“And tightrope walkers!”
“Don’t be beastly. It must have cost her the earth.”
“Ashley’s footing the bill for that now.”
“Quite right.”
“Quite ghastly, you mean. Can you imagine that girl running Fairhurst? Poor Lady Ashley.”
“Poor nothing. Just think of the weekend parties. The trapeze artists! The dancing girls!”
“The camels, darling!”
They broke off into laughter, reaching for more wine.
“Oi,” said a voice at Winnie’s ear.
She turned and started. Behind her, eyes narrowed, stood one of Mrs. Bone’s men. His jaw was clenched. Winnie backed behind the marquee. “What are you doing?” she muttered.
“We’re off.”
“What?”
“We’re getting out. This place is swarming with peelers.”
Winnie looked around, searching for Mrs. King. “Nonsense,” she said. “Everything is simply fine. Go back inside.”
“Can’t.” He nodded at the distant figure of the princess, moving slowly through the crowd. “Not now she’s here.”
“Then you’ll need to improvise.” Winnie held his stare. “You don’t leave this house until Mrs. King gives the word.”
For a second she feared he might refuse to obey her, might tell her to go and fetch Mrs. King. I would if I could, she thought desperately.
But then he nodded again, a quick, smart little duck of the chin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Equals, Winnie said to herself, almost in disbelief. We’re all equals…
Mrs. King was frog-marched downstairs by Lockwood’s clerks. “I can see myself out,” she said angrily, shaking their hands off her arm.
“Mr. Lockwood said—”
“Hang Mr. Lockwood,” said Mrs. King. But they steered her through the front hall, avoiding a huge crowd of guests that seemed to be processing toward the garden. Mrs. King couldn’t see who had arrived. She felt the mob rolling, not steered, not marshaled. Evidently, Hephzibah was busy elsewhere. A sudden fear pulled on Mrs. King’s heart. She was required here: to direct things. But she needed to get to Alice first.
Dunce, she thought, directing all her anger on herself. Idiot. Even the Janes had sensed a risk with Alice, but not her. She was incapable of understanding other people’s feelings. She always had been.
It was clear at once what had happened. She’d seen the way Alice had bent her head toward Miss de Vries, yearning toward her, fixing that awful, splendid gown. She’d been snared. Alice wasn’t a canary. She was a mouse, right in the trap. Lockwood was sizing her up. Mrs. King’s instincts told her everything she needed to know. She felt sick, frightened.
“Off you go,” said the clerks, disposing of her on the front step, very nearly pushing her into the road. She didn’t talk back: she hurtled to the tradesmen’s entrance, trying to double back inside before they spotted her. This time it was harder to get in: there were crates of wine obstructing the door, waiters smoking. She had to push her way through the crowd of servants, speeding up the servants’ staircase, panting.
The sound of the orchestra grew duller as she reached the second floor. There was a door half-open, letting in a soft breeze. Mrs. King nudged it open with her toe.
Empty.
I should have planned for this, she thought. She should have made arrangements to extract Alice from the household’s clutches if needed.
Nothing mattered, Mrs. King thought, if Alice was lost. She’d abandoned Mother when she entered this house. Allowed her to be restrained, hidden away, forgotten—because it was easier, more convenient for everyone.
She wouldn’t let that happen to Alice, too. She refused—on her honor, as a sister, she refused.
“Winnie?”
Jane-two emerged from the shrubbery. The princess was up on the terrace. The fire-eaters were sending sparks into the sky to the sound of applause. Winnie had been circling the crowd of guests, searching for Hephzibah, for Mrs. King, for somebody who could agree what they should do.
“Good heavens,” said Winnie. “What are you doing in there?” She waved the answer away. “Never mind now. Have you seen Mrs. King?”
Jane-two frowned. “I have examined the lane. The policemen—the real policemen. They’re watching her.” She nodded across the garden, toward the princess. “Not the back gate. It’s a clear run to the road. We should launch the operation while we have the advantage.” She stared at Winnie, who was rooted to the spot. “Someone needs to give the order.”
Winnie looked at all those people thronging the garden, swaying dangerously near the edge of the Nile. Lights spilling from the ballroom, shapes whirling past the windows. Braziers being lit, and the fire-eater taking one last gulp of his flame, the crowd bellowing in delight. She saw candlelight flickering in the attic windows.
From the house, from every floor, she heard the chimes.
Midnight.
I have my voice, she thought.
“Then go,” she said.
34
Midnight
Go-time
Winnie burst into the kitchen. She’d never seen it like this before. The whole place was alive and breathing, filled with smoke and noise and people in perpetual motion. The waiters circled her, trays gleaming, boots ringing on the flagstones. The air smelled of wine and goose fat and dripping.
It was time to find Shepherd, get the keys, recover Mrs. Bone.
Shepherd was propped up against the long table in the servants’ hall, supported by his train of bootboys, mopping his brow, glugging a glass of sherry. He adjusted his waistcoat. Winnie watched him clipping and unclipping his keys. In the end it wasn’t difficult to do, and she didn’t hesitate. She approached him, followed by an acrobat and three waiters, thankful for her disguise. Cook was bawling at the French chef. The kitchen maids were running in circles around Cook. The waiters were smuggling bottles of wine to one another under the table. In other words: chaos, the kind they’d prayed for. Winnie reached for Mr. Shepherd’s keys and plucked them lightly from his belt.
He sensed it. Winnie backed away and saw him reeling. There was a crowd all around him. He patted his waist, let out a noise. Bent down. “Here, get out of my way, I’ve dropped my…”
As Winnie rounded the corner, she broke into a run. She’d lost her breath, every scrap of it, by the time she reached the servants’ quarters. She counted the doors, looking for Mrs. Bone’s. She fiddled with the keys, tested the lock.
In a second she heard Mrs. Bone’s voice. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Winnie. Wait a moment. I’m just trying to work out which—”
“I am so glad you have come for us,” she said, high and forced. She rapped on the door, stopping Winnie midbreath.
“Us?” said Winnie.
“Behind you.”
Winnie spun round. Saw a figure shrinking from her gaze, right at the end of the passage.
Mrs. Bone’s whisper came through the door. “Our Sue has been telling me some very interesting things.”
Winnie heard a rustling sound. A sheet of paper sliding under the door. She picked it up. Saw a lot of neat, handwritten lines.
A list of names.