Miss de Vries let her neck fall back, spine arching. Lord Ashley’s fingers were digging into her shoulder blade, his nails scratching black muslin. She kept one fist on her train, taking care not to trip. The electroliers were popping and spitting overhead, and the crowd roared with pleasure as they swept past. Lord Ashley had led her inside to dance, as the news of their engagement swept through the house.
“They’re offering us their congratulations,” she said in Lord Ashley’s ear as he hurtled her backward into the center of the room. Up close, she could see his curls were slick with grease, darker than his usual white blond. The waltz was the fastest of the night, the orchestra red-faced and exhausted.
“Get your skirts out of the way,” he huffed, wrenching her waist.
He wants to show off to the crowd, she thought. The room was spinning around them, all roaring salmon-painted pillars and the tang of sweat. But Miss de Vries made out two figures moving ponderously in her direction.
Shepherd and Lockwood, making a beeline for her.
She smiled, radiant, laughing, for the crowd. “May we stop,” she said, catching her breath, “my lord?”
His hands came away so fast he nearly dropped her. He turned, arms aloft, hair askew, and the best families in London cheered for him. She tried not to stumble.
Shepherd was on her, Lockwood right behind. “Her Royal Highness is here, Madam.”
“What? Where?”
“Her motor just pulled up at the front door.”
Lockwood still looked pale. “Excellent news, Miss de Vries.”
“Where’s Lady Montagu?” she asked.
Shepherd frowned. “Indisposed, Madam. We took her to the Boiserie to—”
“Ah, there she is,” said Miss de Vries. She saw a familiar gleam of pink satin, hoop skirts lurching through the crowd. A powdered wig bobbed furiously in the air. “Come.”
They all followed the duchess, who was half running down the grand escalier.
Hephzibah thanked God for her hoop skirts. They kept people at arm’s length. Everyone caught up with her at the foot of the stairs, a perfect traffic jam. There was Miss de Vries, descending behind her, butler and lawyer at her side. In the opposite direction, she saw the Princess Victoria’s people, clustered at the front porch, waiting for someone to come and receive them. Oh, Lord, she thought.
“Lady Montagu?”
Miss de Vries was moving toward her at double speed.
Hephzibah turned. I refuse to be rushed, she said to herself, trying to blink her dizziness away. Men stood under the portico. Real policemen, she realized, feeling sick.
“Miss de Vries!” she said. “Splendid, you’re here.”
Guests on the right, guests on the left. No way out. Could you be arrested for fraud? Naturally. But on the spot, without clear charges? Hephzibah’s mind spun like a loose wheel about to fall off. She wished, in this moment, that she had someone solid beside her, someone to reassure her.
Winnie would help her, if she were here.
Buck up, Hephzibah, she told herself. Buck up, do.
Miss de Vries frowned. “Aren’t you going to meet the princess, Your Grace?”
Hephzibah summoned all the severity she could muster. “You are the lady of this house, Miss de Vries,” she said. “Her Royal Highness is waiting for you.” She threw her arm wide, as if to say, Do hurry up.
Hephzibah had never been trained to be a lady. She’d never been schooled in dance, posture, elocution. She’d refined herself on her own, for the stage—keeping her wits about her, her eyes open, watching other people, learning how to do it: how to live, how to be. But Miss de Vries had been trained. Belts and chokers and laces and straps on her flesh. She was alert, ready, all the time.
She gave Hephzibah a hard, penetrating stare.
Hephzibah dug her fingernails into her palms, made her face smooth. She raised an eyebrow.
Another second and she would have failed. Miss de Vries would have seen a line of sweat creeping out from under her wig. She would have smelled the acrid scent rising off Hephzibah’s body. Fear. Hephzibah could already smell it on herself.
But Mr. Shepherd leaned forward, worried, eyes on the clock. Hephzibah saw the saliva on his lips. “Madam...”
“Yes,” said Miss de Vries briefly, and moved on.
Hephzibah followed. She had no choice.
Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God.
Winnie should have known something was about to go wrong. Everything had been too simple. From her vantage point, patrolling the terrace, she had watched Hephzibah’s people herding the crowd, shifting them eastward then westward, keeping them entirely distracted as ropes began rippling down the eastern side of the house. The plan had been immaculate; everything was progressing without a hitch. She’d begun to feel her heart thump with surety, with unshakable confidence.
But suddenly one of the waiters snapped his fingers. “Get those beasts out of their boxes.”
Slowly, the French doors at the top of the terrace opened. Winnie saw movement, a crowd emerging from inside the house. And she felt something change in the atmosphere, a thrill passing through the company assembled in the garden below.
Miss de Vries was at the front of the party issuing down the terrace steps, and she’d removed her headdress. It made her look small, like a jet-painted icon. Next to her walked a woman of no very remarkable height, maybe in her late thirties, maybe forty, with a bright blue sash across her shoulder. She was being steered along a sort of tidal line of people, catching them like driftwood: guests, hangers-on, people crumpling into curtseys as she passed them. She looked almost like...
Princess Victoria, said a voice in Winnie’s head.
She almost laughed in disbelief.
They had spoken of a letter. An invitation sent to the royal household. But it was a fairy story, a tale spun by Hephzibah. They’d filtered Miss de Vries’s post, checked it every hour. No card ever left Park Lane for the palace. Hephzibah had rehearsed what she’d say to Miss de Vries, when she finally scampered out of the house: the princess had a royal headache, she was royally indisposed, terribly sorry, what a shame...
And yet they’d missed something. A letter had gone. Unmistakably, undoubtedly, it had. For here stood a princess of the United Kingdom, in all her state and glory, decked almost carelessly with diamonds, surrounded by courtiers, palace officials, equerries, men in dark overcoats who looked unmistakably like detectives. Clearly, news of this spectacular, unparalleled ball had spread like wildfire; it had billowed out of their control.
Where’s Hephzibah? she wondered, growing cold. She should have been controlling this crowd.
“All right, love, watch out behind you.”
A hand pulled her aside. Winnie smelled something hot and pungent on the air, the whiff of matted fur. Heard the heavy clop of hooves. The decking shuddered. In any other circumstances she might have laughed. But now she felt only panic. Mr. Sanger’s camels came plodding out to greet Cleopatra and the princess. Applause rose up around them.
She saw Miss de Vries leaning in to say something to the princess, something humble, something reverent. She saw Lord Ashley beside her, his face jubilant, jaw glinting under the lights.
This wasn’t in the plan. If Hephzibah had been rumbled, if the actresses weren’t being directed, if Mrs. Bone’s “policemen” were caught out... Risks began hurtling toward her like comets. She had no contingencies for this.
I need Mrs. King, thought Winnie. I need Mrs. King right now.
Hephzibah stayed with the princess’s people. There was nowhere else she could go. The viscountess in the orange turban, the lady-in-waiting who’d ushered the princess from her motor car, had eyes everywhere. She sniffed a little as the crowd edged closer.
“I’m not sure Her Royal Highness can meet all these people,” Hephzibah heard her say to Miss de Vries.
These people were the next-door neighbors: wool makers and soap manufacturers and bankers. Men dressed as centurions, their wives dressed as Celtic queens. The better class of guest, the ministers and members of the diplomatic corps and the bishops, were all staying at the far end of the terrace. They feasted contentedly on the grape tower, knowing the princess would be steered in their direction.
Miss de Vries flushed, cutting the introductions short. “We must show you the entertainments, ma’am.”
The princess allowed herself to be maneuvered firmly toward the gardens, people goggling at her from the stairs. The lady-in-waiting with the orange turban coughed incessantly into her gloved hand.
You need to take control of this, Hephzibah instructed herself, before something goes wrong. “Darling,” she said, reaching for the orange turban. “Here you are, at last.”
The lady-in-waiting jumped, startled. She half turned, her passage obstructed by Hephzibah’s skirts. She peered upward, eyes bleary. Hephzibah towered over her, jeweled, powdered, bewigged.
The viscountess frowned. “Who are you?” she said.
That beautiful golden-eyed footman was nearby. He cast a sharp look in Hephzibah’s direction. “Lady Montagu,” he said, voice clear. “May I help you through the crowd?”
The lady in the orange turban sighed. “Lady...? Oh, Bea,” she said. “For heaven’s sake. You startled me.” She coughed again, fingers fluttering for a handkerchief.
Hephzibah felt her lungs tightening.
“D’you know, someone said: you’ll never guess, it’s too funny, Beatrice Montagu is going to this party. I told them I didn’t believe it. I said Bea Montagu hasn’t gone to a ball once this century, and she’s hardly likely to go to this one.” She linked arms with Hephzibah. “But here you are. What possessed you? Was Charles being too infuriating? Heavens, look at your costume. I wouldn’t have recognized you. When in Rome, I suppose. Aren’t these people simply too marvelous? Such a lot of vultures.”
Hephzibah squeezed the viscountess’s arm in return. “Wait till you see what’s coming,” she whispered. “We’ll be talking about it for years.”
“Will we really?” said the viscountess with a sigh, tucking her handkerchief into her sleeve. “How tedious.”
To the garden they went.
I’m doing it, Hephzibah realized, her courage rising. I’m winning here.
She wondered about sending for another champagne.
Winnie was searching the gardens for Mrs. King. She could hear the guests talking among themselves, ogling the proceedings.
“Did they really have the circus in ancient Egypt?”
“Oh, naturally! And Punch and Judy shows.”
“And clowns!”
“And tightrope walkers!”
“Don’t be beastly. It must have cost her the earth.”
“Ashley’s footing the bill for that now.”
“Quite right.”
“Quite ghastly, you mean. Can you imagine that girl running Fairhurst? Poor Lady Ashley.”
“Poor nothing. Just think of the weekend parties. The trapeze artists! The dancing girls!”
“The camels, darling!”
They broke off into laughter, reaching for more wine.
“Oi,” said a voice at Winnie’s ear.
She turned and started. Behind her, eyes narrowed, stood one of Mrs. Bone’s men. His jaw was clenched. Winnie backed behind the marquee. “What are you doing?” she muttered.
“We’re off.”
“What?”
“We’re getting out. This place is swarming with peelers.”
Winnie looked around, searching for Mrs. King. “Nonsense,” she said. “Everything is simply fine. Go back inside.”
“Can’t.” He nodded at the distant figure of the princess, moving slowly through the crowd. “Not now she’s here.”
“Then you’ll need to improvise.” Winnie held his stare. “You don’t leave this house until Mrs. King gives the word.”
For a second she feared he might refuse to obey her, might tell her to go and fetch Mrs. King. I would if I could, she thought desperately.
But then he nodded again, a quick, smart little duck of the chin. “Yes, ma’am.”
Equals, Winnie said to herself, almost in disbelief. We’re all equals...
Mrs. King was frog-marched downstairs by Lockwood’s clerks. “I can see myself out,” she said angrily, shaking their hands off her arm.
“Mr. Lockwood said—”
“Hang Mr. Lockwood,” said Mrs. King. But they steered her through the front hall, avoiding a huge crowd of guests that seemed to be processing toward the garden. Mrs. King couldn’t see who had arrived. She felt the mob rolling, not steered, not marshaled. Evidently, Hephzibah was busy elsewhere. A sudden fear pulled on Mrs. King’s heart. She was required here: to direct things. But she needed to get to Alice first.
Dunce, she thought, directing all her anger on herself. Idiot. Even the Janes had sensed a risk with Alice, but not her. She was incapable of understanding other people’s feelings. She always had been.
It was clear at once what had happened. She’d seen the way Alice had bent her head toward Miss de Vries, yearning toward her, fixing that awful, splendid gown. She’d been snared. Alice wasn’t a canary. She was a mouse, right in the trap. Lockwood was sizing her up. Mrs. King’s instincts told her everything she needed to know. She felt sick, frightened.
“Off you go,” said the clerks, disposing of her on the front step, very nearly pushing her into the road. She didn’t talk back: she hurtled to the tradesmen’s entrance, trying to double back inside before they spotted her. This time it was harder to get in: there were crates of wine obstructing the door, waiters smoking. She had to push her way through the crowd of servants, speeding up the servants’ staircase, panting.
The sound of the orchestra grew duller as she reached the second floor. There was a door half-open, letting in a soft breeze. Mrs. King nudged it open with her toe.
Empty.
I should have planned for this, she thought. She should have made arrangements to extract Alice from the household’s clutches if needed.
Nothing mattered, Mrs. King thought, if Alice was lost. She’d abandoned Mother when she entered this house. Allowed her to be restrained, hidden away, forgotten—because it was easier, more convenient for everyone.
She wouldn’t let that happen to Alice, too. She refused—on her honor, as a sister, she refused.
“Winnie?”
Jane-two emerged from the shrubbery. The princess was up on the terrace. The fire-eaters were sending sparks into the sky to the sound of applause. Winnie had been circling the crowd of guests, searching for Hephzibah, for Mrs. King, for somebody who could agree what they should do.
“Good heavens,” said Winnie. “What are you doing in there?” She waved the answer away. “Never mind now. Have you seen Mrs. King?”
Jane-two frowned. “I have examined the lane. The policemen—the real policemen. They’re watching her.” She nodded across the garden, toward the princess. “Not the back gate. It’s a clear run to the road. We should launch the operation while we have the advantage.” She stared at Winnie, who was rooted to the spot. “Someone needs to give the order.”
Winnie looked at all those people thronging the garden, swaying dangerously near the edge of the Nile. Lights spilling from the ballroom, shapes whirling past the windows. Braziers being lit, and the fire-eater taking one last gulp of his flame, the crowd bellowing in delight. She saw candlelight flickering in the attic windows.
From the house, from every floor, she heard the chimes.
Midnight.
I have my voice, she thought.
“Then go,” she said.