The Housekeepers(68)

She felt her chest tightening.

Miss de Vries checked a tiny wristwatch affixed to her costume. It caught the light, a sparkling flash. She said something briefly to Lord Ashley, catching his attention. He turned sharply, treading on her gown. Nobody else noticed, but Winnie saw. He pinned Miss de Vries to the spot and she looked down, a flash of annoyance. The dress had torn.

Lord Ashley moved on, not caring. They don’t look much like lovebirds to me, thought Winnie.

Miss de Vries stayed motionless for a moment, inspecting her train. Then she gathered herself, rearranged the crepe folds and moved toward the house.

She did it so subtly that the crowd barely parted for her: she was simply there one moment and then gone the next.

Winnie thought, Someone needs to follow her.

And then she thought, Why isn’t Alice here?

The Janes were sweating now, wrapping delicate furniture with dust sheets, binding everything together with string. Glossy wood, a lot of walnut, Queen Anne cabinets with a hundred gleaming brass latches.

“What would you go as?” Jane-two said.

“Eh?” said Jane-one.

“To a fancy-dress ball.”

“Like this one?”

Jane-two nodded.

Jane-one thought about it. “I wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“As what?”

Jane-two considered it. “Helen of Troy.”

Jane-one snorted. “Oh, very good. Here’s your wooden horse.”

She rolled the next box, filled to the brim with treasures, along the tracks they’d laid down the corridor, and ran a quick hand through her hair. Don’t stop, she told herself. Not even for a minute. She didn’t need to look at the clock. She knew what it would say. Midnight was fast approaching. “We need to speed up,” she muttered.

Alice had recognized the man in the mews lane the second she saw him. He had come without his usual companion. For some reason this made her more afraid, not less. One man, alone, without constraints, with his shirt collar loosened. Even debt collectors felt the heat, she thought, smothering a desperate bubble of laughter.

Usually he showed perfect courtesy, and tipped his hat. But tonight he wasn’t wearing a hat at all. He looked bigger than before, and the lamp shone on his bald head.

She searched for his hands, but they were shoved into his pockets.

He let out a breath when he saw her. This, too, made her feel weak. It was a tiny gesture, a little huff of…what? Anger? He was impatient to get this job done, sorted, over with.

She could see he had something concealed in his pocket. A lead pipe or a rope or a knife: her imagination unraveled all the possibilities, fear rattling through her chest.

“You’re late on your payment,” he said.

Alice ran her eyes down the lane. She looked over her shoulder, back into the yard. No one there. No one who could help.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She turned and ran, straight back to the mews house. Run, said her body, run and hide.

She scurried through the lower offices, dodging the waiters and footmen. Think, she urged herself. Think, think, think.

“Alice?”

A face looked around the corner of the kitchen passage. It sent a jolt through her skin: she gasped.

It was one of the under-footmen. He gave Alice a quizzical expression. “Steady on. Madam just asked for you. She’s gone and torn her gown. Run upstairs and fix it for her, will you?”

Madam. Alice’s mind was whirring. Yes: Madam. Someone fierce, someone in charge, someone who could offer immediate protection…

Alice could feel her chest tightening, worse than being laced. The under-footman’s frown deepened. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

29

Mr. Lockwood kept Mrs. King waiting for the best part of an hour. She didn’t let this rile her. She held herself upright and calm, in one of the vast wing-backed chairs in the corner of the library. It was such a good place for a private conversation. The walls were muffled by the bookcases, layers of vellum and gold-stamped leather. Mrs. King could hear the guests as if through water, a distant roar.

Mr. Lockwood sat opposite, ignoring her, writing a letter. His patience equaled hers.

Mrs. King’s women didn’t know she’d come up here. This conversation formed no part of their plan. It was part of her plan only. Mrs. King had one clear objective. To make sure, absolutely sure, that she hadn’t missed a vital piece of information, before the house was emptied. She was turning over rocks, inspecting any number of maggots.

At last, she asked, “What are you writing, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured in reply. He blotted the paper, pursed his lips, swiveled it to face her. “It is an affidavit,” he said. His smile was fixed, immovable.

Mrs. King’s face grew warm as she read the words he’d put in her mouth. A groveling promise not to trouble the house of de Vries with any lies, scandal, shame of any sort…

She lifted her eyes to meet Lockwood’s.

“I presume you’re here for your own advantage,” he said. “To discomfit your former mistress. To exact payment.” He tilted his head. “Or do you have an extraordinary and secret design, of which I’m quite unaware?”

Mrs. King smiled inwardly at that. But she kept her expression closed. “I will not sign this.”