The Housekeepers(74)

The following morning she faced Mr. Shepherd. Being dismissed didn’t frighten her. She was ready for it. Her plans required her to be outside the house, at liberty to circle it, correct it, tilt it, push it all the way over. Besides, she recognized her dismissal for what it was: a shot being fired right back at her. A message from Madam: Get out.

It pleased her. It gave her exactly what she needed. Permission to do her worst.

31

Now

“You know he’d been married before,” said Mrs. King.

Miss de Vries said nothing. She sipped her champagne.

“I suppose he had the same set of choices as all the other men who take secret wives.” Mrs. King counted on her fingers. “Come clean. Start running. Or say nothing. He picked the last option, didn’t he? Even Lockwood didn’t know.” She smiled, a pitying glance. “Men like him, they so nearly get away with things. But then they let the cat out of the bag. It’s as if they want to be caught. As if they can’t help themselves.”

Miss de Vries raised her chin to the ceiling. She pressed her lips together.

“And he unburdened himself, didn’t he?” continued Mrs. King. “On his nearest and dearest, his own flesh and blood, his own kith and kin. On you and me.”

She’d looked forward to this moment, regardless of the risk. It would have been more prudent to keep her counsel, stay out of sight. But the urge to face Miss de Vries, bring everything out in the open, was too great. Besides, she had one fear, one deep concern. Had Mr. de Vries told his other daughter of the letter? Had she found it? If Miss de Vries had destroyed it, then Mrs. King needed to know.

Mrs. King wished Miss de Vries would show something in her face, her eyes. But Miss de Vries didn’t. Her voice was entirely controlled. “I’m famished. Let’s eat.”

She moved faster this time, champagne sloshing in her glass, and she tucked her hand into the crook of Mrs. King’s elbow. Lockwood sprang, following.

The supper room was on the other side of the ballroom, opening onto the balcony, steps hurtling down to the garden. Lights leaping in the trees. Walls gagged with white silk. The tables had been laid out Parisian style on long buffets. Fowls sliced and stacked on silver dishes. Fruit plunged in bowls of ice. Mrs. King touched a peach, felt the chill like a burn.

Miss de Vries took a knife. Picked a sliver of meat.

“Anything else to tell me, Mrs. King?”

“No.”

Miss de Vries tilted the knife in the air. “Clearly, you’ve taken leave of your senses.” Her eyes were bright.

“I haven’t,” said Mrs. King, taking a moment, watching her temper. “As well you know.”

“Prove it,” Miss de Vries said.

“Prove what?”

“What you said. What he told you.”

Mrs. King felt a quiver in her stomach. “So you accept he told me something.”

Silence.

“Well, I can’t,” Mrs. King said. “I didn’t write anything down. I’ve no witnesses. I’d rather know what he told you.”

Miss de Vries looked away. “Me?”

She needed to be pushed, to be provoked. “Come now, Madam,” said Mrs. King. “Tell me all about it. Tell me how it feels. Knowing that your father could be so spiteful.”

The noise from the ballroom surged and crashed over them like a wave. Miss de Vries’s expression changed. The words wounded her. But she simply shrugged.

“He wasn’t spiteful. One says spiteful things by accident. When one can’t hold one’s tongue.” She considered her knife, studied the reflection. “This was entirely deliberate. Papa sent for me. Directly after you, I expect. He told me he had a little something to tell me.” Her mouth twisted. “Just a little thing.”

Mrs. King felt her chest thrumming. Go on, she thought, goading Miss de Vries with her mind. Lockwood took one step closer. He was looking at Miss de Vries oddly, recalculating her.

“He told me he’d made a mistake,” Miss de Vries said.

Lockwood went very still.

“A mistake?” said Mrs. King.

“He told me he’d fathered a child. I said that wasn’t any concern of mine.”

Silence. Mrs. King allowed this to sit between them for a long moment.

It was strange, so enormously strange, to hear Miss de Vries speak of this matter at all. Mrs. King tried to picture the conversation between Miss de Vries and her father: a daughter’s dawning comprehension, the shimmer of betrayal. “It must have been a shock,” Mrs. King said, more gently. Miss de Vries’s eyes turned on her, a flicker of derision.

“Hardly. We’ve been paying your mother off for years. Hospital bills do stack up, you know. They send receipts.” She took a short, tight breath.

Mrs. King had never seen Miss de Vries express pain. Even when she was small, she never cried; she was trained too well for that. But this was pain: that’s exactly what it was. Mrs. King recognized it at once. She understood what it was to deduce something enormous, something that turned the world back to front. She felt a searing sense of kinship with Miss de Vries in that moment.

It made her ask the next question bluntly, not sidestepping it, not winding her way in. “Did he mention a letter?”

Miss de Vries turned, light shivering. “Papa spoke a lot of nonsense,” she said.