A whiff of ferns, of orchids. A low voice cut through the air.
“Mrs. King.”
Miss de Vries stood framed by the light in the hall. The ball was a bonfire of heat and color and noise behind her. Mr. Lockwood rose, turning crimson.
Mrs. King stayed where she was, entirely ready.
Now they could really get down to business.
“Sit down, Mr. Lockwood,” said Miss de Vries, black crepe rustling. She adjusted her skirts, hiding the rip in the cloudy black concoction that formed her train. “You seem out of sorts.”
Miss de Vries looked well, thought Mrs. King. Skin luminescent. Hair burned to the color of sand. There was strength in her gaze: confidence radiating outward, a certain supremacy. Her presence in the room felt like a weight. It made the boards strain beneath her.
Mrs. King smiled. “Mr. Lockwood got himself in a temper, I’m afraid.”
“I didn’t ask you to speak, Mrs. King,” Miss de Vries said.
“I’ll speak when I care to,” said Mrs. King evenly. “And what brings you upstairs? Did someone mention I was here?”
“I’ve got eyes in the back of my head,” said Miss de Vries, and she crossed her arms.
One of those clerks, then, thought Mrs. King. Good. If they hadn’t summoned the lady of the house, as she had predicted they would, then she would have gone and found Miss de Vries herself. She’d been waiting to have this conversation for weeks.
“Well,” Mrs. King said. “It’s good to see you. I never did get to take my leave.”
“Miss de Vries,” began Mr. Lockwood, face pale, but she lifted a finger.
There was a long pause, a running heartbeat in the air. Miss de Vries stepped close, pressed her fingers to Mrs. King’s copper mask. “Extraordinary,” she said.
It was then that Mrs. King saw Miss de Vries’s dress for the first time. It startled her how luxuriant it was, how delicately it had been crafted, how powdery the crepe appeared. She hadn’t realized Alice possessed such skill.
Or such dedication.
“Walk with me, Mrs. King,” said Miss de Vries.
Mrs. King considered her options. She could refuse, try to pin Miss de Vries to her chair, interrogate her. But Miss de Vries was far stronger than Lockwood: she was at least as strong as Mrs. King. Better to play her gently, unspool things little by little.
“Very well,” said Mrs. King.
Miss de Vries opened the door, and the noise swelled, a sudden blare of horns from the orchestra.
The ball roared in delight, beckoning them into its midst.
Every room on this floor had great sliding doors, and these had all been thrown open. The ballroom stretched the whole length of the house, and it seemed to Mrs. King that she could see all her people in motion, that she could feel them simply packed to the rafters. She sensed the Janes wheeling crates through the guest suites upstairs, knew Mrs. Bone’s “policemen” were playing lookout at the back gate, spotted the waiters pouring out dangerous quantities of champagne, clocked Hephzibah’s actresses running rings around the bishops and barristers. The real guests were red in the face, already inebriated. They bowed to Miss de Vries as she passed.
“Don’t you look marvelous?”
“Cleopatra, too clever!”
“Thank you,” murmured Miss de Vries, extending her hand one way, then another. The paintings hanging outside the saloon loomed over them all. Blue oils, men in powdered wigs, trees bent in a storm. Mrs. King spotted guests picking at the gilt-work, estimating the value. I could tell you the price, she thought. Winnie had costed them up, the buyers primed and ready. They were of near-incalculable value, and yet they looked dull and dreary beside the flower arches and the walls hung with silks. A palm tree the size of an omnibus lapped at them gently. It was beaded with sweat, teardrops running all the way down the trunk.
Mrs. King wasn’t one for hanging about. She saw Miss de Vries’s eyes on the clock, too. “Shall we get down to it?” she asked.
Miss de Vries nodded, curt. “Yes.”
“Your father spoke to me just before he died. I imagine he spoke to you, too.”
Miss de Vries quickened a half step. “He did.”
There was no tension in Miss de Vries’s face. No expression at all. Dangerous, that. The women paused on the threshold of the ballroom and together they surveyed the room, their triumph.
The crowd was immense, and the air smelled of musk and perfume and sweat. The walls were a fresh shade of salmon pink, glazed and gleaming under the electroliers. The waltz unfurled in loops and swirls, dancers orbiting the room in perfect formation. Miss de Vries’s eyes shimmered. Mrs. King had to hand it to her. This had to be the greatest ball of the season.
Lockwood approached. Cleared his throat. “Mrs. King is willing to swear that she is not Mr. de Vries’s daughter,” he said, under his breath.
“Illegitimate daughter,” said Mrs. King, with a smile. She was interested to see how Madam would react.
Miss de Vries didn’t make a sound. But her face tightened, a little twist of irritation. It aged her. She caught eyes with a group of men huddled near the door, dressed like Cavaliers and Roundheads. They lifted their hats with a flourish, and she inclined her head in response.
Mr. Lockwood gave a nervous laugh. “It’s good news, Miss de Vries.”
“I need a drink,” Miss de Vries said. “Do you, Mrs. King?”
Mrs. King pondered this. Was it cruel, having this conversation now, tonight—here? In public? Perhaps. But she perceived a sparkle of provocation in Miss de Vries’s eyes.
“I really do,” Mrs. King said.
Miss de Vries moved slowly, her costume rippling. The refreshments had been set out in the anteroom, an abundance of lemonade, iced sherbet, wafers, bonbons. She picked two glasses of champagne from a tray and handed one to Mrs. King.
“Go on, then,” said Miss de Vries, sipping from her glass. She closed her eyes as she did it. Swallowed. “I can see you’re simply itching to say something to me. The floor is yours. Speak.”
Mrs. King studied her own champagne, tiny bubbles splitting, bursting, one by one. “I had everything upside down,” she said. “And so did you. Your father pulled the wool over our eyes.” The music surged, and the dancers shifted, too. “We’ve lived our lives back to front. You must have thought me an awful woman. Here in this house, taking your wages, with nothing but shame hanging over me.”
Miss de Vries was silent for a long moment. And then she said, “I did think that.”
“I don’t blame you. I thought the same myself. I thought, what have I been doing here all this time? But I was always curious, you see. I always sensed there was something else going on. And you’re a clever girl. You must have clocked it, too.”
There was a wall around Miss de Vries, an airlessness. “I’ve no notion what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. You know your father’s secrets as well as anyone. You know he was a sham. You know he’d been married before.”
30
Two months earlier
The house was more quiet than usual. It had been muffled and cushioned to ensure the master wasn’t disturbed, to aid his sleep. Mr. Shepherd was waiting at the entrance to the bedroom as Mrs. King approached, hands clasped.