The Housekeepers(67)
“Miss de Vries,” someone called from the terrace. “You must be the first to cross the Nile.”
Applause went up, a delighted crowd appearing at the top of the steps. The barges, which were rafts joined up with painted and gilded chairs, bobbed merrily on the surface. There was a dank smell to the air: too much tepid water in a confined space.
“If I must,” said Miss de Vries, emerging from the crowd. She looked pale but calm, Queen Cleopatra from head to toe, corseted and decked in black crepe, her jet ornaments swinging dangerously as she moved.
“I am Isis,” Winnie said, throat dry, paddling the raft toward the steps.
She didn’t like being near Miss de Vries. Never had. She learned that lesson on her last day in the house. Her mistress was then just twenty. She still had some plumpness in her cheeks then. She hadn’t yet begun to reduce, to slough off her excess, to drain her body of blood. But her eyes were as old as the hills, just like her father’s. Maids came and went, and it made Winnie feel sick. They hadn’t been going off and getting shop work, like Mr. Shepherd said.
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you, Madam?” she had said when she mentioned it.
Miss de Vries had stared at her, face blank. She didn’t even speak. She didn’t say, I’ve no notion what you mean. Did she know or not? There was some silent, unsayable, unseeable thing in this house—and the utter wrongness of it made Winnie’s skin crawl.
The barge trembled now upon the water. Miss de Vries turned, not recognizing Winnie, seeing only the painted face, the sapphire gems, the white sequins.
“Get ready,” said Winnie as Isis, and extended a hand. “I have come to deliver you to your death.”
But Miss de Vries took another hand, stepped onto a barge of her own. “Very nice,” she said vaguely, and floated away.
Cheers went up, and the waves lapped sorrowfully at the edge of Winnie’s boat. Oh, I shall empty this house, she thought. I shall strip the meat right down to the bones.
28
Two hours to go
Alice checked the clock. She’d checked it several times already, watching the minute hand inching forward. Time to ready Mrs. Bone’s men in the mews yard. They’d need to be opening the back gates soon.
She picked her way through the boxes in the dressing room. Fresh wares had been delivered that morning. Bolts of white satin, stretches of Honiton lace. Linens, and velvet gowns, jet-crusted parasols. Madam was already assembling her trousseau, in expectation of her engagement. Alice pictured herself holding one of the parasols, skin bronzed by the sun. Dressed in white lawn, holding a purse full of money. A lady’s companion, far from England, entirely sheltered by her mistress. Living in a fine suite, with every luxury, near Madam herself. Madam, with her edges softened, her drapery growing more gentle, more tractable, by the day.
Stop it, Alice told herself. Her thoughts were developing dangerous, sinuous lines.
She went downstairs, trying to keep a steady pace. She knew exactly what she had to do. Winnie had drilled it into her. The back stairs were frenzied, men running up and down from the garden with trays from the kitchens. The mews, she reminded herself. Go to the mews.
She slipped out through the garden door, making sure she hadn’t been observed. It felt cooler out there, on the other side of the wall. The city rumbled in the distance. She peered down the lane. Out there, around the corner, poised and waiting, were a hundred van drivers ready to descend upon the house and begin the almighty clearance.
A figure moved at the end of the lane. Someone was watching her from the shallow arch in the middle of the lane. He separated himself from the shadows, a sliver of darkness.
A man.
One of the entertainers, a woman in a silver dress, hoisted on painted stilts, peered down at Winnie. They were on the terrace, the house looming behind them. Winnie was surveying the crowd, eyes peeled for any disturbances, any problems. There were none. It made her heart thrum with excitement. “That’s good paint,” the woman said, reaching down and touching Winnie’s forehead.
Winnie dodged. “Thanks.”
She was keeping her back to the wall. Miss de Vries moved from guest to guest, managing things perfectly. Shaking hands, exchanging a whisper, squeezing an arm, admiring a gown. One man stayed on her tail.
“Don’t stare—you’ll make them blush,” said the woman on stilts.
“Pardon?”
“At those two. The lovebirds.” Stilts pointed at Miss de Vries. “We’ve got a bet on it. A proposal, under the fireworks, before the night is over.”
Winnie squinted, studying the young man accompanying Miss de Vries. He’d dressed as Charles the First, with a wide-brimmed hat adorned with feathers. He had a dangerous-looking jaw. A bored, laconic expression.
“Lord Ashley, of course,” said Stilts, confidentially. “Busy Hands, we call him. It’s all right for me—I’m up here, out of his way.” She hiked off, gargantuan legs rippling beneath her dress. “You might not be so lucky!”
Winnie’s mind clouded over. Lord Ashley wasn’t watching Miss de Vries. He was talking to the maids, all in uniform, arrayed on the terrace. They giggled, humoring him, pretending to be amazed by the entertainments. Only pretending, though. They were beyond exhausted. You could see it in their shoulders. Fatigue in the soul, something chronic. A few pounds a year and a scrag of mutton at Christmas—that’s all they had to look forward to.