These people, Papa’s people—Mrs. King, Mr. Shepherd, the lawyers, the rest—they simply wouldn’t do anymore. Of course Papa had done his best. Furnished her with nannies, ayahs, everything one could pay for. But that only took you so far in life. She wished to operate at the very top of the ladder, right up in the heavenly heights of society: among cabinet ministers, earls, dukes, princes. She just needed to leverage herself properly. Clear out the deadwood. Build on clean, fresh ground.
Mrs. King was out of the house by breakfast time. Miss de Vries came down for luncheon at noon, studied the invitation list, making corrections. The lawyers arrived at two o’clock, per appointment. Mr. Lockwood led the pack, silver-haired and perfectly groomed, concise as always. She ordered him to stay for tea.
“I’d like you to open negotiations for a marriage settlement,” she said, pouring the tea, playing mother.
He took the saucer from her, eyes narrowing. “Mr. de Vries always headed off those discussions. I don’t know that we have any takers in mind.”
That didn’t seem like a particularly agreeable response. “Perhaps we might set out some attractive terms,” said Miss de Vries.
He considered this. “What is your objective?”
She smiled, adjusted her voice down a notch. “Love,” she said. “What else?”
What couldn’t she achieve, once she sold off Papa’s positions? A first-rate alliance, a title, installation at a house on Berkeley Square, or any address equal to it. She hated this place, the stench of motor oil, its shiny newness. She wanted to live somewhere ancient. Sink her roots into lovely old ground. Papa’s address book repulsed her. Steel merchants and newspaper proprietors and Americans. She was after eminent men. Blue blood.
Mr. Lockwood had summarized their trading position. His assessment infuriated her. “Overextended,” he’d said. As if the de Vries empire had eyes bigger than its stomach.
“I’m not sure the accounts will bear close scrutiny,” he said. “Better to wait a year or two.”
A year? Another season? Six of those had passed already. And clearly, he was talking nonsense. The household bills were always paid on time, weren’t they? Loans came in, payments went out. Of course a fortune fluctuated, when it was as colossal as hers.
Confidence, she thought. We must project wealth. Splendor.
She was her father’s daughter, after all.
“I’m holding a ball, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “Did I mention it?”
The lawyer seemed smooth, but he only seemed it. Really he was serrated all over, knicked and ridged from top to toe. You could prick your skin if you got too close.
“I’m not at all sure about that,” he said. “It hardly seems—proper.”
“I’m in mourning, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “Naturally the arrangements will reflect that. You needn’t be alarmed. I won’t be dressed as a chorus girl.”
“But aren’t you alarmed?” He was giving her his usual look, implacable and unrelenting. “By the risk?”
A motor engine coughed outside on the road.
She gave him a level stare. “What risk, Mr. Lockwood? A ball in this house has been long expected. I am pressed for one, day and night.”
“By whom?” he asked, dubiously.
“I have already commenced the preparations. It would be a great inconvenience to cancel it now.”
“You know it’s my duty, Miss de Vries, to give you good counsel,” he said quietly.
“Legal counsel, Mr. Lockwood,” said Miss de Vries. “I didn’t have you down as chaperone.”
“A young lady’s reputation,” he said, with that same fishlike smile, “is a fine and delicate thing.”
“It is immeasurably precious,” she agreed. “Of near-incalculable value. It should be burnished, brightened, properly displayed.”
Something flickered in Lockwood’s eyes, a flash of—what? Recognition? Papa would have said, Do what I want—make it happen. He made himself especially vulgar for Lockwood, wore his biggest gold rings, placed gigantic fuchsias in his buttonhole. He liked battering the man over the head.
“Modesty,” said Mr. Lockwood, “is the most bewitching virtue in the world. It has enormous currency in these affairs.”
“Affairs?”
“In the conveyancing of a marriage.”
He studied her mildly, one hand in his waistcoat.
The motor outside barked and roared to life.
Of course it wasn’t proper to hold the ball now. The notion that this hadn’t occurred to her, made her stomach churn with anger. It was improper. That was precisely the point: she needed to stand firm, deviate not an inch. No bets came without risks. They gave a game its dimensions, its oxygen. She needed to catch the world’s attention. Now was the moment. Now, more than ever, while her power was still fresh and newly minted.
Mrs. King had said as much herself when they’d first discussed the arrangements. “You’ve only got one life to live, Madam. Don’t spare any expense. Best put on a good show.”
After Lockwood had gone, Miss de Vries went up to her own rooms. They had once belonged to Mama, but carried no remnants of her at all, sparked no memories: she died before Miss de Vries had even reached the schoolroom. This suite was perfumed the way Miss de Vries liked it: violently and completely of orchids. She breathed it in for comfort, for surety. It wasn’t easy, maintaining the scent. In this house foul odors rolled in from every direction: the pavement, the cellars, the city.
They reminded her that she was making entirely the right decisions.
3
Twenty-four days to go
Petticoat Lane. Mrs. King felt the sun on her neck. She’d walked all the way from Mayfair to Aldgate to save the twopence on the Tube. She had to jostle her way with the crowd, but it was worth it, a necessary investment. There was one person she needed to see. Not an easy person to manage. Not someone who liked surprises. You didn’t charge into Mrs. Bone’s territory without due preparation, and a good reason to call. But Mrs. King was nothing if not prepared, and she had the best proposition in town.
The heat gave the lane a whirring, jangled energy. It smelled like old things, manure and wrinkled fruit and drains. Everyone seemed dislocated, running in packs, a sea of flat caps. Mrs. King heard the distant dandle-dandle-rum-tum-tum of music, spied a fiddler balanced on a stool. It gave her a queer twist in the chest. She always felt it, coming home.
Concentrate, Dinah, she told herself.
She pulled out her purse, flipped a coin between her fingers. Studied the market stalls, separating herself from the crowd. The stallholders clocked her. Eyes swiveled sideways, nostrils flared.
Mrs. King raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. She knew she looked strange to them. Not a lady, not a schoolmistress. Not a nurse, not a cook. An anomaly. Tightly buckled, hat tipped low over her eyes. A touch of stain on her lips—red, the color of garnets. Armored.
She folded her arms.
And waited.
It didn’t take long. The message must have been transmitted through the walls; it must have gone rippling down the back alleys. The door to the pawnshop opened with a bang. It startled the stallholders, the bell clanging in the air. A woman wearing widow’s weeds emerged squinting into the sunlight.