The Housekeepers(83)

The lady-in-waiting with the orange turban smiled. “Ashley. Naughty you. Late again.”

Miss de Vries turned. She’d left Lord Ashley in the garden, hoped they would have given him enough wine to distract him. This was her ascendance. She wished to enjoy it by herself, before she was pinned to his arm forever. But he didn’t seem distracted. He lowered his chin, and for an extraordinary second she thought he was going to kiss her on the head. But he was only bowing to the Princess Victoria.

“Forgive me,” said Lord Ashley with a smile, and slipped into his seat.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask her permission to join, didn’t thank her for the food. He grabbed his fork as if seated at his own table.

The princess retreated into her own head, eyes down. The ladies all made a graceful turn left, and commenced conversation with their neighbors. Of course they all knew each other; it was effortless for them. Miss de Vries found herself seated beside a spindly and decrepit colonel, who was fussing with his handkerchief and inspecting the forks, saying not a word. Someone had altered the table plan without seeking her authority: someone from the royal household, perhaps. Or Lord Ashley. Miss de Vries stared at the wall in enforced silence, feeling a flush rising up her neck, suddenly out of her depth. The crowd stood panting at the door to the supper room.

This is my triumph, she reminded herself firmly, feeling ravenous, eating nothing.

Meanwhile, the Janes were consulting the instruction labels ironed into their petticoats. This was the most delicate part of the operation: sweeping the rooms in the public parts of the house. They got to work on the library, with Hephzibah’s decoy guests stationed right outside, guarding the door. Mrs. Bone’s men, still dressed in their tunics, stood on extendable ladders, handing books down the line and stacking them in towers. It was taking longer than Winnie had calculated.

“Come on,” muttered Jane-one, her eyes fixed on the clock.

“What time is it?” said Jane-two.

“Don’t ask.”

The men heard. Fear, the first true prickle of it, shimmered across the room.

Someone dropped a book. Jane-one saw it happen. It simply slipped from a man’s hand, toppling into a tower of leather-bound volumes already on the floor.

She knew what would follow. Her mind unspooled it, several seconds ahead. The first tower fell into the next. Dominoes.

The men looked on, aghast, as the towers crumbled. Jane-one felt the tremor as hundreds upon hundreds of books hit the bare floor. It was a rumble she could feel in all directions, passing through the walls.

“Lock that door,” she said. “Right now.”

A fist hammered on the library door. “Open up!”

One of the footmen, thought Jane-one. They’d heard a commotion in the library and come running, pushing past Hephzibah’s actresses. She pressed her finger to her lips. The men all stared at her, pale and sweating. They were trapped. Books lay scattered on the floor around them.

Silence outside. “Hello?” the footman said, uncertain. “Everything all right?”

Jane-one pressed her finger to the keyhole so he couldn’t peer in. She used her other hand to point to the window. Mouthed to Jane-two.

Perch act.

Jane-two frowned. You’re not serious.

Got another idea?

Jane-two considered this, quite seriously. Then sighed. Marched to the window, hauled it open. Reached out, feeling for the drainpipe.

Glanced back over her shoulder. Mouthed, Two minutes.

Jane-one motioned one of the men to cover the keyhole. Tiptoed to the center of the room. Twirled a finger in the air.

At first the men didn’t understand. Then she kicked off her shoes, pulled her apron over her head, unbuttoned her black twill dress. Their mouths dropped open.

She stood there in her chemise and her bloomers.

The men turned around in a hurry.

Jane-one felt a tingling in her muscles, and began her stretches.

35

1:00 a.m.

Hephzibah had a new problem. There was a man heading upstairs.

She recognized the ashen gleam to his hair from the old days. The family lawyer. Mr. Lockwood.

As soon as the princess had gone in for supper, he’d slipped away from the royal party. Hephzibah had watched him beetling toward the stairs. She’d planted several of her best people by the banister to head off any real guests who tried to leave the saloon floor, but the crush was too great—they couldn’t waylay him.

No, no.

She hastened after him.

He took the stairs two at a time, as if he were in a hurry. Hephzibah had to cling on to the banister to stop herself from tumbling over. “Sir!” she exclaimed, voice going up a notch.

He didn’t hear her. He rounded the stairs and disappeared.

Her first thought was, He’s fetching something for Miss de Vries. But her bedroom was at the front of the house, facing the park. And Lockwood had turned the other way, toward the enormous suite above the ballroom.

He had entered Mr. de Vries’s bedroom.

Her heart plunged when she saw Mrs. Bone’s men marching over from the other end of the house, ready to start clearing Mr. de Vries’s suite of its possessions. She hoisted her skirts and legged it along the passage.

The double doors were open. The lights were burning dimly in the gigantic suite beyond. Lockwood was already in there.