Mrs. King felt a queer sensation in her chest, the fear that she couldn’t control her face.
“He was my father,” she said.
Winnie wondered later if she’d looked like a fool. She wondered if she’d paled, gasped, done any of the stupid things. A child came tearing past, balloon in hand, shrieking with laughter. Mrs. King put her hand to her cheek.
At last, Winnie spoke. “Your father?” Confirmation seemed necessary; it seemed absolutely vital.
Mrs. King dragged her gaze up to meet Winnie’s. “I didn’t know at first. They never told me.”
“Then how on earth…？”
She spoke in a strange, flat voice. “I worked it out.”
Winnie said, tentatively, “You mean, he never told you? You just…wondered…”
“No, he told me.” Mrs. King folded her hands. “In the end.”
Winnie suddenly wished very badly that they were not sitting in public. The day felt too hot and too glaring, and there was a weakness in her chest. It was shock, she supposed.
“Did you know for a very long time?”
Mrs. King nodded.
“And you didn’t—say anything?”
Mrs. King’s voice came out low, quiet. “You don’t say, when it’s something like that.”
Winnie’s stomach clenched. “Come,” she said. “Let’s walk.”
She linked arms with Mrs. King, pulled her away from the bench. They moved away from the broad paths, away from Park Lane.
“Do the others know?” she asked.
“They won’t care about this.”
They would care—they would care a great deal. “It might do you some good to tell them. It would help them understand. It must be the most dreadful burden, keeping such a secret.”
“I’m not the one keeping it a secret. Everyone else has been doing that.”
She really believed that, Winnie thought. She was holding on tight to it. “Well. Better to get it out in the open now, then.”
Mrs. King’s arm went rigid. “Mrs. Bone knows,” she said. “She’s known from the start. She’s as much connected to him as I am. She’s his sister.”
Winnie halted. This time the shock felt like pain, not like weakness. She drew her arm away. Mrs. King at least had the grace to look uneasy. “It was best you didn’t know,” she said.
Winnie felt as if she’d like to scream. “For heaven’s sake, Dinah.” She put a hand to her head, feeling an ache starting there. “You should have told me. You should have told me years ago.”
Mrs. King just shook her head.
Winnie sighed. “This discussion has unsettled us both. Let’s go back.”
And so they did, not speaking. Winnie gave full but silent vent to her feelings. It was unpardonable that Dinah should have kept so great a secret from her. But that question nagged at her. Didn’t you guess?
She pictured Mrs. King, that playful, sideways tilt to her expression. It was so entirely like the old master that it made Winnie’s legs feel weak.
She understood quite clearly what must have happened. Mr. de Vries had got himself a bastard. Most gentlemen would have sent the mother a stipend, or at any rate a warning letter, or simply run away. He had gone one better. He had hired the child on as his housemaid. It astonished her, the audacity of it. It was the kind of breathtaking self-assurance that made her burn with envy.
Here, then, were the secret things of which she could never speak. Mr. de Vries was brutal, he steamrollered people, he was unendingly brash, twisted up in his crimson silks and canary-yellow buttons. But he was gentle with Winnie. He treated her with courtesy. “My dear Winnie Smith,” he used to say, grinning at her. “The cleverest person in this house.” For clever she was, clever she dubbed herself, so well educated and reliable and nicely spoken. She spent hours in Mr. de Vries’s company, taking dictation, acting amanuensis. He gave her little gifts, an allowance, he even had her mother over for tea when Father died. His charm was extraordinary. And she thought she’d deserved it. She devoted her soul to that house. She’d admired Mr. de Vries tremendously: of course he was vulgar, but at least he was honest about it.
Her shame hardened in her gut.
She linked arms with Mrs. King. “I’m sorry I never guessed,” she said.
Mrs. King turned, face drawn. She looked almost scared of what Winnie might say to her. It twisted Winnie’s heart, made tears prick in her eyes.
“I didn’t want you to guess,” Mrs. King said. “I wouldn’t have let you.” She squeezed Winnie’s arm. “Don’t mention it to the others,” she added.
Winnie let out a breath. “We oughtn’t to be keeping secrets, Dinah.”
The anxiety left Mrs. King’s expression. It was replaced with something harder, grimmer. “That’s an order, Win,” she said.
13
Later
Mrs. King met Mrs. Bone on neutral ground, in Kensington Gardens. They met by appointment, as arranged. It was time to receive Mrs. Bone’s assessment of the risks—and her funding.
It reminded Mrs. King of the old days, of being schooled in her trades, learning how to pick a pocket. Mrs. Bone used to truss herself in her vulcanite and black bog oak beads and sit on a bench in Regent’s Park, going over and over the process: Gently, girl, like your fingers are made of air… She always said she had great expectations of Dinah. She said she knew a sharp eye and a good temper and a strong character when she saw one. They shared good, quick-moving O’Flynn blood, after all.
“Don’t get up,” Mrs. Bone said, and pressed both hands to her thighs. “Gawd’s sake, I’m puffed.”
The nursemaids were out in force, pushing modern perambulators with wheels that wouldn’t go amiss on an omnibus. The scene looked tranquil, but it wasn’t. Mrs. King had seated herself on a bench facing the palace and the sheep, and counted the men. One on the Broad Path, unmoving. Three under the parasols by the tea tent. Two more on the water, gliding past in a boat, very upright. She knew what that meant. They had pistols strapped to their ribs.
Mrs. Bone had brought reinforcements for this discussion. Mrs. King was inclined to take this as a good sign. She knew her aunt. This meant she was in a negotiating mood. She was ready to buy in.
Mrs. King rebuttoned her gloves. Smoothed her skirts. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bone,” she said pleasantly.
“Yes, yes, how d’ye do, splendid to see you. I’ve only got chilblains and blisters and bleedin’ corns popping up all over my feet, tramping around that great blooming place for you.” Mrs. Bone sat down with a thump, the vibration passing through the bench, and stretched her legs. She’d picked up the aroma of the back offices already. Stewed gammon and carbolic. It gave Mrs. King a strangely homesick feeling. She brushed that away at once: that sort of sensation was extremely dangerous, not required, not to be repeated.
“Well?” she said, awaiting Mrs. Bone’s decision.
Mrs. Bone breathed out. Closed her eyes. “I don’t like the odds.”
Mrs. King nodded her head at that. She’d expected that response. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Well, candidly, duck, the plan’s a load of balderdash.”