“I’m innocent,” she said again, and surveyed all the gray-faced, gray-suited men ranged out before her. “I’ve harmed no one. I know nothing.”
Lockwood made his face a mask. “About…？”
Miss de Vries wished then very badly to be alone. She stood up from her seat, and went to the vast bay windows overlooking the park. Lockwood moved away from her, as if she were infectious, as if she carried plague.
She put her hands on the window ledge and surveyed the road. In the old days Papa would drive up in his carriage, and later in his gigantic motor car, and she would wave to him. He’d squash his hat down over his head, pretending not to see her. It made her laugh in delight. He was always playing jokes and games. All the things she loved, when she was small. Before she understood that he wasn’t joking. That he wasn’t looking, that he hardly thought of her at all.
It would have been easier if she felt any self-pity. If she felt the urge to weep. It might have made her able to exist inside her own skin. But the only thing she felt was dread.
Nothing had changed yet. Lockwood was grim-faced but clear. Any question of illegal business would need to be properly charged, and in due course clear the courts, and the implicated parties had the best attorneys in London. Yes, there would be newspapermen outside the house from dawn to dusk, and inspectors pouring in from Scotland Yard, and not a single neighbor would call on her. The house would be tainted by gossip, speculation, all things horrid. But surely it would pass?
“Go for a walk,” said Lockwood. “Let the neighbors see you. No use hiding away indoors.”
Why not? She still had her chauffeur, and her motor, and her faithful footman. And her trousseau, come to that. She picked out the crepe with jet. Alice never did take it, she supposed, throat tightening. The girl had vanished. She remembered the pressure of Alice’s fingers, the scent of her skin, and she felt something hollowing in her chest. She put on her gloves, and a hat, and William walked behind her down the road, saying nothing.
A small, rackety motor carriage drew up beside them, incognito—and evidently, by design. She saw the dark maroon-colored leather, stains all over the silverwork. Everything is tarnished, she thought, laughing inwardly. Everything in the world is spoiled.
“Lord Ashley,” she said, voice steady. She was astonished to see him. If she were him, she would have stayed home. She would have preserved the greatest possible distance from this house, for safety, for reputation.
William was watching her. He put out a hand to her, a tiny bit of kindness.
She brushed him away and stepped into Lord Ashley’s motor with a smile.
Lord Ashley wore a dangerous expression as he steered the Victoriette. He didn’t ask her how she was, what she was feeling. Didn’t speak a word about the house, or what had happened to it, at all.
“Fancy chap you had carrying your things, there.”
“William?” she asked.
“Tall sort of fellow. Don’t much like the way he looks at you.”
“I hardly notice him.”
“I wouldn’t let a wife of mine keep a handsome chap like that around the house. You’ll have to get used to potbellied pigs if you plan on making a decent marriage.”
If? She pressed her lips together, controlling herself.
“Your man Lockwood came to see Mother this morning.”
Miss de Vries grew still. “Did he?” she said, looking out at the park.
“What’s all this about a list?”
The carriage rattled as it took the hard turn at Hyde Park Corner. Miss de Vries remained silent. But he waited for her to speak.
“List?” she said, at last, throat dry.
“I’m not on it,” he said, giving her a sideways glance. “Naturally.”
It astonished her, his boldness, his breathtaking confidence.
“And your man Lockwood says he’ll make sure it stays that way. He wanted to offer his help.”
“Help?” She couldn’t avoid the sharpness in her tone. “He’ll put conditions on you for that.”
“We’ve put conditions on him. Mother’s strict about things like this. We don’t want any taint on the family, no suggestion we’re covering anything up.” He gave her a fast look. “We’ve all heard rumors about your father’s funny business. Somebody should go to the police.”
Miss de Vries turned, clutching the side of the carriage. “Why on earth,” she said, “would you want to do that?”
“It’s my duty,” he said smoothly, “as a Christian.”
He arrowed the carriage into the park, hurtling over rough ground. “I expect Lockwood’ll come and tell you the rest himself. We’ve torn up the contract. With you, that is.” He braked, hard, and Miss de Vries felt her stomach jolting.
He turned, expression as flat as she could make her own. “Thought I’d do the decent thing and tell you myself.”
Lockwood was waiting for her in the front hall. He hadn’t removed his gloves. “Miss de Vries, I regret to tell you, I think I must withdraw my counsel.”
She wanted to press her thumbs into his throat, stop him from breathing. She knew she could do it. “You’ll survive,” she said, “won’t you? You loathsome little cockroach.”
Lockwood grimaced and raised a hand, silencing her. “Ah, Shepherd.”
A door had opened. Mr. Shepherd lumbered slowly in. He glanced at Lockwood, then his mistress. “Keys,” he said.
The air chilled.
“What?” said Miss de Vries.
Shepherd’s mouth was working furiously, eyes ablaze. “Keys, miss. I’ll need to take your keys, for safekeeping. While the police are looking into everything.”
To her credit, she told herself later, she didn’t act as though the wind had just been knocked out of her sails. She put her hand in her pocket. “I only have this one,” she said, plucking her single key, the one that was for the garden door. “As well you know.”
She bent her knees a little, and then she threw it across the hall. It hit the marble with a gentle clang, skidding past Shepherd’s feet.
“Fetch,” she said, with disdain.
This wasn’t over, she promised herself, hands shaking. This wasn’t the end.
40
The day after the ball
That night the women had a feast. Not in Tilney Street, but in the docks, in Mrs. Bone’s inventions room, cuckoo clocks hooting at them every hour.
There was a queer energy to the air. The first proceeds were already coming in, rushing like dark water through underground tunnels. They came faster than Mrs. Bone could tally them, orders running like wildfire back and forth across the wires, steamer routes, trains, the express—to Paris, Marseille, Kristiania, Venice, Prague. Mrs. Bone had ordered game pie, and boned capon, and cutlets and peas, and chicken in aspic. She gave them melon and green figs, and ribbon jelly, and an amber-colored sponge cake at least a foot high. There were candied oranges and a dish with ices, and a basket of greengages and meringues.
“Too much,” said Hephzibah, clutching her stomach. “I thought you were a skinflint, Mrs. Bone.”
“I can get more,” said Mrs. Bone, eyes flashing. “I’ll get as much as you like!” She knew her largesse was almost indecent, but she felt the need to do it.