The Housekeepers(30)

“You lost your job. Bad luck, poor you. But you’re not struggling. You’ve got your wits about you. You’ll be fine.” Winnie looked contemplative. “One doesn’t tear a house down every time she grows tired of gainful employment.”

Mrs. King laughed. “Oh, doesn’t one?”

“No,” said Winnie stubbornly. “So I’m asking: is there something more going on?”

Sometimes, in the dark of the night, Mrs. King thought about the one thing that frightened her about her plan. Other people. All their strange little fears, their jealousies, their persistent needs. Animals didn’t buck authority this way. Birds didn’t. They flew in perfect formation, a powerful confederacy.

“Oh,” said Mrs. King, “probably.”

Winnie’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”

There were times when a titbit, a tiny particle of information, soothed her fine band of women. It was like training dogs, feeding birds. She swiveled position on the bench. “When I first came to Park Lane, Mr. de Vries made me a promise.” She stretched her legs. “Two promises, actually.”

Something darkened in Winnie’s eyes. “Mr. de Vries?”

“Yes. First: that people wouldn’t ask me where I came from. Second: he’d pay my mother’s hospital fees.”

“Hospital?”

“Yes. I don’t know what you’d call it. A workhouse. An asylum.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? I’m not sure I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Winnie said.

Images came into Mrs. King’s mind, the old ones. Gray light. Mother’s stare, growing stranger. “They promised me I wouldn’t have to talk about it. I could put everyone behind me. Mother. Alice, too.”

Winnie said slowly, “We’ve never discussed this, you know. In all our years together, never. I always thought it was a strange thing.”

“What was?”

“You. Coming to Park Lane. Right out of the blue. No family, no papers. You didn’t even know how to tie your apron properly.”

“Well,” said Mrs. King, “I had you to teach me, didn’t I?”

Winnie tilted her head. “We know what sort of girl arrives in a house without a character.”

Mrs. King laughed. “I wasn’t in that sort of trouble, Winnie.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why did Mr. de Vries hire you?”

Mrs. King had been asked that question before. “Old friend of the family.”

Winnie let out a short laugh. “An old friend. I see.” She shook her head. “Good Lord. When I think about the way we bent over backward for you, made exceptions for you. Changed breakfast time, suppertime, gave you the nice chores, extra candles, extra sugar, more tea. A bed by the window, a room of your own, new caps, free mending…”

“You didn’t do so badly by him yourself.”

“I worked. I worked my fingers to the bone. I’ve never worked so hard in my life.”

Winnie’s face glimmered with something hard to read. Mrs. King had to allow that it was true. Winnie had plodded through that house like a shire horse: inexhaustible, determined. She’d gone from kitchen maid to between-maid to housemaid to house-parlormaid. When she made housekeeper, they gave her a round of riotous applause. Even Cook had been decent about it. Five years and then—she left. No farewells. It took Mrs. King months to even find her, selling tatty ostrich feathers to a milliner in Spitalfields.

Winnie took a breath. “What was he to you?”

“What do you think?”

“What do I think? I think you were on a pedestal the moment you arrived. I think you had protection. I’ve no notion why. That’s what I’m asking.”

Mrs. King concentrated on keeping her face smooth. “Heavens, Inspector.”

Winnie raised a finger. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Manage me.”

Mrs. King felt her patience thinning. She caught it before it snapped. “It’s my job,” she said coldly, “to manage you. I’m managing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”

Winnie was calm. “Dinah. Tell me.”

They’d come right up to the brink of something.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Mrs. King said. “Really.”

“What tree? I don’t even know what I’m asking.”

Mrs. King rose. “We’ve got work to do. I need to talk to Sanger about the camels.”

“No.”

Winnie didn’t move. If it had been Hephzibah asking, or Mrs. Bone, or Alice, it never would have come out. They were easy to sidestep, divert, deflect. But Winnie simply sat there and waited for the truth. She expected it of Mrs. King. She deserved it.

Mrs. King felt a queer sensation in her chest, the fear that she couldn’t control her face.

“He was my father,” she said.

Winnie wondered later if she’d looked like a fool. She wondered if she’d paled, gasped, done any of the stupid things. A child came tearing past, balloon in hand, shrieking with laughter. Mrs. King put her hand to her cheek.

At last, Winnie spoke. “Your father?” Confirmation seemed necessary; it seemed absolutely vital.