There was a flash of resignation in Alice’s expression, and she turned to go downstairs. It was as if she knew not to press things. It gave Miss de Vries the sensation of being managed. Of being ever so slightly cared for. It was a peculiar feeling.
“You can go,” she said quickly, to make sure that Alice was leaving because she had ordained it. “I’ll send for you if I need you.”
Afterward, Miss de Vries went to the winter garden and ordered a pot of tea. She drank it in the corner seat, by the window, concealed behind the ferns. She studied Stanhope House, just down the road. Of course they’d come. Soap manufacturers were no trouble at all. Her teacup burned her fingers.
Should she cancel the ball? No, impossible. The ball was like a storm, gathering strength all of its own. She felt its pressure in her skull. It was a bet, and she never feared taking big bets. She’d taken the biggest risk of all already. Of that she had daily proof.
She blew on her tea—cooling it, controlling it, forcing it back into line.
Beneath her, on the pavement, Jane-one and Jane-two were moving in quickstep down Park Lane. They were playing their game. One of them sped up, then the other. You had to be alert; you couldn’t blink. If you did, you’d fall out of step—you’d lose. They ducked and wove their way down the street.
Jane-one rang the tradesmen’s bell. Jane-two slipped a wrench from her pocket to her bag. “Ready?”
She hardly needed to ask. Jane-one nodded. “Ready.”
The butler interviewed them in his office. He smelled of gas lamps, and sweated incessantly. There was a general sense of disorder and confusion in the servants’ hall: the Janes had picked up on it immediately. There were tradesmen waiting at the side door, boxes piling up in the passage outside the kitchen, kitchen maids scurrying around in hectic, directionless circles. This house had lost its circus master. Chaos was creeping in, chuckling all the way.
“We’re presently seeking a housekeeper,” Mr. Shepherd told the girls. “And she would do the interviews. But we’ve yet to find a satisfactory candidate…”
The Janes knew that already. Mrs. King and Hephzibah had paid a call on Mr. Shepherd’s preferred agency. His letters requesting fresh applicants kept going missing. The Janes had snaffled one or two themselves.
Shepherd peered up at them. “You’ve got glowing references. You served a… Mrs. Grandcourt? Correct?”
“Yes,” they said.
“Yes, Mr. Shepherd,” he corrected with a sniff.
“Yes, Mr. Shepherd.”
He scratched his nose. “Hotel trained, are you?” he said.
Jane-one felt him assessing her like a butcher, checking her parts: neck, chest, thighs, waist.
She kept her face blank. “Yes, sir.”
“Thought as much. But you haven’t worked in a big house before?”
“Not as big as this one.”
“Well, that’s quite understandable. Few have, my dear. Are you good Christians?”
They stared at him.
“Well?”
“Yes,” they said in perfect unison. Mrs. King had instructed them in this, too. Mr. Shepherd liked clean, scrubbed-up voices. It indicated a desire for self-improvement.
“Mr. Shepherd is a great advocate of self-improvement,” Winnie Smith had said flatly.
“Show me your hands.”
They shoved their fingers right in his face, making him jump, giving him a whiff of carbolic soap and chemicals.
“Well, very clean. Good nails.” He shuffled his papers again, and Jane-one waggled her fingers. “Yes, that’s fine.” He thought of something. “You know there’s no allowance for sugar or tea in your wages?”
“We don’t drink tea,” said Jane-two.
Mr. Shepherd liked that, too. “Very good. Most economical.”
“We are economical.” Jane-one pressed her palms to his desk again. “We’ll split our rations between us.”
“Two for the price of one, ha-ha,” said Mr. Shepherd, plainly ready to have this business over and done with. “Well, consider yourselves on trial.”
They nodded, stepped back. “We’ll meet the mistress now, then,” said the Jane-two.
“Meet the… No, you certainly will not. Madam has delegated all downstairs matters entirely to me.”
“But engaging domestics is one of those duties in which the judgment of the mistress must be keenly exercised.”
“Indeed it is, indeed it is,” Shepherd said. And then, with more strength, he added, “And I am most extremely observant of Madam’s strictures on these matters.” He straightened in his chair. “So there won’t be another word about it, Miss…” Clearly he was struggling to remember their names. “Miss…”
“Jane,” they said, in tandem, with force.
It wasn’t easy, hiding everything. The extendable poles, the rope swing, the breakaway ladder, the nets, the winches, the braces, the platforms, the joists. All those had to be stored in the attics. They were cavernous, and accessible by drainpipe, and you could winch things up from the garden if you were quick about it. Winnie had given them detailed instructions.
“You’ll find porthole windows here, here, and here.” She’d pointed at them on the map. “You can easily get pulleys down to the garden.”
Jane-one had thought there was something fishy about her expression. “You love this place, don’t you?” she’d said.
Winnie had seemed startled by the idea. “No,” she had said, grave faced. “But I know it very well.”
They began operations on that first night. The odious cook informed them that they were to be locked into their bedroom at night, which necessitated an immediate survey of the drainpipe and the guttering. They were pleased with the results. Jane-one loved modern houses. The dimensions were hopelessly vulgar, of course—everybody knew that—but the craftsmanship was tip-top. They waited until the house started to still and settle, and then they inched out of the window.
They had to pause on the way up to the roof. Jane-two dug her foot into Jane-one’s shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Shh.”
“Is it him?”
“I said shh.”
They’d clocked him at once: a gerbil-faced lamp-boy who ran errands all over the house. He was staring out of a window on the fourth floor, nose pressed to the glass, gazing up at the sky. Jane sighed inwardly. This was no time for stargazing.
At last, Jane-two kicked her again. “He’s gone. Come on.”
Jane-one took a breath. It had been a long time since she’d been up this high. That was the trouble, working for Mrs. Bone. It made you soft. Forget your training. She closed her eyes.
“Are you experiencing a crisis?” whispered Jane-two.
“No, I’m just experiencing your great blooming arse in my face,” muttered Jane-one.
Up they went.
Once they got the pulley in place, they had to lay padding to muffle the attic floors. They couldn’t allow anyone in the servants’ quarters to hear any creaking footsteps overhead. Winnie had purchased an enormous number of Turkish carpets, which some of Mrs. Bone’s men delivered at night by vaulting over the walls. The tallest gave Jane-two a wink when he landed at her feet.