“Then I suggest you take a deep breath,” Winnie said seriously, looking down at her watch. “Because it’s time for you to start singing, little bird.”
Alice wished very badly then to say something, to unburden herself, to say, Help me. Miss de Vries wasn’t charming. She wasn’t captivating. She and Alice didn’t speak as friends would; there wasn’t any laughter or gossip between them. It was different, a sort of keen, fizzing fellowship.
The kind that made her heart flip over in her chest.
The Janes moved fast, carrying a huge tray, laden with a mountain of boxes concealed by a white cloth. The chauffeur was wrestling with the hose. It was chugging hard, filling the courtyard with water. “What’s all that, then?” he called, clocking them.
“Cakes!” they shouted as they barreled into the house.
They weren’t cakes. They were Parenty smoke machines, and they rattled dreadfully in their boxes.
“I wish this were cake,” murmured Jane-two as they slid carefully into the electric lift.
“Don’t start, Moira,” said Jane-one.
They glided upward, otherwise unobserved.
It was remarkably easy to make trouble. Mrs. Bone had spoken a little word in Cook’s ear—just as planned—and the kitchen had descended into chaos, as predicted. Cook was at the center of it all, wooden spoon aloft.
“You heard ’em!” she said, pointing at Mr. Shepherd.
Mr. Shepherd had paled, hands raised, trying to soothe the uproar. “Ladies,” he called, over their voices, “now is not the moment for dissension in our ranks.”
Cook lifted the wooden spoon higher. “We can’t work safely in these circumstances, Mr. Shepherd. You’ve got to make a decision.”
Mrs. Bone was watching all this with an eyebrow cocked. Easy, she thought. You wind ’em up, give a few sharp twists, and off they go…
Cook saw her. “There she is. Ask her yourself, Mr. Shepherd!”
The butler turned to Mrs. Bone, perspiring. “Well? What is this all about?”
“Tell him!” said Cook, hot with indignation, jabbing the spoon. “Tell him what you told me.”
Mrs. Bone wrung her hands, made a hangdog face. “It’s the princess’s policemen, Mr. Shepherd. They’ve been ogling us ladies, giving us marks out of ten!” She cast a sideways look at Cook. “It was filthy!”
“You see, Mr. Shepherd,” said Cook, triumphant, eyes shining. “They even eyed up the old daily woman.”
Mr. Shepherd goggled at them.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone, jutting out her hip. “And they touched me. Here. And here.”
Mr. Shepherd averted his eyes. “Now, ladies…”
Cook raised a finger. “It don’t matter what you do. You can call ’em bobbies, you can send ’em up to Buckingham Palace, you can put ’em in uniform, you can give ’em any airs and graces you like. It don’t make a difference, if they’re Irish.”
“Cook…”
“Irish, Mr. Shepherd! Known philanderers!”
William moved in, right behind Mrs. Bone, smelling delicious. “What’s happening here, then?” he murmured.
Mrs. Bone wound her fingers together. “I dursn’t say.”
Cook pressed her hand to her heart, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And what, I’d like to know, are Their Majesties doing bringing philanderers into their house to guard their daughters? We might as well put them princesses up for sale to the highest bidder. They can call Maud Bawd.”
“Cook, enough,” said Mr. Shepherd, agonized.
“No Irish!” said Cook, and the spoon went back up in the air. “No Irish!”
“Enough,” said Shepherd. His eye swept over the crowd, landed on William. “Show the princess’s men out to the mews house. Get them some refreshments, with my compliments.”
“Compliments, Mr. Shepherd?” gasped Cook.
“And tell them to stay out of the kitchen, and well out of the way of the ladies.”
“Ooh, I think I’m getting a bruise on me hip, Cook,” said Mrs. Bone. “They pinched me that hard.”
“Go!” roared Mr. Shepherd.
Good. Mrs. Bone wanted a squadron of men near the back gate, ready to keep the road clear when required.
Cook turned, irate. “But what about Mr. Doggett, Mr. Shepherd? He won’t want his mews house being overrun by—”
Mr. Shepherd flapped her away. “Mr. Doggett is helping up here. William, you sort things out.”
“Yes, Mr. Shepherd.”
“I want everyone back to work.”
Cook gathered her bevy of girls around her. She crossed her arms, eyebrows knit together. “He didn’t ought to do that,” she said as Mr. Shepherd retreated. “Madam won’t like the idea of strangers sitting out in the garden. They might unlock the back gate.”
Mrs. Bone didn’t care for this line of thinking in the least. “Oh, you’re a regular detective, ain’t you?” she said. “Got your magnifying glass in your apron, have you? Got your police whistle?”
The kitchen girls gaped at her. Mrs. Bone scowled at them. She’d be out of this house soon enough. She was very nearly done being a humble worm. “Ah, shut your mouths. And one of you can help me with these pails.”
Cook aimed a frigid stare in her direction. “Help yourself,” she said, and spun on her heel.
The Janes had started packing the guest suites on the second floor—and they assumed they had the place to themselves. Their laundry baskets were already heaving with ornaments. Their system was smooth. Lift one thing, wrap it with tissue paper, drop it in the basket. They were steady, focused. They didn’t even hear the door open.
“Oi. What are you doing?”
The girls whipped round. There was a shadow on the wall.
Jane-two’s stomach contracted as she saw one of the house-parlormaids in the doorway, eyes on stalks.
“Putting stuff in safekeeping,” said Jane-one, without missing a beat. “Give us a hand, would you?”
“Mr. Shepherd said guest suites. Not all the suites.”
“I’ll tell him you slowed us down, if you like.”
The house-parlormaid stiffened at that. “I’ve only got five minutes.”
“That’s all we need.”
Jane-two wished she had her logbook with her. Risks made her want to sneeze.
“I don’t like this,” she murmured.
“Hush,” said Jane-one.
25
Four hours to go
The crowd outside was growing restless, waiting for the great folk to arrive. They were like moths to a flame: men after a day at work, dressed in their shirtsleeves, women brandishing paper fans. Didn’t they have homes to go to? Lives to lead?
No more than I do, thought Winnie. She hadn’t slept for two days.
Her hands were shaking, yet she had planned this moment with precision, and in the end it went exactly as she had pictured. Her own imagination could spin things out of thin air. And it needed to. She had everything to prove. Hephzibah was avoiding her. No doubt Mrs. King was, too. The revelation about the girls had changed something between them, twisted the plan, given it new and dark dimensions.