She went up to see Madam with the menus, as usual. While Mr. de Vries had been on the Continent, they’d fallen out of the habit. Now he was back, the routine returned, too.
“Soufflé,” Madam had said, edgily. “Speak to Nurse to see what Father wants.”
Mrs. King had put her pen away.
“Is there something else?” Miss de Vries said.
She doesn’t know, thought Mrs. King.
She could read Madam. She could see the girl working hard, at all times, superintending her thoughts and feelings. She seemed weary: her father’s return was like a storm cloud hanging over her head. But she didn’t realize the truth.
“No, nothing else,” said Mrs. King. She left off the Madam.
Mrs. King sat on her knowledge, concealing it. It was like walking around with a mortar bomb under her skirts. I refuse to be rushed, she told herself. I need to plan. She sensed the master growing impatient, yearning for her to commence warfare. She refused to oblige him.
Of course it occurred to her that he might have been lying. Playing an almighty game, telling her a fairy story, only to shred it to pieces when she was entirely sucked in. If he’d married Mother, then there had to be real evidence. She drew up a list of churches, scattered all over the East End, and began inspecting the marriage registers on Sunday afternoons. She took her Gladstone bag with her notebook, magnifying glass, blotter and good pens so that she could make notes. She dipped into her own savings and gave the rectors a healthy dollop of cash for the collection plate, so they didn’t ask any questions.
There was no evidence of a wedding. But of course they could have used false names. Indeed it was almost certain they would have done. The O’Flynns must have disapproved of Mother. They were a family who formed strategic alliances with greengrocers and pawnbrokers and ironmongers. They didn’t marry loose-screwed, weak-brained girls—and that’s how they would have seen Mother. Even Mrs. Bone never hinted, never suggested for a second that Danny had made a true marriage. She would have torn him down from his glorious perch in a heartbeat, if she had.
Lucky for Danny O’Flynn. So easy to vanish, remold himself just the way he pleased. Mrs. King pictured him assessing his options, shuffling them idly like a deck of cards. She wished she didn’t recognize the trait.
Two days later, she heard his bell ringing. A summons for Madam. The master wanted to speak to his daughter.
Whatever passed between them Mrs. King never knew. Miss de Vries came downstairs, went to her own rooms, without saying a word to anyone. She didn’t send for any supper; she gave no orders at all. Mrs. King sat in her own small sitting room, waiting. She could feel something coiled in the house, a storm about to break.
Their father died that night. A sudden deterioration, entirely expected in a consumptive case like this one, said the physician later. The news broke like a river forcing its way through a dam. Mrs. King felt it rolling downstairs, floor by floor, the electroliers seething and spitting, the servants turning pale as they received the intelligence. The dinner service was suspended, the under-footmen stood about with their mouths open. Cook took to her bed. You could even hear the horses growing agitated in the yard. Mr. Lockwood and the other lawyers descended upon the house, papers out, pens aloft, issuing memoranda. The nurse cleared away all the pillboxes and bowls and towels, her trolley rattling all the way down the passage of the bedroom floor. Everyone heard Mr. Shepherd moaning, keening, from the butler’s pantry.
Miss de Vries remained in her room.
Mrs. King counted out the black armbands, one by one. This is it, she thought, blood thrumming. Truthfully, she didn’t know what it was. It felt too enormous, too unimaginable to piece together. Possession of this house, of all it contained, whistled through her mind.
The wording in the will was precise. It caused no comment. “I leave everything, my whole estate, to my true and legitimate daughter.”
Clever, thought Mrs. King, when she heard, anger rushing through her veins. Clever, clever, a lovely trick, a lovely game. Of course the lawyers didn’t remark upon such straightforward phraseology. Madam didn’t question it; nobody said a word at all. They felt they understood the natural order of things. It was up to Mrs. King to correct them.
She gave herself an order.
Strip the house. Take every box, every drawer: shake them, search them, root it out. Find that letter.
Once Alice was in post, once Winnie was in on the job, she went to the men’s quarters. She’d only have one chance to investigate those. It was the worst place for a woman to enter, if she wanted to keep her reputation. Mr. de Vries had always been so particular about his servants’ morals. Prayer books for birthday presents, church every Sunday, prayers at breakfast. The women slept on one side of the house, the men on the other. Even Mrs. King and William had never attempted to cross that divide. Although when she asked him, he agreed to keep the door to the men’s quarters unlocked. “But why?” he’d asked, deeply puzzled. “What on earth do you need?”
She ignored that. Troubles had a way of multiplying when other people became involved. But of course she did involve him; she did get him in trouble. Someone was sitting on a chair near William’s door, kicking his heels. A little rodent-faced boy, keeping an eye out for intruders. Mrs. King knew the rules. She knew there was a risk that she’d be caught, and she went up there anyway. It was her warning shot, a signal to anybody that might need to hear it.
“Whatchoo doing up here, Mrs. King?” the boy had asked. “Visiting a fancy man?”
She had been acutely conscious of her body, its stillness. Her blood, mixed by her mother and her father. The danger within her, the currents she’d inherited from both.
She had stared the boy down, stared him right down to his bones, but he didn’t run away. Of course he ratted on her, went squealing to Mr. Shepherd. Mrs. King didn’t complete her search of the men’s quarters, and she didn’t sleep that night. She felt invisible cracks running through the house, felt the walls riven from top to toe, blood pounding in her chest.
Cheated, she thought. I’ve been cheated out of my rights.
She was the rightful inheritress. She always had been. And yet she’d been put in a frilly cap and a starched collar, trained to answer bells and take orders. To sit, stay, be silent. And she had allowed it. She had permitted it to be done. It made her as angry with herself as with the world.
The following morning she faced Mr. Shepherd. Being dismissed didn’t frighten her. She was ready for it. Her plans required her to be outside the house, at liberty to circle it, correct it, tilt it, push it all the way over. Besides, she recognized her dismissal for what it was: a shot being fired right back at her. A message from Madam: Get out.
It pleased her. It gave her exactly what she needed. Permission to do her worst.
31
Now
“You know he’d been married before,” said Mrs. King.
Miss de Vries said nothing. She sipped her champagne.
“I suppose he had the same set of choices as all the other men who take secret wives.” Mrs. King counted on her fingers. “Come clean. Start running. Or say nothing. He picked the last option, didn’t he? Even Lockwood didn’t know.” She smiled, a pitying glance. “Men like him, they so nearly get away with things. But then they let the cat out of the bag. It’s as if they want to be caught. As if they can’t help themselves.”