she said.

The house shimmered behind her. She felt a flicker of doubt, the briefest tug of desire, but then it unraveled. Winnie and Hephzibah were having her over for luncheon. Alice had sailed back from New York. The Janes were unveiling their new patent for a miraculous suction cleaner. It was going to be an entirely busy afternoon.

They climbed into her Rolls. As they pulled away from the curb, she settled the box on her knees.

“What’s that?” said William, beside her.

She rubbed it with her gloves, removing the dust. Unfastened the clasp. Folded back the velvet. Studied her knives.

Mrs. King lifted them out, one by one, inspecting them. She didn’t do it to impress William, although she knew he would be impressed, but just to make the point. She kept good knives. She took excellent care of them. She was ready for anything.

They roared away down Park Lane and left the house behind.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

It’s a strange and wonderful thing to be sending a story out into the world for the very first time: a long-held dream, of course, and a tad daunting too. So, allow me first to say the most enormous thank you to you for joining me in the world of The Housekeepers. I hope you enjoyed it, and I’d love to tell you more about how it came to be.

I think all writers have core stories they come back to time and again: settings, conflicts, and dreams luring them to the keyboard, even when writing （and finishing!） a novel seems almost insurmountable. I love books full of big houses, broken families, loyal friendships, and wild ambitions—textured with all the glorious sights, scents, and sounds of the past.