The Housekeepers(94)

He turned, expression as flat as she could make her own. “Thought I’d do the decent thing and tell you myself.”

Lockwood was waiting for her in the front hall. He hadn’t removed his gloves. “Miss de Vries, I regret to tell you, I think I must withdraw my counsel.”

She wanted to press her thumbs into his throat, stop him from breathing. She knew she could do it. “You’ll survive,” she said, “won’t you? You loathsome little cockroach.”

Lockwood grimaced and raised a hand, silencing her. “Ah, Shepherd.”

A door had opened. Mr. Shepherd lumbered slowly in. He glanced at Lockwood, then his mistress. “Keys,” he said.

The air chilled.

“What?” said Miss de Vries.

Shepherd’s mouth was working furiously, eyes ablaze. “Keys, miss. I’ll need to take your keys, for safekeeping. While the police are looking into everything.”

To her credit, she told herself later, she didn’t act as though the wind had just been knocked out of her sails. She put her hand in her pocket. “I only have this one,” she said, plucking her single key, the one that was for the garden door. “As well you know.”

She bent her knees a little, and then she threw it across the hall. It hit the marble with a gentle clang, skidding past Shepherd’s feet.

“Fetch,” she said, with disdain.

This wasn’t over, she promised herself, hands shaking. This wasn’t the end.

40

The day after the ball

That night the women had a feast. Not in Tilney Street, but in the docks, in Mrs. Bone’s inventions room, cuckoo clocks hooting at them every hour.

There was a queer energy to the air. The first proceeds were already coming in, rushing like dark water through underground tunnels. They came faster than Mrs. Bone could tally them, orders running like wildfire back and forth across the wires, steamer routes, trains, the express—to Paris, Marseille, Kristiania, Venice, Prague. Mrs. Bone had ordered game pie, and boned capon, and cutlets and peas, and chicken in aspic. She gave them melon and green figs, and ribbon jelly, and an amber-colored sponge cake at least a foot high. There were candied oranges and a dish with ices, and a basket of greengages and meringues.

“Too much,” said Hephzibah, clutching her stomach. “I thought you were a skinflint, Mrs. Bone.”

“I can get more,” said Mrs. Bone, eyes flashing. “I’ll get as much as you like!” She knew her largesse was almost indecent, but she felt the need to do it.

Mrs. King had sat with her, studying the books. “Two lots of lucky sevens for you,” she murmured. “Less your advance. We’ll hold my share back for now.”

Mrs. Bone had flushed, trying to cover her shame. “One share will do nicely,” she said. “A great fortune doesn’t suit me. It sends me around the bend. In fact,” she added, “give another portion to my Janes. They’ll make better use of it than me.”

She couldn’t believe she had done it. But the second she had, it felt unutterably right. She told the Janes to burn their uniforms. She wanted them to buy opera coats, and furs, and parasols, and patent-leather boots. She sent one of her men under cover to a department store to buy them a pair of hats. They were shaped like boats and were crammed with white roses. They wore them at the dinner table. “You’re my best girls,” she said, holding them close, feeling teary.

“Thanks, Mrs. Bone,” they replied, unmoved.

Alice sat between them. They’d edged their chairs aside, making a little room for her.

“Thanks,” she said in a whisper. She’d gone pale when Winnie spoke of her own triumphant negotiation with Miss de Vries.

“But I took it,” Alice said, voice hoarse. “I took Madam’s money.”

The silence was dreadful. Winnie’s expression grew taut. Mrs. King opened her mouth—to protect her sister, to smooth things over. But Jane-two spoke first, eyes solemn. “You did what was necessary for your own preservation,” she said to Alice. “There is honor in that.”

Mrs. King touched Winnie’s arm. “Miss de Vries would have reneged on the bargain anyway. She wants to be great. She doesn’t want to be free.”

“You don’t know that,” Winnie said.

Mrs. King looked grim faced. “I do.”

“I’ll pay Madam back,” said Alice, agonized. “I promise.”

“Turns out you’ve got some pluck, after all,” said Jane-one to Alice, forking her jelly. “Good for you.”

“Pluck?” said Winnie, pulling herself together, pointing to Hephzibah. “Talk about pluck. I’ve never seen such fine acting in my life.”

Hephzibah went as pink as her ball gown and threw a shaky smile at Winnie.

Mrs. King sat ramrod straight, eating nothing.

At last, Mrs. Bone leaned over. “Well? What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me.”

“Something’s missing,” said Mrs. King. “That’s all.”

She had been through every item. They came to her for inspection, one by one, carried or hauled or dragged out from under dustcloths. Painstaking, brutal work.

The letter wasn’t there.

Had it ever been? she wondered. She pictured Mr. de Vries’s watery gaze. It could have been another trick, a lie, sickbed delirium…