The Housekeepers(87)

“Oh, give over,” muttered Jane-one, pressing a hand to her ear.

Together they worked the crowd: pushing, shoving, scaring, very nearly ramming people down the stairs. Mrs. Bone’s men, the ones dressed as guests, helped. “Out, out, out,” they chanted, and it was remarkable to see the world obey them, growing increasingly frightened. “I’m choking!” cried one. “Smoke! It’s in my lungs!”

By the time they reached the front porch, they could hear Lord Ashley. Clearly, he was the worst sort of person in a crisis, bellowing orders for horses, buckets, hoses, causing even more confusion than before. Jane-one observed the chaos on the pavement, countesses calling for their husbands, ministers calling for each other, and a hundred motors jammed at every junction.

“They need to call for the fire brigade!” exclaimed Lord Ashley. “Now!”

“They have,” replied Mr. Lockwood. “I’m sure of it.”

“That bloody pyramid,” said Ashley. “It’s blocking the bloody road.”

Jane-one spotted the lamp-boy lurking by the railings. He had a weaselly, toothy look about him.

“You, boy,” said Lockwood, reaching for him. “Run to the fire station.”

“Sir, there’s people inside. Upstairs. I can see ’em moving around…”

Lockwood shook him. “Aren’t you listening? Get them to send the engines.”

A window opened, and one of Mrs. Bone’s men looked out, waving his arms, scaring back the crowd.

“Who’s that?” said Ashley. “Who’s inside?”

“Get back, get away from the house!” the man was shouting. A cry went up, and people began backing away, into the street, making for the park. “We’ll get the drapes down!”

Lord Ashley shouted up at them. “Quick, men, that’s it! Get those curtains off their rails!”

Jane-one heard Mr. Lockwood say slowly, “Where is Miss de Vries?”

Winnie came into the hall. “Ready?” murmured one of the men, peering upward.

A pulley above them was wheeling madly, taking the long chain with it. The pulleys had been looped onto the iron braces underneath the glass dome. They held a platform, operating like a gigantic version of the electric lift, wide enough to shift half a dozen big crates between the ground floor and the upper floors of the house. Their faces showed the strain of holding all the ropes. The dome shimmered over the front hall.

Please, God, let it hold, she thought. She could almost feel the glass quaking.

“Someone give the word,” said the first man.

Winnie’s mind scrambled. Plans, papers, schematics, diagrams, calculations, machinery, pulleys, inventories and ledgers. Hired hands and fences. Prices marked up in the ledger. Tricks, tales, lies, glorious acts of make-believe. Puzzle pieces, carved up and scattered by Mrs. King for them to piece together. Games for women.

It’s not a game to me, Winnie thought.

In her dreams, she had seen Mr. de Vries, and she had chased him through long, white, glistening corridors, longing to catch him and trip him and drag him to the ground. It had woken her last night, hot and panting, sheets twisted. This part of the job was supposed to be the end of the story. Emptying the house, taking the world’s breath away, that was the point of it all. To bring everyone low, to the same awful level.

And then what?

She had one plan, one laughable plan. A hat shop, she thought in disbelief. I wanted to open a hat shop.

It wasn’t enough; it wasn’t nearly sufficient. Mrs. Bone’s list burned in her mind.

If just one of those girls had made friends, then they wouldn’t have got into trouble. Shepherd couldn’t have picked them off. But when you were alone, you could be unstitched, you could have your lining ripped out.

“Go, then,” she said, raising her hand, giving the order.

The men nodded, eyed each other, braced themselves. And in a silent, perfect rush, the crates began descending to the floor of the hall, ready to be ferried to the garden and the mews lane beyond.

Winnie unfolded Mrs. Bone’s list from her pocket. She needed to find Hephzibah, and start putting things right.

Hephzibah had changed costume on Tilney Street, removing her wig and returning to the house in a gigantic veil and a plain cotton dress. She directed her people with skill. “Moving,” she reminded them subtly, “keep everybody moving.” A footman fired up another brazier. The neighbors had sent out supplies: Brook House delivered a dozen trestle tables and Stanhope House provided several crates of wine. The ball had been transposed entirely to the park: the crowd was not disposed to disperse.

“Would you look at those women,” said Lord Ashley, three feet from Hephzibah. Girls from the circus, wearing long tights and ruffs, were dancing between the trees, undulating, wheeling past on giant hoops. “Splendid.”

The guests—both Miss de Vries’s and Mrs. King’s—had begun dancing barefoot on the grass, throwing their hands aloft, rapturous with the sheer pleasure-seeking gaiety of it all. Only at the de Vries house, the most vulgar house in London.

Mr. Lockwood was studying the house, puzzled. “There’s no fire,” he said.

“No fire?” exclaimed Hephzibah, feeling a rush of panic. “I saw it myself!”

Nearby stood the head footman, eyes watchful. He had his hands behind his back. Lord Ashley reached out and shook him by the arm. It startled him: his face wrinkled with displeasure. “Go and look for your mistress,” said Lord Ashley. “Make sure she’s safe.”