Mrs. Bone leaned back in her seat. “You’re Icarus, my girl,” she said to Mrs. King. “You’re flying a good deal too close to the sun.”
“Then leave, by all means,” replied Mrs. King evenly. “Talk to Mr. Murphy. He’ll happily take over your patch.”
The women grew still.
Mrs. King looked at Alice. “Or you. Go back to making cheap dresses in a department store for the rest of your days.” A flush ran up Alice’s neck. “Or you, Hephz. Run on down to the music hall. Let’s see all your dreams come true.”
Hephzibah set down her glass. It let out a high, clear ring. “Don’t be beastly,” she said. Then she glanced at the Janes, sitting in the corner. “What do you think, you little oddities?”
They had hardly moved. “We can manage risks,” said Jane-one.
“I’ll keep a log,” said Jane-two. “Anything we need to keep an eye on.”
“Hold your horses,” said Mrs. Bone. “I want to do some preliminaries. I’d need to do a full survey on that house, from the drains to the bloody cock on the roof, if it comes to that. And I want to do it myself.”
“You want to do it, Mrs. Bone?” Winnie said gently, clearly trying to work out how they could manage this.
“’Course I do! What, d’you think I’m going to sit in here with my feet up, having a little smoke, twiddling my thumbs, while you lot eat my dinner—” she pointed at a startled-looking Hephzibah “—take my loans, run riot around town, pricing up trinkets you ain’t never even seen before, on my credit, on my account?” She took a breath. “Not on your life. You think I don’t know how to do my own due diligence?”
Mrs. King sighed again. Best to seem annoyed: it paid to give Mrs. Bone the easy wins. Naturally she’d accounted for this. “We do have an opening ready, if you’d like to take it, Mrs. Bone. As I say, I cued up all the new posts before I left. We can work up some false references for you with no trouble.”
“References?”
“Yes. For the post of daily woman. Does that suit you?”
“What, scrubbing floors?” exclaimed Hephzibah in delight. “Emptying piss pots? Oh, heavenly for you, Mrs. Bone!”
Mrs. Bone bristled. “You can give me a hand,” she said.
“Been there,” said Hephzibah. “Done that. Believe me.”
“Mrs. Bone,” said Mrs. King. “Is that role acceptable?”
Mrs. Bone folded her arms. “More than acceptable,” she said. Her maids goggled at her. “What?” she added. “You think I’m too proud to scrub a floor?”
Mrs. King smiled. “Splendid. Then I think everything is quite settled.”
There was silence. The women—her women—were pondering this.
Mrs. King raised a finger, swept it through the air, encompassing them all. “Ladies,” she said. “It’s time for us to get what we deserve. But be quite certain—I’ll be watching each of you. Don’t even think about selling me out. If I hear a canary singing out of tune, I’ll wring its neck myself.”
“Or I will,” said Winnie Smith, voice soft. Then she reddened, as if she’d startled herself.
“Clear?” said Mrs. King.
They all nodded, one by one.
She drew out her slips of paper. She’d inscribed these words herself: “I pledge allegiance to this plan, and to the bonds herein defined—with firm intent, free will, in ridicule of all doubt and fear.”
They all signed it, save for Mrs. Bone. “I draw up my own contracts, my girl,” she said. “You know that.”
Mrs. King looked forward to that negotiation.
8
Eighteen days to go
Mrs. Bone didn’t take long to make her arrangements. She started in her bedroom, her secret place, the place she called her hidey-hole. The walls were as thick as those in a strong room. The bed was piled high with cushions and feather pillows and she needed a stepladder to climb into it. The rest of her furniture was temporary. Portable. Easy to off-load. But her bed was her great luxury; it was very important. It simply had to be nice.
The windows were shuttered and bolted. She didn’t need to peek outside to know there were men watching the house. Mr. Murphy’s boys. There’d very nearly been a skirmish with his men behind the shop. She thanked her lucky stars it hadn’t come to anything. Intimidation was one thing. Outright assaults were another. They demanded retaliation. And Mrs. Bone didn’t have the resources to retaliate at present.
But soon she would, if this job were worth it, if it passed her test.
She climbed out of her black dress and put on a tea gown. She had a fine collection of those. This one was the color of ripe peaches, edged with ermine. She lit a cigarette, gave it a few good puffs. It was nice to have a smoke in private. Then she hauled open her closet and started rifling through her dresses. “No good,” she muttered. “Too nice. No, no, no.”
She had to push right to the back of the closet. Dragged out boots and stays. Found a neat, sad blouse, much mended. A long coarse skirt of indeterminate color.
“Perfect,” she said with a wry sigh. “Oh, very nasty.”
She’d look just like a daily woman, wearing that. She stubbed out her cigarette and tried it on.
Next, resources. She summoned a ragged-looking boy, who sat before her, head in his hands, bawling with rare splendor. He kicked his heels on the floor. Mrs. Bone counted her fingers. “And your ma. And your pa. And your Aunt Eilidh. And your cousin Gerry. And you, too.”
The boy’s howls grew louder.
“Now don’t start. You know what you owe.”
“I don’t know nothing ’bout that!”
“Well, you’d better run home and ask your pa, then, hadn’t you? Tell him Mrs. Bone got her ledger out.”
He lifted his head at the word ledger. Mrs. Bone opened the book and licked a finger, keeping her eye on him. “Let’s see. Where’s your name in here?”
The boy switched off his tears. She saw him calculating whether he could run for it. He realized he couldn’t. Sensible lad.
“What do you want?” he said, mutinous.
“I’d like repaying—that’s what I’d like. But I’m willing to make some alternative arrangements. For now.”
“What sort of arrangements?”
“Men,” said Mrs. Bone, digging a stare into him. “Your brothers. All six of them. And you. Seven’s my lucky number.”
“What you need us for?”
Mrs. Bone slapped the desk with the ledger. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”
The boy untangled himself from the chair. He sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “They’ll ask me whether you can pay.”
“Whether I can pay?” She leaned right into his face. “Wasn’t you listening? I’ll come for your ma, and your pa, and you, too.”
He scrambled out of the chair. “I’ll tell ’em,” he said.
Mrs. Bone nodded, done with him. “Then ta-ta, my love, and off you tumble.”
The boy wanted to know whether she’d pay. Not what she’d pay. Mrs. Bone didn’t care for that at all. Her sort of business depended on everybody having great confidence in her affairs. She’d done the sums on this job, of course. It made her heart hammer, working out how much Danny’s house could make for her. It made her hate him, too.