She caught Miss de Vries’s eye. “I congratulate you on your engagement,” she said, over the music.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she muttered, bowing her head.
The anthem died just as it was getting into full swing, and the princess’s people began shoving the onlookers, beating a path to the door. The princess herself glanced over Miss de Vries’s shoulder. Lord Ashley was fighting his own way down the stairs behind them, hat skewed, plumes bobbing.
“You would be better off alone,” the princess said.
Her accent was tucked into the recesses of her throat, and she spoke without emotion—as if she didn’t care how her words would be received. It was a breathtakingly offensive thing to say. It silenced Miss de Vries altogether.
“Ma’am,” said the viscountess, turban swaying, “this way…”
The princess moved on, offering no thanks, no farewell. Evidently, her mind had turned to bed, and the groaning, dusty, glorious heights of Buckingham Palace. There was a flash of diamonds, a firework pop in the garden, a collective flurry of bows and curtseys as the royal presence left Park Lane. Through the crush, Miss de Vries saw the big motor car roll away from the curb. A roar went up in the front hall, men and women peeling off their gloves, letting out enormous sighs of relief, shouting for more champagne. The band began hammering the drums. There was a bang as a flashbulb went out in one of the electroliers, and people screamed in delight. Miss de Vries felt her neighbors crushing her, touching her, all over her.
She didn’t budge.
Lord Ashley bounded up the front steps, saying in a careless voice to Miss de Vries, “Christ, what a drag that must have been for ma’am. At least you had me here. She wouldn’t have said a word otherwise.”
The world grew dark. Miss de Vries could feel her father’s eyes on her back, his portrait looming over her at its usual furious angle. In that moment she loathed Lord Ashley. She urged herself not to let the feeling take root. Anything less than joy would count as failure.
There was a gleam of pink satin, a scent of almonds and rose water. Lady Montagu was hurrying past. “Terrible headache, must dash, forgive, forgive… Splendid evening, goodnight to you all!”
Miss de Vries felt a hand on her elbow. Lockwood, bruised and angry eyed. “Thank his lordship for the dance,” he said. “It will be expected.”
Lord Ashley was throwing back his head and bellowing with laughter, rubbing his thighs, making an obscene joke.
She didn’t wish to thank him. He should have been thanking her, for saving him. “No,” she replied. Ashley was taking her triumph, polluting it, making it his own. “I’m going to bed.”
Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. “There are still a good many people to speak to…”
“I’ve concluded all my business. And I’m tired.”
She looked at Lord Ashley, then looked away. She tried to summon up the sweet tang of success. It tasted bitter. She made for the stairs, the scarlet peonies raging overhead, and she didn’t glance back.
36
2:00 a.m.
Without Mrs. King, Winnie was going to have to manage the next step herself. She was at the other side of the house, in the guest suites on the second floor. She put the box of matches back in her pocket and peered at the smoke machine, wiping the sweat from her brow. The Janes started stuffing sheets around the bedroom door frame, bunging up the cracks, to contain the smoke. Not that there seemed to be much smoke at all.
“How long will it take?” Winnie asked. The machines were working, pistons pumping, air bubbling in the water towers. But the cigarettes were releasing only little wisps of smoke.
“We come back every couple of minutes to replace the cigarettes,” said Jane-two. “And we’ve checked the gauges. They’re set to double.”
“None of that means anything to me.”
“It means you should get ready,” said Jane-one firmly.
Alice had slipped into Miss de Vries’s bedroom. She envisioned the other women looking for her, growing angry when they couldn’t find her. She pictured Mrs. King’s face, her disappointment, confusion. Alice’s nerves were skimming through her skin, fingers trembling. She moved like a mouse, zigzagging, touching Miss de Vries’s bureau—because it was something cool, something solid. Her crucifix felt hot, sweaty, the chain scratching her throat. She was tempted to throw it out of the window. What use was it now?
She heard a soft tread from the passage. It made her start, swing around. The big bedroom doors rolled slowly back.
Miss de Vries stood silhouetted in the lamplight. It made Alice squint, put a hand to her eyes. The movement must have alerted Miss de Vries to her presence. She heard her say, on an outward breath, “Ah.”
Miss de Vries stayed standing on the other side of the bed. The sight of her, so familiar, made Alice’s heart start pelting. She knew every inch of Madam, every line: every nick and hollow. She’d watched her long enough. Good, she thought, mind racing. Keep her here. Keep her with you, away from everyone else. Just as Mrs. King would have wanted.
But it wasn’t Mrs. King’s orders that made her cross the carpet. It wasn’t because of the plan. It was something different, circling deeper in her gut.
For once Miss de Vries’s expression was easy to read. Anger. Alice felt it in her own body, too. It enraged her, that she should be so frightened, that she should be made to feel so.
“Whatever are you doing up here?” said Miss de Vries.
“I…felt unwell,” said Alice. “I didn’t want to cause a fuss.”
Miss de Vries took a half step backward. “You should go to your own room, not mine.” Her headdress glittered; her shoulders were pale in the light. “Are you feeling faint?”
Alice didn’t move. “Yes,” she said.
“Then sit down, for heaven’s sake. I’ll send someone to help you.”
“No,” said Alice, voice rising. “Don’t. Please.”
Miss de Vries stared at her. Something was working in her mind, and it was hard to interpret. She raised a hand to her forehead. Her movements seemed fractious, edgy: there was something crackling in the atmosphere around her. “I hope you’re not going to be disagreeable. I’ve had a very long evening.”
She was still close enough that Alice could smell her. A stinging scent, something bitter, something burned. It clung to the silvery white-blond sheen of her hair.
“Madam,” said Alice, taking a breath. “Your costume.”
A pause. Miss de Vries’s eyes darted to meet hers. “What of it?”
Alice made sure her voice didn’t sound weak. “Are you pleased with it?”
Miss de Vries looked startled. She regarded herself in the long looking glass. She was a column of black crepe and jet ornaments, her train pooling behind her like oil.
“Pleased with it?” she said. She shook out her wrists, almost nervous.
Alice gathered her courage. “You said, Madam, that I should be rewarded. For my work. That I should be paid.”
Miss de Vries went still.
“Paid?” she said.
Alice imagined the man in the mews yard in her mind’s eye. Finish this, she told herself. Finish it, get it done, get out. It was not part of the plan. It was entirely in contravention of it. “Yes, Madam.”