The Housekeepers(71)

Lockwood approached. Cleared his throat. “Mrs. King is willing to swear that she is not Mr. de Vries’s daughter,” he said, under his breath.

“Illegitimate daughter,” said Mrs. King, with a smile. She was interested to see how Madam would react.

Miss de Vries didn’t make a sound. But her face tightened, a little twist of irritation. It aged her. She caught eyes with a group of men huddled near the door, dressed like Cavaliers and Roundheads. They lifted their hats with a flourish, and she inclined her head in response.

Mr. Lockwood gave a nervous laugh. “It’s good news, Miss de Vries.”

“I need a drink,” Miss de Vries said. “Do you, Mrs. King?”

Mrs. King pondered this. Was it cruel, having this conversation now, tonight—here? In public? Perhaps. But she perceived a sparkle of provocation in Miss de Vries’s eyes.

“I really do,” Mrs. King said.

Miss de Vries moved slowly, her costume rippling. The refreshments had been set out in the anteroom, an abundance of lemonade, iced sherbet, wafers, bonbons. She picked two glasses of champagne from a tray and handed one to Mrs. King.

“Go on, then,” said Miss de Vries, sipping from her glass. She closed her eyes as she did it. Swallowed. “I can see you’re simply itching to say something to me. The floor is yours. Speak.”

Mrs. King studied her own champagne, tiny bubbles splitting, bursting, one by one. “I had everything upside down,” she said. “And so did you. Your father pulled the wool over our eyes.” The music surged, and the dancers shifted, too. “We’ve lived our lives back to front. You must have thought me an awful woman. Here in this house, taking your wages, with nothing but shame hanging over me.”

Miss de Vries was silent for a long moment. And then she said, “I did think that.”

“I don’t blame you. I thought the same myself. I thought, what have I been doing here all this time? But I was always curious, you see. I always sensed there was something else going on. And you’re a clever girl. You must have clocked it, too.”

There was a wall around Miss de Vries, an airlessness. “I’ve no notion what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. You know your father’s secrets as well as anyone. You know he was a sham. You know he’d been married before.”

30

Two months earlier

The house was more quiet than usual. It had been muffled and cushioned to ensure the master wasn’t disturbed, to aid his sleep. Mr. Shepherd was waiting at the entrance to the bedroom as Mrs. King approached, hands clasped.

“Good evening, Mrs. King.” Somber tone.

“Good evening, Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. King. And then, when Mr. Shepherd didn’t move aside, “He sent for me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know why. He needs his rest. What’s this about, Mrs. King?”

Mrs. King felt her patience waning. She didn’t have the energy to coax and manage Mr. Shepherd anymore. “It’s my birthday,” she said, reaching around Mr. Shepherd, opening the door. “I daresay he wants to give me my present.”

The room had changed the moment he’d returned from the Continent. A decline that was never to be reversed. The windows were shuttered, the tables covered with all the paraphernalia of a sickroom: pillboxes and towels and bowls ready for the nurse to collect. There was a sulfurous smell in the air. She wondered if the master had brought it with him from the gaming tables and watering holes of the spa towns.

She made herself look at the bed.

Mr. de Vries was lying there, propped up with silk cushions, curtains pulled back. Even from a distance, she could hear his breathing, the grating sound of his lungs.

“Good evening, sir,” she said.

His eyes were closed, but he took a breath, a painful little sip of air. “Come here.”

Evidently, he wasn’t going to waste words. Mrs. King crossed the room. The carpets absorbed her footsteps; she moved completely without sound.

“Your present,” he said, resting his hand on a prayer book, there beside him on the bed.

His fingers were thin, very nearly elegant. But there was something gross about them, encrusted with rings, prominent knuckles, hairs sprouting at odd angles. Hands for touching, prodding, peeling back layers. Fingers that carried disease under the nails.

She didn’t touch the book. Someone would bring it down later. Pile it with the others, by her door.

“Thank you,” she said—because it seemed like a kindness, because it didn’t cause anyone any harm.

“I wrote a letter,” he said, hoarse. “If you want to know the truth.”

She felt her body grow very still. “What?”

“It’s in the house,” he said. “The letter.”

Later she tried to recall the moment, to pinpoint what she had felt. Surprise? Curiosity? It was a wriggle in her gut, certainly, but it was more like—unease. He was being economical with words, and so was she. It took care, and skill, and precision, not to say too much. And looking at him lying there, flat against the pillows, she felt something cold entering her heart. He’s on the edge, she realized. He’s dealing with the final things.

“What letter?” she asked, at length.

His eyes flickered at that. He still had it: the taste for a game, the nose for a tease.