The Housekeepers(26)

Mrs. Bone studied the darkness. What’s this, then? she wondered. A girl from the room next door, after a spare blanket? Someone feeling unwell?

Her skin prickled.

The moment lengthened. There was a tiny noise, the softest footstep, or a breath—and then silence.

In the morning she counted the faces around the table, trying to keep hold of the numbers. Five kitchen maids. Sue. Five under-footmen. The chauffeur, Mr. Doggett. The boy with the face like a rodent had vanished, and the house-parlormaids were on active maneuvers upstairs. There were entirely too many people here. They couldn’t possibly all have enough chores to do. Yet they were in constant motion, coming and going. It made it nigh on impossible to track them.

“Sleep all right, my girl?” she asked Sue.

Sue nodded, eyes down. “Yes, thanks, Mrs. Bone.”

“Here,” said one of the under-footmen, depositing another pile of pans on the table with a clang. “Look sharp.”

My poor hands, she thought gloomily, looking at the polishing rags.

“Hark at you,” said Cook.

“Eh?” Mrs. Bone said.

“Mumbling to yourself.”

Mrs. Bone flushed. Reporting to Cook was going to be a very disagreeable experience. Choose your words carefully.

“Now, Cook,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask. I saw a lot of dirty picture frames upstairs. Very greasy. Someone ought to take a look at them.”

The head footman caught her eye. “And what were you doing upstairs?” he asked.

His name was William. Very handsome. Maybe thirty-five, thirty-six. Dark hair. Long nose. Out of his liveries he could’ve been a forester, a woodsman. There was something wild in his gaze, something golden and jaguar-like. She’d heard the others whispering about him and Mrs. King over supper the night before. Good for you, Dinah, she thought, approving and disapproving all at the same time.

Cook spoke before she could reply. “And what are you telling me for? I don’t take care of upstairs chores. I take care of the kitchen, that’s my job, and we’ve more than enough work already. You’re the bleedin’ daily woman, for heaven’s sake…”

Mrs. Bone raised her hands for peace. “I’ll make up some soda.”

Cook snapped her fingers to her girls. “Fetch three ounces of eggs, some chloride of potass, and someone give her ladyship here a mixing bowl.” Her eyes glittered. “Dirty frames. I ask you. I’d like to come and look at those myself!”

Mrs. Bone fetched a bucket. “You rest here, Cook,” she said. “No need to trouble yourself in the least.”

The bucket was full of foaming liquid, and she had to grit her teeth, concentrating, to make sure she didn’t spill any and stain the marble. She slid the dining room door open with her foot.

The room loomed large around her, the mirror big as a church window. The dining table irked her. It was octagonal, and very small—tiny, really. She felt a nasty snag of recognition. Like brother, like sister. She always positioned her desk far away from the door. Made people walk miles to approach her.

Mrs. Bone set the bucket down gingerly on the carpet. She had a good eye for carpets, and an even better one for chairs. She knew Louis Seize when she saw it. The chair legs created a bowlegged shimmer across the room. The walls rippled with tapestries, Gobelins, and they seemed almost flimsy up close. But they’d fetch a good price; that was for sure.

She began to feel better.

Working quickly, she shuffled around the room, opening drawers. She found plenty of silverware, just the third-rate stuff.

“Lovely, lovely,” she murmured to herself, dropping knives and spoons and their accoutrements into the deep pockets of her apron. She was glad to be wearing such a thick, coarse skirt. It muffled the clanking and jangling sound she made when she moved.

“You in there?”

She turned with a start, scurried back to her bucket, whipped a brush from her pocket.

The door slid open.

Cook appeared, arms crossed. Peered at the frames. “These don’t look any cleaner than before. You’ve got some nerve.”

Mrs. Bone abased herself. “I ought to have asked your opinion first, Cook.”

Cook’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you ought,” she said. But her chest swelled all the same.

This lot, thought Mrs. Bone, rolling her eyes inwardly. They’re easy pickings.

She corrected herself. Presume nothing. Disaster lurked in every corner. Fate was waiting to crush her pride. But she liked the odds. She wouldn’t have admitted it to Mrs. King. But she liked them a lot.

The next day she went to snare the policeman with her stolen goods. Mrs. Bone never took on a job without compromising the constabulary. No use launching a burglary if you didn’t have a bobby up your sleeve. The chauffeur, Mr. Doggett, and two of the under-footmen were sitting in the mews yard, playing cards. Mrs. Bone dropped them both a free cigarette in exchange for their silence. “You’re like a bloody chimney,” the chauffeur said.

“I’ve got bad nerves,” Mrs. Bone replied, and slipped out to the lane.

Oh, there was a lot of waiting around in this place. It was going to make her back ache, standing up for hours and hours, for days on end. She was keeping a list of pros and cons in her head. That went firmly under Con. Mrs. Bone heard the clocks chiming distantly from the house.