The Housekeepers(78)

“Of course you understand that you must submit to me, if we press ahead?” he said. “You must obey me, in everything.”

If she had been a superstitious person, she might have crossed her fingers behind her back. “Naturally,” she said. “My vows will make sufficient provision for that.”

He chuckled, the tension leaving his face. Changeable, she noted. Inclined to take things as a conquest. Not a bad temperament, perhaps.

“Then come,” he said, “and dance. My people will settle the smaller details.”

He was only fractionally taller than she was. At that height she could look directly at his forehead, pierce his skull, read his mind. Victory surged within her. “Your Honor, thank you,” she said, inclining her head toward the judge.

“My dears,” he said, in raptures, stretching his hands out to them. “My deepest congratulations.”

Hephzibah had been in the Boiserie this entire time, gathering herself. Mr. Shepherd hadn’t understood her when she’d told him her name. It meant nothing to him. And in any case her mouth had become so dry, so sticky, that she’d garbled the words. I’m foaming at the lips, she thought. They’ll have to cut out my tongue.

But the urchin, who had likely never been to a theater in his life, who would likely never earn enough to even contemplate purchasing a ticket, had gaped up at her. “What did choo say?” he’d asked.

She’d gazed down at him, vision blurring. He had dark, hungry-looking eyes. She had seen boys like him causing trouble outside the Paragon, scrabbling and kicking one another in the dust. You could always count on one to pick up a playbill with mocking laughter, strutting about in imitation of the powdered, laced-up lady in the illustration.

She pressed a shaking finger to his lips. She could feel things slipping out of her control.

“This lady,” Mr. Shepherd had said before he departed, “is clearly not at all well. Someone fetch the physician.”

“No,” she said, trying to make her voice steady. She did feel pain, seeing him. But it wasn’t like pulling a tooth, after all. It was like an open wound, fresh and bitter. “Leave me be.”

He did leave. He retreated, distracted, rubbing his swollen-looking lip, and left her in the Boiserie.

“You’d best sit down,” the boy muttered. “My lady.”

“What do you want?” she said, scrunching his sleeve in her fist. “To keep your mouth shut?”

He hesitated.

“Too slow,” she said. “Say one word and I’ll have you strung up on a lamppost.”

His eyes went black.

Hephzibah exhaled, looked out of the window. Not long now, she thought. It was nearly done, nearly finished. She’d nearly made it. Best to stay here, she decided, where she couldn’t set off any further suspicions. Her actresses would manage without her for now. You’re just having a little rest, she told herself, trying to steady her nerves. Don’t run away.

The Boiserie was positioned above the front porch, its windows bowed, facing the park. An enormous motor, bigger even than the Daimler, drew up slowly beside the curb.

Who’s that? Hephzibah wondered, peering down.

A figure in a dark suit leaped from the passenger seat, hurried around, waving the crowd back. Reached for the door, unfastened it.

A gaunt woman in a squashed orange turban emerged.

Someone of quality, Hephzibah mused. You could spy old money a mile off. Delicious-looking silk. Not a moth hole anywhere. A viscountess, perhaps. She liked to say viscountess. It pleased her lolling tongue.

“What?” grunted the boy.

“Silence,” ordered Hephzibah.

But then the turban moved, and the woman bent to say something to the other person sitting inside the motor, and suddenly the world became very still. It turned on its axis no more; it made no revolutions; it came to a terrible halt.

For it was clear to Hephzibah, as it was clear to those people on the pavement, that this motor car was altogether too grand, too anonymous, to contain any ordinary person. It had curtains drawn down over the windows. The tassels were bobbing, gleaming gold. Hephzibah felt the thrill passing through the crowd. Saw the traffic slowing.

Surely not, Hephzibah thought. Not possible. Not the…

The viscountess in the orange turban stepped back. And slowly, back straight, she descended into a curtsey. The crowd sighed with anticipation.

Hephzibah was transfixed. Someone else began to emerge from the motor. Hair glossed and folded, dark with wax. A neck bound tight with a choker, as if the pearls had been sewn directly into the skin, flesh jeweled from chin to clavicle. No costume, not even a nod to one. But a sash, royal blue, cutting straight across the shoulder. It blazed up at Hephzibah.

So did a face. A familiar face. One you saw on picture postcards. Long and angular. Thick brows. Heavy lidded, heavy jawed.

Hephzibah felt her fingers trembling. “Ah,” she said to the boy lightly, as if she didn’t care. “The Princess Victoria is here, after all.”

Her mind began racing. How, how, how on earth…？

Hephzibah staggered to the door of the Boiserie. Looked out at the saloon, at the open doors to the ballroom. The noise and the fug of champagne on the air hit her in a rush.

You’re the greatest actress you know, she told herself. The best. So, act.

33

Ten minutes to go