The Housekeepers(60)

“No Irish!” said Cook, and the spoon went back up in the air. “No Irish!”

“Enough,” said Shepherd. His eye swept over the crowd, landed on William. “Show the princess’s men out to the mews house. Get them some refreshments, with my compliments.”

“Compliments, Mr. Shepherd?” gasped Cook.

“And tell them to stay out of the kitchen, and well out of the way of the ladies.”

“Ooh, I think I’m getting a bruise on me hip, Cook,” said Mrs. Bone. “They pinched me that hard.”

“Go!” roared Mr. Shepherd.

Good. Mrs. Bone wanted a squadron of men near the back gate, ready to keep the road clear when required.

Cook turned, irate. “But what about Mr. Doggett, Mr. Shepherd? He won’t want his mews house being overrun by—”

Mr. Shepherd flapped her away. “Mr. Doggett is helping up here. William, you sort things out.”

“Yes, Mr. Shepherd.”

“I want everyone back to work.”

Cook gathered her bevy of girls around her. She crossed her arms, eyebrows knit together. “He didn’t ought to do that,” she said as Mr. Shepherd retreated. “Madam won’t like the idea of strangers sitting out in the garden. They might unlock the back gate.”

Mrs. Bone didn’t care for this line of thinking in the least. “Oh, you’re a regular detective, ain’t you?” she said. “Got your magnifying glass in your apron, have you? Got your police whistle?”

The kitchen girls gaped at her. Mrs. Bone scowled at them. She’d be out of this house soon enough. She was very nearly done being a humble worm. “Ah, shut your mouths. And one of you can help me with these pails.”

Cook aimed a frigid stare in her direction. “Help yourself,” she said, and spun on her heel.

The Janes had started packing the guest suites on the second floor—and they assumed they had the place to themselves. Their laundry baskets were already heaving with ornaments. Their system was smooth. Lift one thing, wrap it with tissue paper, drop it in the basket. They were steady, focused. They didn’t even hear the door open.

“Oi. What are you doing?”

The girls whipped round. There was a shadow on the wall.

Jane-two’s stomach contracted as she saw one of the house-parlormaids in the doorway, eyes on stalks.

“Putting stuff in safekeeping,” said Jane-one, without missing a beat. “Give us a hand, would you?”

“Mr. Shepherd said guest suites. Not all the suites.”

“I’ll tell him you slowed us down, if you like.”

The house-parlormaid stiffened at that. “I’ve only got five minutes.”

“That’s all we need.”

Jane-two wished she had her logbook with her. Risks made her want to sneeze.

“I don’t like this,” she murmured.

“Hush,” said Jane-one.

25

Four hours to go

The crowd outside was growing restless, waiting for the great folk to arrive. They were like moths to a flame: men after a day at work, dressed in their shirtsleeves, women brandishing paper fans. Didn’t they have homes to go to? Lives to lead?

No more than I do, thought Winnie. She hadn’t slept for two days.

Her hands were shaking, yet she had planned this moment with precision, and in the end it went exactly as she had pictured. Her own imagination could spin things out of thin air. And it needed to. She had everything to prove. Hephzibah was avoiding her. No doubt Mrs. King was, too. The revelation about the girls had changed something between them, twisted the plan, given it new and dark dimensions.

Winnie was dressed as Isis, sister-wife of Osiris. She rode down Park Lane in procession, atop a gilt-licked pyramid mounted on wheels, accompanied by a huge quantity of Mrs. Bone’s hired men, who were done up in grease paint and the tunics Winnie had sewn for them. They were preceded by two lines of camels, hired from Mr. Sanger’s circus, restless and golden, drawn by two dozen men in overalls with ropes looped to their waists. The other men carried drums, resounding with each step. Above it all, Winnie stood in white sequins, shimmering, her hands outstretched.

The crowd gasped, delighted. The traffic ground to a halt in every direction.

Winnie closed her eyes. She could feel sweat on her brow, but she didn’t dare touch her paint. The crowd applauded her, whooping. Winnie concentrated all her energies on being a queen. It wasn’t very easy to stay upright. The pyramid rumbled and rattled beneath her. She willed herself, Don’t fall, don’t fall. The structure was hollow inside, full of shelves and compartments. And more men, not seen: the relief party. She pictured them clutching the handles, wincing at every jolt in the road.

The other entertainments came tripping along behind her: jugglers and fire-eaters and dancing-girls with hoops. Men with accordions, angels carrying bells. The whole thing was splendid and discordant, as loud and extravagant as they could get it.

Her throat tightened as she finally descended from the pyramid.

“Here,” she whispered, collaring a man in a white tunic. “Can you take a message to Mrs. King for me?”

“About what?”

“Just say, Something’s up with the little bird.”

“She’ll understand?”

“Just tell her.” Winnie hadn’t liked Alice’s expression earlier. There was something working in the girl’s mind, something Winnie couldn’t easily interpret. It sounded the alarm in Winnie’s head. She needed a second opinion.