A scrap of paper.
Her father’s empire, not yet sold off, still intact…
The angels knelt before her. This was a dreadful place to be buried. Lonely, forgotten. It’s where they’d bury me, she realized, if I lived here. She pictured her own casket being placed into the family tomb. Family, she thought, feeling cold. She reached for the lamp and bent down, studying the brass plaque.
It was blank.
No name, she realized. Did he run out of time? Or didn’t he know what to call himself? Did he mistrust de Vries at the very end? She didn’t care to know. She had no desire to understand him anymore, at all.
She breathed out. “Leave it,” she said.
Mrs. Bone grabbed her by the arm. “You won’t get a thing without proof, Dinah.”
Mrs. King turned from the mausoleum. She heard Mr. Shepherd’s ragged breathing. The house was empty. The most important things had been corrected.
“I don’t need anything else,” she said.
42
Nine months later
“It’s her,” said Winnie.
“Sure?” said Mrs. King.
Mrs. King and Winnie were standing on Bond Street, outside a dressmaker’s shop.
Winnie didn’t answer. Her expression said it all. Yes.
“Mind yourself,” said a flash-looking woman, crashing through the door, barging into Winnie. Mrs. King peered through the glass. One of the seamstresses was coming out of the back room, carrying a bolt of fabric in her arms.
Yes, it was her. It didn’t matter what she wore, or how she disguised herself; it was undoubtedly and absolutely Miss de Vries. Or whatever she’d transformed herself into, with her hair cropped and dyed and pinned so that you could see the whole stiff line of her neck.
“Wait here,” said Mrs. King. And she opened the door.
Miss de Vries looked up at the sound of the bell. Her eyes were flat. She didn’t recognize Mrs. King at first. It wasn’t play-acting: she really had no idea who Mrs. King was. I’ve transformed, thought Mrs. King, with interest. She was wearing a bright mustard-colored coat, something cheerful for the winter, trimmed with furs and lace. It was a bit much, she admitted, glancing at herself in the glass.
“Yes?” Miss de Vries said.
She didn’t say, Madam. Evidently, that was beyond her. She was wearing a dull green dress, with some rather weary-looking embroidery along the sleeves, strangely shapeless and unbound.
“Look where you’ve ended up,” Mrs. King said with a smile. “Who’d have thought it?”
It hadn’t been easy, tracking down Miss de Vries. Mrs. King read the newspapers, which told her nothing, and Mrs. Bone talked to every servant she knew, which told her even less. They were all agog about Park Lane, loving a salacious story, talking of filthy perversions, girls being squirreled from house to house. It exhausted Mrs. King. It missed the point altogether.
They assumed she must have left London, perhaps even England. Mrs. King could picture her on the Continent, propping up the gaming tables. She was still her father’s daughter, after all, no matter what side of the sheets. But then Winnie caught word from her old contacts in the garment business: there was a queer, hoity-toity girl making trouble in a shop on Bond Street.
“They told me she’s a devilish hard worker,” said Winnie.
“A seamstress?” said Mrs. King. “Not likely.”
“Apprentice,” said Winnie. “I think it’s worth a look.”
And so they came. The shop was on the south side of Bond Street. Remarkably close to Park Lane. A ten-minute walk, if you cut through the side streets. But Winnie was right: it was Miss de Vries, with those familiar cold, gray eyes. They narrowed now in recognition. “I’m busy,” she said, but her voice was uncertain.
She seemed stooped, somehow: smaller. Mrs. King felt a sudden urge to straighten her, correct her posture. The feeling gave her pause.
“Have you come to laugh at me?” Miss de Vries said finally.
“Not in the least.”
“I could laugh at you. You look a fright.”
Mrs. King examined her sleeves. She’d bought this coat to please Mrs. Bone, who had developed a mad love of furs and ruffles and violent patterns. “This was very expensive,” she said mildly.
“Good for you,” Miss de Vries said, without emotion.
Her hands looked chapped and sore: the way Alice’s always had.
She’s come down in the world, thought Mrs. King. She’s become one of us. It didn’t feel like a triumph. It felt like a great injustice.
“Who made you so hard?” she said. “Our father? Or did you do it yourself?”
It was evident Miss de Vries didn’t wish to answer this. She wasn’t willing to plumb those depths for any person, for any reason. She said, voice rough, “You’re hardly gentle in your methods, Mrs. King.”
Mrs. King smiled at this. “You’d have done the same,” she said. “You’d have taken any action required to get what belonged to you.”
Miss de Vries didn’t move. The fight didn’t leave her eyes, but it shifted. It retreated into the back of her head.
“You did take action,” Mrs. King said. “Didn’t you?”
This thought had circled in her mind almost the instant she heard that the old master had died. Miss de Vries looked at her cautiously. Her expression changed altogether. It was a deeply strange look: almost shy.
“No,” she said, and her voice sounded quite different, too. The faint flush in her cheeks, the little glow of something self-congratulatory, told Mrs. King that she was lying.
“I would understand,” Mrs. King said, “if you had.”
She meant it. She remembered standing in Mr. de Vries’s bedroom. Silken pillows, bursting with goose feathers. Tawny light, clinging to everything. Mr. de Vries flailing, struggling. Miss de Vries, small as she was, had always been densely constructed. She could have easily pressed a pillow down, muffled any noises, stolen the breath from her father’s lungs. To stop him repeating that slander: Mrs. King has rights on you.
“If I were you,” said Mrs. King softly, “I would start looking to make some new friends. Protection. In case anyone else works it out.”
Miss de Vries disliked this: it showed in her face. “I don’t need protection,” she said.
“I can help you.”
“How?”
Mrs. King reached into her coat, drew out a small silver watch. The letters flashed at them: WdV. Miss de Vries took a tiny breath.
“Sell it,” Mrs. King said. “If you like. It’s an heirloom. It will have enormous value.”
“You’re mad,” Miss de Vries replied. “I could report you.”
Chairs scraped in the room at the back of the shop. The girls were getting up from the workbench, ready for their lunch.
Mrs. King held out the watch, but Miss de Vries remained motionless.
Mrs. King felt a quiver of irritation. Move, she thought. Fight me. Say something. She’d taken such care over her costume, over her appearance, wanting to communicate something: strength, honor. Clearly, she transmitted nothing to Miss de Vries. She carried no currency at all.
“Take it,” she said. “I wish you would. You deserve something.”