The Housekeepers(29)

Alice was relieved. Standing near Miss de Vries was dangerous: she was altogether too observant. “Yes, Madam,” she said, retreating. And then, to be obliging, “Should I tell him who’s expected?”

Miss de Vries was scanning the paper, mouth moving silently with the words. She spoke offhandedly, but there was something in the ferocity of that gaze that held Alice’s attention. “Lord Ashley, from Fairhurst. Mr. Lockwood will accompany us.”

The names meant nothing to Alice.

“Very good, Madam.”

She began to carry the fabric away.

“Oh, Alice?”

Alice turned. Miss de Vries’s eyes were on her again. The light had changed, grown yellowish. It made Madam look softer, gentler. “You’re doing splendidly,” she said.

It was so unexpected, so entirely unlike Madam’s usual cool, disinterested tone, that Alice felt wrong-footed. She didn’t think anyone had praised her handiwork before. They paid her wages—that was all. Even Mrs. King never said well done. Alice didn’t mind being buttered up a little. She rather felt she deserved it. “Thank you,” she said in reply, and she was startled to hear the catch in her voice, as if Madam’s good opinion mattered to her more than she had realized.

12

The same afternoon

Hyde Park. Winnie was studying her wristwatch, concentrating, her notebook open on her knee.

“How’s the timing?” asked Mrs. King.

Winnie held up a finger, waited. Then took a breath. “By my calculations we’ll get those crates from the dome to the floor in less than a minute.”

“Well, crack a smile, then, Winnie. That’s good news.”

Winnie lifted her head. The sun slanted across her face, drawing out the lines around her eyes. Neither of them had slept properly in days. Their list of tasks seemed to grow longer by the hour. So did their debts. Winnie had just returned from an appointment on Curtain Road, bringing back a bill of sale for three dozen Parenty’s smoking machines. She’d looked flushed, pleased with herself.

“Not a bad price,” Mrs. King had told her encouragingly.

Of course she could have got them a better deal herself, buying on credit as they were. But there was no need to upset Winnie. Mrs. King had spent the night going through the Inventory with two monocled gentlemen brought in—and paid for—by Mrs. Bone. They smelled extraordinarily of fox fur and cheese, and knew everything about art. The prices they quoted made Mrs. King’s heart expand.

She decided she and Winnie deserved a treat.

“I’m buying you an ice,” she said to Winnie.

“I don’t care for ices.”

“I’m paying,” Mrs. King said.

“Fine.”

Now they sat together near the bandstand. Park Lane glistened between the trees, tantalizingly close. Mrs. King licked her ice cream with relish.

“How’s Hephzibah getting on with her stagehands?” she said, rubbing her mouth with her hand.

Winnie rolled her eyes. “You know Hephzibah.”

They’d put Hephzibah to work on Mrs. Bone’s men: training their accents, fixing their manners, straightening their posture. She would be responsible for directing them through the house, on the night of the ball.

“Is she terrifying everybody?”

“She’s terrifying me. She thinks she’s Sarah Bernhardt.”

“Perhaps she’s better.”

Winnie lowered her voice. “This is a robbery, not opening night at the Coliseum.”

“It could be both.”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I. Hephzibah’s good at her job. And she can get close to the action.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“Sewing, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got Alice for that.”

“That’s not the point.”

Mrs. King sighed. “Actually, that’s entirely the point. I need you by my side.”

Winnie shuffled in her chair. “D’you think I’m lousy at needlework?”

Mrs. King saw her worried little expression, and felt a burst of affection. “Not lousy, no.”

The crowds were moving in gentle waves across the park. “It’s horribly tiring, all this,” said Winnie.

“Have a nap.”

“I don’t have time to have a nap.”

“Then have another ice.”

Winnie inspected her ice cream sadly as it dripped relentlessly onto the bench. “When did you become such a brute?”

Mrs. King dug her gently in the ribs. “When did you become such a goose?”

There was a long silence, but for the shushing of the trees overhead.

Winnie wiped her hands. “Dinah,” she said. “Is there any more to this?”

Mrs. King licked her fingers. “More to what?”

“All this.” She met Mrs. King’s gaze. “This job.”

“You mean beyond earning a fortune greater than our wildest dreams?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. King finished her ice. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I know you. You’re a proud woman. But you’re not that proud.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”