Indoors, upstairs, in the fortressed silence of the saloon floor, Miss de Vries inspected the invitation list for her ball.
The preparations had been in motion for weeks. The date had been set: the twenty-sixth of June. Three weeks and three days, and she was counting every moment.
Truthfully, of course, it had been conceived months before, the very moment Papa set sail for the Continent in search of spa cures and the best gaming tables, entirely distracted from home affairs. He would not have held any sort of party. No breakfasts, luncheons, high teas or dinners were permitted at Park Lane. Those things would put Miss de Vries entirely on display, up for auction on the market. He refused to countenance that.
Papa went out into the world: to the Royal Regatta, and the diplomatic dinners, and the Queen’s Drawing Room, and the gymkhana. He wore his yellow-spotted neckerchiefs and his most vulgar waistcoats, and spent lavishly on the charity dances—and people roared for him. They feasted on anecdotes of his extravagance and lowborn manners and brilliant buttons.
She remained home: preserved, contained, scratching at the walls.
After Papa’s funeral, Miss de Vries had summoned Mrs. King. The housekeeper entered the room quietly, smoothly, already wearing a black armband. The sight of it sent a shiver through Miss de Vries’s chest.
“I’m minded to hold a ball,” she said.
She expected astonishment, demurral, doubts about propriety. Or better still: a rebuttal. Loyalties to Papa were shifting and eddying: things felt febrile. Certain members of the household might be reconsidering their options altogether. Miss de Vries welcomed some aggression, even insolence. It would provide a reason to give certain people their notice.
“Have you considered a date, Madam?” asked Mrs. King, unruffled.
It was already high season: Miss de Vries had missed the private view at the Royal Academy; she had no costume for Ascot Week. “Before the end of June. No later,” she said, knowing what a strain it would cause for the household. A ball was an entrance, an entrée: it had to be enormous, gargantuan, the best in the calendar.
“I quite agree,” said Mrs. King, in an obliging tone. She took on the whole operation, almost as if it were of her own design, startling Miss de Vries with her efficiency. She worked up the menus and managed the worst negotiations with Cook. Ordered the flowers, new linens, fresh crystal ware, waiters, tents and tarpaulins, entertainments. Listed out the necessary staff: new house-parlormaids, daily women, even a sewing maid to help with the costume. Closed off half the rooms, opened up others, rearranged the furniture, clearing drawers, putting things in packing cases.
“You can leave all that to the girls, Mrs. King,” Miss de Vries said, uneasily, seeing her rifling through one of the closets. “You shouldn’t exhaust yourself.”
Mrs. King had given her a steady gaze. “I’m never exhausted, Madam,” she said.
It was Mr. Shepherd who brought the news. He’d come at dawn this morning, flustered, wearing an entirely disagreeable expression.
“I thought I’d better tell you at once, Madam,” he said. “The lamp-boy caught Mrs. King entering the gentlemen’s quarters. We think she was planning an assignation.”
Miss de Vries had dressed in deepest mourning, no jewels, her hair concealed beneath Chantilly lace. Entirely modest, virtuous.
“Which footman?” she asked.
He paused, just a half second. “William,” he said.
“How disgusting,” Miss de Vries said, without emotion. “Do the other servants know?”
“I fear they may, Madam.”
“Then we need to set an example. She must leave today.”
She could feel pleasure tingling in her veins. One by one, she thought. I’ll get them out one by one. Shepherd’s eyes flickered in their sockets. Ever since she’d left the schoolroom and Papa had given her charge of the housekeeping, Shepherd had been chasing her for decisions. Appointments, expenditures, complaints, approvals. He came through the door every hour, bringing cards, notes, tea, messages, deliveries. It was as if he had leashed himself to her leg, spying on her. Miss de Vries sometimes wondered what he would do if she lifted a hot poker from the hearth and pressed it to his skin. Would he sink to his knees, would he scream, would he beg her to do it again?
These people, Papa’s people—Mrs. King, Mr. Shepherd, the lawyers, the rest—they simply wouldn’t do anymore. Of course Papa had done his best. Furnished her with nannies, ayahs, everything one could pay for. But that only took you so far in life. She wished to operate at the very top of the ladder, right up in the heavenly heights of society: among cabinet ministers, earls, dukes, princes. She just needed to leverage herself properly. Clear out the deadwood. Build on clean, fresh ground.
Mrs. King was out of the house by breakfast time. Miss de Vries came down for luncheon at noon, studied the invitation list, making corrections. The lawyers arrived at two o’clock, per appointment. Mr. Lockwood led the pack, silver-haired and perfectly groomed, concise as always. She ordered him to stay for tea.
“I’d like you to open negotiations for a marriage settlement,” she said, pouring the tea, playing mother.
He took the saucer from her, eyes narrowing. “Mr. de Vries always headed off those discussions. I don’t know that we have any takers in mind.”
That didn’t seem like a particularly agreeable response. “Perhaps we might set out some attractive terms,” said Miss de Vries.
He considered this. “What is your objective?”
She smiled, adjusted her voice down a notch. “Love,” she said. “What else?”
What couldn’t she achieve, once she sold off Papa’s positions? A first-rate alliance, a title, installation at a house on Berkeley Square, or any address equal to it. She hated this place, the stench of motor oil, its shiny newness. She wanted to live somewhere ancient. Sink her roots into lovely old ground. Papa’s address book repulsed her. Steel merchants and newspaper proprietors and Americans. She was after eminent men. Blue blood.
Mr. Lockwood had summarized their trading position. His assessment infuriated her. “Overextended,” he’d said. As if the de Vries empire had eyes bigger than its stomach.
“I’m not sure the accounts will bear close scrutiny,” he said. “Better to wait a year or two.”
A year? Another season? Six of those had passed already. And clearly, he was talking nonsense. The household bills were always paid on time, weren’t they? Loans came in, payments went out. Of course a fortune fluctuated, when it was as colossal as hers.
Confidence, she thought. We must project wealth. Splendor.
She was her father’s daughter, after all.
“I’m holding a ball, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “Did I mention it?”
The lawyer seemed smooth, but he only seemed it. Really he was serrated all over, knicked and ridged from top to toe. You could prick your skin if you got too close.
“I’m not at all sure about that,” he said. “It hardly seems—proper.”
“I’m in mourning, Mr. Lockwood,” she said. “Naturally the arrangements will reflect that. You needn’t be alarmed. I won’t be dressed as a chorus girl.”
“But aren’t you alarmed?” He was giving her his usual look, implacable and unrelenting. “By the risk?”
A motor engine coughed outside on the road.
She gave him a level stare. “What risk, Mr. Lockwood? A ball in this house has been long expected. I am pressed for one, day and night.”
“By whom?” he asked, dubiously.
“I have already commenced the preparations. It would be a great inconvenience to cancel it now.”
“You know it’s my duty, Miss de Vries, to give you good counsel,” he said quietly.
“Legal counsel, Mr. Lockwood,” said Miss de Vries. “I didn’t have you down as chaperone.”
“A young lady’s reputation,” he said, with that same fishlike smile, “is a fine and delicate thing.”
“It is immeasurably precious,” she agreed. “Of near-incalculable value. It should be burnished, brightened, properly displayed.”
Something flickered in Lockwood’s eyes, a flash of—what? Recognition? Papa would have said, Do what I want—make it happen. He made himself especially vulgar for Lockwood, wore his biggest gold rings, placed gigantic fuchsias in his buttonhole. He liked battering the man over the head.
“Modesty,” said Mr. Lockwood, “is the most bewitching virtue in the world. It has enormous currency in these affairs.”
“Affairs?”
“In the conveyancing of a marriage.”
He studied her mildly, one hand in his waistcoat.
The motor outside barked and roared to life.
Of course it wasn’t proper to hold the ball now. The notion that this hadn’t occurred to her, made her stomach churn with anger. It was improper. That was precisely the point: she needed to stand firm, deviate not an inch. No bets came without risks. They gave a game its dimensions, its oxygen. She needed to catch the world’s attention. Now was the moment. Now, more than ever, while her power was still fresh and newly minted.
Mrs. King had said as much herself when they’d first discussed the arrangements. “You’ve only got one life to live, Madam. Don’t spare any expense. Best put on a good show.”
After Lockwood had gone, Miss de Vries went up to her own rooms. They had once belonged to Mama, but carried no remnants of her at all, sparked no memories: she died before Miss de Vries had even reached the schoolroom. This suite was perfumed the way Miss de Vries liked it: violently and completely of orchids. She breathed it in for comfort, for surety. It wasn’t easy, maintaining the scent. In this house foul odors rolled in from every direction: the pavement, the cellars, the city.
They reminded her that she was making entirely the right decisions.