The Housekeepers(66)

“I’ve got it,” Hephzibah had said. Winnie had made her apologies half a dozen times, but Hephzibah still wouldn’t meet her eye. “Don’t fuss.”

There was no delay to the dancing, no wallflowers spoiling the mood: Hephzibah’s actresses saw to that.

I might join in, Hephzibah thought, a splendid fog descending over her vision. She saw her men leading women to the ballroom floor, music swelling. They looked like sea anemones, billowing into each other’s arms, pulsing. It was a waltz, a fast one. It made the blood start pumping in the veins.

I need more champagne, she decided. And more jelly.

She spied a boy gawking at her from the corner of the room. A lamp-trimmer, she assumed, or an urchin kept for running errands. He had a pointed, weaselly face, and he was keeping himself carefully out of view from the other servants. In the normal course of events, Hephzibah might have flicked him half a crown for trying his luck upstairs. But this wasn’t the time for unkempt boys to be scuttling around the house. They’d made no allowances in the plan for that. And she didn’t like the way he was staring at her.

One of Hephzibah’s actresses came whirling past, a profusion of taffeta and silks. “Goodness gracious!” she cried, throwing her champagne glass to the floor, where it shattered in all directions. “Enough chaos for you, dear?” she muttered to Hephzibah as the waiters hurried to clean it up, the dancers surging around them.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. Have I been rumbled? Hephzibah wondered, with a prickling of alarm.

“Boy!” she exclaimed, sidestepping the actress. “Fetch me a drink!”

Perhaps her voice came out a little louder than she’d intended. An under-footman or a waiter glided up, tray in hand. “Madam,” he said, blocking her path.

She dodged. “That little boy can fetch it for me,” she said. “He needs teaching a lesson. He made a face at me. He is a cheeky rodent.”

I never, mouthed the boy.

“Tell him…tell him to go down to the kitchen and fetch me a…cold flannel!”

Oh, I do feel a little dizzy, she thought. Perhaps it was the heat. Or the champagne. Surely she could leave her actresses to manage things, just for a moment. “Here, help me,” she said, lurching forward, grabbing the boy by his shoulder. He wriggled furiously underneath her. “Get me to a chair.”

The footmen had glanced at each other, then at the crowd. “Help Her Grace into the Boiserie,” one said to the boy. “I’ll bring her a glass of water.”

It was very hard keeping a hold on these people. They moved so quickly, in such unexpected directions, sidling around the edge of rooms. She looked for her beautiful waltzing troublemakers. But they were gone, sucked into the heat and noise of the ballroom.

“Don’t move a muscle,” she said to the boy. “Don’t even think about leaving me unattended.” I need to decide what to do with you, she thought.

He squirmed, nearly spitting. “Mr. Shepherd,” he called.

Hephzibah felt her body go on alert.

She hadn’t seen him downstairs. The footmen had opened the front door, seated her, escorted her to the dining room, brought her wine. Not Shepherd. She’d been braced for him. It had to happen—she had to see him; it was inevitable. It was like pulling a tooth, she told herself. A necessary and shocking pain that would subside as quickly as it came. That was what she wanted. Something sharp and clean.

But he hadn’t appeared. She began to hope, to believe, that he wouldn’t. This was an enormous house, full of hundreds of people. It was possible that they might never cross paths again.

The last time she’d gone to see Mr. Shepherd, she’d nearly slipped on the parquet. Not for nothing did she hate that floor. Eighteen years ago, and she’d been hurrying to the stairs, skidding, nearly falling on her face. She couldn’t stand the smell of beeswax, to this day.

Shepherd had done what he always did. He took his report. He had a way of asking questions without using the necessary words. It didn’t make it any less revolting. It made it worse, as if the discussion were being bleached. She recalled the scratch of his pencil, the feeling of nausea, as if someone were shoving their fingers down her throat.

She left Park Lane that night. The scullery maid called Dolly Brown gobbled herself up. She dissolved, disappeared. She would never come back.

Sometimes, when things were very painful, it was best to draw back. Hephzibah did that now. She didn’t let go of the lamp-boy, but she leaned away from the door. She could see Shepherd on the other side of it.

Evidently, he had been hurrying in the other direction, and he didn’t look at all pleased to be waylaid. He peered across the room, spotting her. Hephzibah heard him speaking to the footman, sotto voce, flustered. “Who is…？”

“Hephzibah Grandcourt,” she said, standing, facing him fully. “That is my name.”

The early hours of a ball were a febrile, anxious affair. Things could swing in two directions. Dull or magnificent. There was nothing in between. When Winnie entered the house, leaving her pyramid glittering in the road, she made for the garden, where the most eye-catching entertainments would be held. She stepped nervously onto her raft, balancing precariously, the hosepipes chugging as they flooded the courtyard that had been turned into the Nile. She could see her own painted reflection in the scabbards and spears of the other entertainers. The courtyard walls glittered with lights.