The Housekeepers(59)

Winnie gave her a nervy smile. “Certainly you can. You’re doing marvelously. Now, once she’s finished in the servants’ hall, you must trail her. Stay on her all night—indoors, outdoors, everywhere. Mrs. Bone’s men won’t go near her rooms until the last possible moment, for safety’s sake. The second we give you the word, bring her to us—wherever you are, no matter what’s happening. Make her come.”

Alice had been over and over this part of the plan. “I’ll try.”

“Alice, what’s up? You look terribly pale.”

Alice shook her head. “Nothing.”

“I told you: Mrs. King’s awfully pleased. She trusts you implicitly.”

“Who does? Mrs. King, or Madam?”

Winnie frowned. “Mrs. King, naturally.” Winnie paused. Then said, with care, “How are things, with Miss de Vries?”

Alice felt a wave of unease. “Fine. I mean, splendid.” Was that right? “I hardly know. She’s up at five. She spends her morning on her letters and the papers. Reads from two till teatime. Then it’s dinner, bed. Not much to tell you, really.” Alice laughed, a hollow sound.

Winnie studied her, silent. “She’s a very captivating person,” she said.

Alice looked away. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. She can be terribly charming. Perceptive. Good sense of humor. You’re new here, so you’re easily susceptible to it.”

“Oh, naturally, I’m everybody’s chump.” Alice’s own anger caught her off guard. She swallowed it. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she added. “Perhaps it’s…the strain.”

“Then I suggest you take a deep breath,” Winnie said seriously, looking down at her watch. “Because it’s time for you to start singing, little bird.”

Alice wished very badly then to say something, to unburden herself, to say, Help me. Miss de Vries wasn’t charming. She wasn’t captivating. She and Alice didn’t speak as friends would; there wasn’t any laughter or gossip between them. It was different, a sort of keen, fizzing fellowship.

The kind that made her heart flip over in her chest.

The Janes moved fast, carrying a huge tray, laden with a mountain of boxes concealed by a white cloth. The chauffeur was wrestling with the hose. It was chugging hard, filling the courtyard with water. “What’s all that, then?” he called, clocking them.

“Cakes!” they shouted as they barreled into the house.

They weren’t cakes. They were Parenty smoke machines, and they rattled dreadfully in their boxes.

“I wish this were cake,” murmured Jane-two as they slid carefully into the electric lift.

“Don’t start, Moira,” said Jane-one.

They glided upward, otherwise unobserved.

It was remarkably easy to make trouble. Mrs. Bone had spoken a little word in Cook’s ear—just as planned—and the kitchen had descended into chaos, as predicted. Cook was at the center of it all, wooden spoon aloft.

“You heard ’em!” she said, pointing at Mr. Shepherd.

Mr. Shepherd had paled, hands raised, trying to soothe the uproar. “Ladies,” he called, over their voices, “now is not the moment for dissension in our ranks.”

Cook lifted the wooden spoon higher. “We can’t work safely in these circumstances, Mr. Shepherd. You’ve got to make a decision.”

Mrs. Bone was watching all this with an eyebrow cocked. Easy, she thought. You wind ’em up, give a few sharp twists, and off they go…

Cook saw her. “There she is. Ask her yourself, Mr. Shepherd!”

The butler turned to Mrs. Bone, perspiring. “Well? What is this all about?”

“Tell him!” said Cook, hot with indignation, jabbing the spoon. “Tell him what you told me.”

Mrs. Bone wrung her hands, made a hangdog face. “It’s the princess’s policemen, Mr. Shepherd. They’ve been ogling us ladies, giving us marks out of ten!” She cast a sideways look at Cook. “It was filthy!”

“You see, Mr. Shepherd,” said Cook, triumphant, eyes shining. “They even eyed up the old daily woman.”

Mr. Shepherd goggled at them.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone, jutting out her hip. “And they touched me. Here. And here.”

Mr. Shepherd averted his eyes. “Now, ladies…”

Cook raised a finger. “It don’t matter what you do. You can call ’em bobbies, you can send ’em up to Buckingham Palace, you can put ’em in uniform, you can give ’em any airs and graces you like. It don’t make a difference, if they’re Irish.”

“Cook…”

“Irish, Mr. Shepherd! Known philanderers!”

William moved in, right behind Mrs. Bone, smelling delicious. “What’s happening here, then?” he murmured.

Mrs. Bone wound her fingers together. “I dursn’t say.”

Cook pressed her hand to her heart, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And what, I’d like to know, are Their Majesties doing bringing philanderers into their house to guard their daughters? We might as well put them princesses up for sale to the highest bidder. They can call Maud Bawd.”

“Cook, enough,” said Mr. Shepherd, agonized.