The Housekeepers(44)

“I just need a little time,” she said. “To put some affairs in order. It’s not that much to ask.”

He shook his head, disbelieving. “You broke things off between us, Dinah.”

“For heaven’s sake.” Mrs. King governed herself. “I said we should wait. That’s all.”

“We aren’t people who wait. You don’t wait.” His voice was low. “I bought you a ring.”

“Oh, enough,” she said, rising to her feet.

Mrs. King felt her anger burst through, breaking its bonds. She’d proposed a pause, a temporary suspension of things between them, just until this business was concluded. She needed to concentrate. And to him this represented a schism, a betrayal, an irrevocable parting. It was so completely foolish of him.

Her rage passed as quickly as it came, and left the usual shame behind. He was right to judge her. She hadn’t been straight with him; she hadn’t shared one iota of the truth. She would have been furious at him if he’d done the same to her. “Look,” she said. “I’ve got plans. Come with me—if you like.”

A long moment passed. William was silent. Then, slowly, he said, “Miss de Vries’s new girl. Alice.”

Mrs. King felt her skin tightening. “Who?” she said.

Those eyes shimmered. “Don’t ‘who’ me. What’s the connection?”

Mrs. King was caught off guard.

“Well?” And then, impatient, “She told me she comes from up your way. Same neighborhood. That doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.”

Mrs. King shut her eyes.

“Dinah?”

“How do you remember which neighborhood I come from?”

“You told me.”

She frowned. “Ages ago. Years back.”

Some understanding crossed his face. “I remember everything when it comes to you,” he said.

Mrs. King remembered how it used to be, when she was a house-parlormaid, back when William arrived. Of course the girls went mad for him—half of the men, too, come to that. William knew this, and he handled it gently. He didn’t let it turn his head. He kept himself to himself—he was hard to read, same as she was. The first time their hands touched, they were both buttoned up in their gloves. He’d taken a breath, a deep one, as if steadying himself. They kept it secret, whatever it was between them. They didn’t even call it love for years. It was their thing, theirs alone.

On their night walks they skirted Whitechapel, and he pressed her, curious: tell me who you are, tell me where you come from. “Who cares?” she said, laughing. “Let me be a mystery.” She led him down the old street, right past Mr. Parker’s house, in silence. Yellow-gray brick, and a broken lamppost, and a shadowy boy flipping ha’pennies at the end of the lane. She must have gone silent, fretting, remembering Mother. He’d clocked it, yet he didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to cause her pain.

I remember everything when it comes to you.

Those words made her throat dry. “Don’t repeat that to anyone.”

He stared right back. “Which part?”

“Any of it.” She closed up her face, turned her back on him. She could feel it: danger, pulsing through the garden.

18

Tilney Street, Mayfair. Mrs. Bone had rented lodgings for them on a side road off Park Lane, in order to maintain the closest possible presence to the de Vries residence.

“Can she afford it?” Mrs. King murmured when they first inspected their new lodgings.

“Why couldn’t she afford it?” said Winnie.

Mrs. King’s expression smoothed out. “No reason.”

Now Winnie sat in the parlor with a mountain of fabric, sewing tunics. She frowned, struggling with the machine, which whirred and rattled and threatened to destroy her faith in herself. She wasn’t making nearly enough progress. They needed to dress at least sixty men. She was barely a third of the way through.

She called through to the bedroom. “How are you getting on in there, Hephzibah?”

Hephzibah’s voice came back, rich and imperious. “Call me Lady Montagu!”

Mrs. Bone had sent one of her own gigantic-looking mirrors to Tilney Street, and they’d propped it up at the end of the bed. Winnie peeked around the door. Hephzibah was examining herself, ruffled and rippling, awash with pink silks. A hat triple-barreled with roses floated merrily on her head. “I’m radiant,” she said.

“You look like a regular Venus,” said Winnie, with care.

Hephzibah eyed her beadily. “Because of the pink?” She sniffed. “Yes, I like that.”

Winnie approached carefully. She touched Hephzibah’s neck, checked the buttons on the back of the dress. Studied the photograph they’d pinned to the glass. The real Duchess of Montagu stared back at her. Strong oval face. Fine, long nose. She looked at Hephzibah. The resemblance was remarkable.

“Have you been learning your lines?” she said, trying to be cheerful.

Hephzibah’s hands seemed jumpy. “There’s more to this job than learning lines.”

Winnie made herself smile. “You’re every inch the duchess.”

Hephzibah let out a breath, flexed her hands. “I’m a terrible ham, aren’t I?”

“You’re magnificent,” whispered Winnie, and squeezed her arm.