Winnie examined the bedrooms first. Judged how big they were, how comfortable they’d be, how private. Made herself ignore the gentle curves of the garden, the yellow scattering of cowslips, the dense and lovely tangle of the hedgerows. She had to be very sensible about this. She measured the cupboards and the closets. She counted Sue’s list of names. The ones she’d kept her eye on, the ones she knew were in trouble. The ones who’d left Park Lane in a hurry, without explanation, in the night. The ones who might need a place to stay.
“It’s a long list,” Mrs. King had said when she looked at it.
Winnie had taken her hand gingerly. “If you ever want anywhere yourself, you only need to ask.”
Mrs. King had returned the pressure in her fingers. “Thanks,” she said.
Winnie marched back to the neighbor’s house. The woman opened the door, frowning over her spectacles. “You’re taking it?”
“I live quietly,” Winnie said, “but I shall have people visiting from time to time. Ladies. People needing sanctuary. To get back on their feet. I shan’t want any trouble about it. No gossip.”
The woman considered this, twirling the latchkey around her finger. She had bookcases in the hall, and there were pamphlets and newspapers piled high by the door. She looked at Winnie with understanding. “Just what we need around here,” she said. “Tea?”
A week after the ball
Hephzibah did what you should do when you come into a great fortune. She ordered champagne. Then she ordered some more.
It was one of those nights when her chest tightened so badly that she feared her heart might stop beating, when the walls rattled and zigzagged around her. This still happened to her. She’d hoped it would end when the Park Lane job was finished. The others were so happy, so exhilarated: Winnie was brimming with purpose. All right for her. Hephzibah sat by herself in a restaurant like a woman of dubious means and then she walked home alone. How she managed it she didn’t know.
In the morning she had a deeply strange experience. She awoke outside her body, floating over it, as if suspended by fine threads from the ceiling. She didn’t think she’d died. She just thought she’d been given the opportunity to inspect herself. At first it frightened her; she wanted to screw her eyes shut.
But then she looked.
She saw her body, gray skinned and greasepainted, mouth open. But, all things considered, she appeared remarkably well. She’d lain down with some care, stiff as a board, before passing out.
I’m lovely, she observed with interest. I’m sweet looking.
She floated up there, full of wonder, and then she woke up.
Shame was the usual sensation in the mornings. But that day she felt only a faint curiosity, a sort of scientific interest in herself. She touched her hair, that mountainous, chestnut-rich, glowing structure, and felt proud of it.
She was here. She had survived—she was surviving—despite everything.
How clever I am, she thought. How remarkable. I love being me.
This realization meant something. That morning she went for a walk in the park, wearing her rich brown cape and carrying a pink umbrella, and when she came home she went searching for a pencil. It took her ages, and she had to turn out half her closets to find any notepaper. Writing was hard, almost painful, and the letters were nearly illegible. But the words came.
What is this? she wondered, staring at what she’d written. A novel? A letter? A confession?
A play, she decided. I will write a play.
She slept that night as she had not slept in years. It strengthened her immensely. She woke with a splendid appetite and treated herself to an enormous breakfast.
She thought about the Paragon. Did she miss it?
I’d build a very good theater, she thought. I’d run it splendidly. I’d run it better than anyone.
She reached for her pencil and did the sums.
Mrs. Bone had had a grueling seven days, totting up the accounts. The figures were eye watering, stupendous, unbelievable. Archie began paying off her debts, handing out wages, spreading the word: Mrs. Bone was back in business. Big business. The other major families looked on in awe. At the end of the week, Mr. Murphy called in at the factory, bringing the keys to the pawnshop. He crept into her parlor, pale faced, on his knees. He kissed her hand.
“I don’t forgive you,” Mrs. Bone said, digging her nails into his flesh, and sent him out of the room. Her men dealt with him outside in the yard.
On the last day of accounting she did something very important. She made a quiet adjustment to their books, the only little bit of skimming she ever did, and popped a banker’s order in an envelope. She put the envelope in her bag and took the omnibus to Lisson Grove.
Mrs. Bone knew how to find people. She did it her usual way, by instinct. Constable first, then the man running the pie shop. Then down the back lanes, where the girls were hanging out laundry. She could hear little voices chanting rhymes. Could smell the drains, a fractionally different scent here, as if the water were harder in this part of town.
These people stared at her, an oddity, a curio, but they sent her in the right direction. She located a dark and miserable house at the end of the road. The stairs were set at a worrying slant, as if the foundations were having a joke at the owner’s expense.
“Sue?” Mrs. Bone said, banging on the door.
There was a long wait. And then a footstep, a creak of the hinges. A face peered around.
Those eyes! Big and utterly scared.
“Here you go, little goose,” said Mrs. Bone, shoving her hand through the door, holding out an envelope. “Your fee.”
Sue goggled at her. “My what?” she said. Her voice was husky.
“You know what for,” Mrs. Bone said, folding her arms. “Don’t pretend you don’t. I pay well when people hold their tongues.” She nodded at the envelope. “Open it.”
Park Lane, at dusk.
“Aha.”
Mrs. King lowered her binoculars. “Seen him?”
“Upstairs window.”
She and Mrs. Bone took the ladder and scaled the garden wall. Midnight came. Then one o’clock. Then two. The world grew quiet, shifted its dimensions.
Mrs. Bone coughed into the crook of her elbow.
“You can still go home, Mrs. Bone.”
Mrs. Bone snuffled. “Look here, I need to say something. I thought… I thought they were pretending to be married—I never thought that Danny would have ever…”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Mrs. King replied gently.
Mrs. Bone shook her head, closed her eyes. “You never should have gone into that house.”
There was a great deal Mrs. King could have said in response to that. Any number of people might have altered things for her. They didn’t: because Mr. de Vries was a rich man, and being rich was a virtue—it carried all before it. Even Mrs. Bone must have believed that, on some level.
“I daresay you’re right,” Mrs. King said. No need to cause a fuss. “Now look sharp. I’m going to get him.”
Mrs. King crossed the garden, made for the house. She guessed where Shepherd would be. In the master’s old room. She picked up a handful of stones, aimed for the balustrade on the second floor. Her aim was straight and true. One pebble. Then another.
It didn’t take long. She heard the scrape of wood. A window opening. Saw a pale and flickering light.