Miss de Vries shook her head. “I’d rather bet on myself,” she said.
Bets, games, risks, odds: long ones, short ones. Mrs. King could see the light sparkling in Miss de Vries’s eyes, and she looked so entirely like their father that it twisted her in the gut. But if Mr. de Vries were present in the room, as a specter or a memory, he made almost no impression; he was very nearly forgotten. His name would die; it would simply fade away.
“Fair enough,” said Mrs. King.
What had she expected? That they would talk, that they would speak of their own betrayals, and compare notes? Mrs. King could see it, almost: the two of them, ladies of an equal height and temperament, taking a brisk walk together around the park. Mrs. King realized that she had come here to find a sister, but there wasn’t one to be found.
She reached into her pocket. Drew out an envelope. “This isn’t from me,” she said. “And it’s not a gift.”
Alice had given her the instructions. Indeed, she’d purchased all the tickets. The train to the coast, the cabin for the crossing from Plymouth, the trains from France to Italy. “Don’t say anything,” she’d said to Mrs. King. “Just give them to her.”
Miss de Vries took the envelope, puzzled. She didn’t open it. This didn’t surprise Mrs. King. She wouldn’t have done so, either—not in public, not under observation.
She said, simply, “Good day.”
And then she left the shop, not looking back, not even for a moment.
43
June 1906
Mrs. King waved her hands to clear the dust from the air. She looked across the street. She could see secretaries, lawyers, men from the auction house, all huddled on the pavement. A lot of top hats gleaming.
“We’ve got all the ghouls out today,” said a voice.
Mrs. King turned, heart lifting. There was Mrs. Bone, leaning against the railings. Beside her stood a bicycle with a basket so large it made Mrs. King start laughing. “What d’you want that for?” she asked. “Have you stolen a ham?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Tell me you didn’t ride that here.”
“I’ve got to keep my joints going!”
Mrs. King hugged her. She did it before Mrs. Bone could protest or pull away.
“You’ve gone soft,” Mrs. Bone said, voice muffled.
“And you’ve turned into a lady.” Mrs. King straightened, stepped back. “What’s that smell? French perfume?”
Mrs. Bone scowled. “Fix your veil, girl.”
Mrs. King adjusted the Russian netting tied under her chin. She knew her face was perfectly concealed. “Thanks.”
Mrs. Bone reached for her, a sudden move. Her fingers were gentle. “Listen. I don’t like interfering in people’s business. And I won’t be used as a go-between.”
“All right. Where is he?”
Mrs. Bone tilted her head, a quick sideways jerk, and Mrs. King looked over her shoulder. She felt her heart expanding. “Good. Clear off for a bit, would you?”
She raised a hand, a solemn gesture, and William—at a distance, hat pulled low over his eyes, raised his slowly in return.
“Let me know, won’t you?” Mrs. Bone said, squinting up at the de Vries residence. A worried look entered her eyes. “What you decide.”
William came across the grass toward her: straight, purposeful strides. Mrs. Bone scuttled away, her bicycle jolting as she went, and disappeared into the trees.
Mrs. King spoke first. “I didn’t put a call out for any hired hands.”
William tipped his hat. “How about sweethearts?”
“Not advertising for those, either.”
“Well, fair enough.”
“Look at it,” she said, pointing to the house.
He followed her gaze. White plasterwork, pillars. The great bow windows, the awnings. The huge heft and height of it.
“Smartest house in London,” Mrs. King said.
“They do say that.”
“And up for sale, too.”
The auctioneers were fanning themselves in the heat.
William’s voice was cautious. “Right.”
Mrs. King felt the warm breeze coming across the park, heard the roar and grind of the traffic coming around the bend. Saw the fierce glitter of the windows.
Then William said, “I thought we’d meet sooner.”
“I told you: I had to take myself out of circulation.” She smiled through her veil. “Temporarily.”
He touched her arm, and her heartbeat accelerated. She’d taken care, such enormous care, to stay away from him. She did it to preserve her safety, and his. But now, at last, she felt herself bending. She had missed him, and she let herself feel it, the tingle as it passed through her chest, her skin.
“Hmm.” There were questions William could ask, whole barrel loads of them, but he didn’t. She loved him for that. He said only, “I don’t want you to think I’m coming for your money.”
Mrs. King folded her hands. “Money? Who says I’ve got money?”
She felt the weight of her hat, piled high with roses. The expensive lace at her throat, the ruby on her little finger.
His expression narrowed. “Dinah. What they’re saying about the girls…” He studied her face. “Did you know?”
“Did you?”
He considered this. “No. But I don’t feel any better for it.”
“Then you’d better repent, same as me. Let’s talk to the vultures.”
For the first time she could remember, a whole crowd of gentlemen lifted their hats as she approached. She had an appointment, after all. She imagined she looked strange to them. A lady, but an anomaly. Tightly buckled. Lips the color of garnets. She’d given them a false name, of course. She tightened her veil.
The house was calm and still. It seemed to her that something made of brick and white plaster and sandstone couldn’t really harm anyone. It possessed neither good powers nor bad. It possessed nothing at all—it was nothing. Yet still it possessed a certain pull. A small temptation. She had to test herself, just to see if she was making the right choices.
“Would you like to go inside?” said a gentleman, putting his top hat back on.
She nodded. “Alone.”
She entered through the porch, not the tradesman’s entrance. Not the garden door. Not through the mews. The front door.
“Will you wait for me?” she said to William in a low voice.
“Long as you want,” he replied, and she felt the pressure of his fingers. She left him on the front step.
She walked through the house by herself. She allowed herself to touch everything, the marble and the iron. Someone had opened all the windows, and the air was cycling around and around, a tumbling and scattering of particles. The house smelled different. Clean.
She hadn’t been entirely truthful with Miss de Vries. There was one thing left in the house, a wooden box, concealed in a recess behind the old housekeeper’s room. She winced, reaching for it, struggling to draw it out. She had to brush all the dust off her sleeve.
“Dinah?” She heard William’s voice calling her from a distance. It seemed to her that the floors were thrumming beneath her, that there was a high whistle in the air.