It won't take long to reach Paris, and Mina imagines Marie turning the key in the metal letterbox in the foyer and picking it out. A few minutes later, at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a
tar
tine
of bread and jam, she'll read it. Then she and Madame Pépin will start packing—the dresses, the shoes and hats, the books, the papers, the framed pictures, dusting off the trunks and arranging everything inside. What might slide out? She has been so careful, but she never anticipated other hands touching everything she left behind.
What is worse, she never imagined that it would all follow her here to London.
T
he steam has left the letter damp. The crispness is gone from its folds and it lies on the counter like a dying thing.
Sarah's head appears around the scullery door. "Hurry up with it," she snaps.
"It's not in English," Jane tells her.
"Just copy it, for God's sake."
So Jane bends her head back over it. She runs one finger under the words and says the letters out loud to write them with her pencil. Her hands are alive with nervousness, and the pencil slides around awkwardly. Fortunately there is not much to the letter. It doesn't take her long to finish, and she folds it back into its envelope before slipping the copy and the pencil into her pocket. Then she hurries out into the kitchen where Elsie is chopping potatoes, and up the back stairs. On the landing Sarah is waiting.
"Let's be having it, then," she says.
When Jane hands her everything she clicks her tongue. "No no, just the copy." She plucks it away and heads up the stairs.
Jane still has Mina Bentley's letter in her hand. The flap is open and crinkled. "What about this?" she hisses.
"Better close it up and put it back on the table for Mr. Cartwright to take out," she says. "And be quick about it if you don't want to get caught."
Chapter 15
T
he four-wheeler lurches, and the two women facing him sway. From outside come a few indistinct words of song, and they both glance out the window, then away again, for the singer is a drunk idling his way up the street and his song is not fit for ladies' ears.
They pass a public house, a butcher's, a costermonger pushing a barrow of apples and another stirring chestnuts over coals—a dark, delicious smell. Not one of them has said a word, for what is there to say? The solicitor read the will. Everything to be left to Robert— he felt Mina's head shift slightly, saw the widow's twist towards him and her mouth open—except in the case of Henry having married, when everything should go to his widow or, if he had children, a third to his widow and two-thirds to his children. Of course, as the solicitor explained, these provisions do little more than abide by the law, for his marriage would have revoked any existing will.
Was that the moment to mention doubts? To demand proof of Henry's marriage? But Robert didn't say more than "I see." To have brought up such questions with the widow sitting beside him, and the solicitor peering at him over his papers—to suggest that the widowed Mrs. Bentley was an impostor—would have appeared ridiculously melodramatic. He could imagine the solicitor's pitying look: here was a poor fool muddling real life with the sensational stories sold in railway stations.
So Robert simply listened to the solicitor explain everything to the widow: he would ascertain Henry's property; he would contact Henry's insurance company, as he had insured his life for fifteen thousand pounds, with the money going to his brother or—Henry was nothing if not a careful man—to his widow and children, should he have the fortune to be so blessed. Of course, it might take a little while for the insurance money to be paid. And then—then there should be no problem. A death certificate had been provided, after all.
The widow's skin had flushed before turning pale, then she'd leaned to one side as though she might fall from her chair. When it was over Robert had taken her by the arm and followed Mina through the doorway. As they'd passed into the foyer with its dark panelling and potted aspidistras, he'd glanced at Victoria. Her chin was held a little too high for a recent widow—wasn't it?—and her mouth had a curious flatness to it, as though she were holding part of herself down.
"I've forgotten something," he'd blurted, "one moment."
He'd lifted the widow's arm from his to Mina's, turned quickly before he could catch the look on his wife's face, and strode back into the office. What had he said? Something like, "If one were to dispute the marriage, how would one . . ." The solicitor had stared up at him from behind his glasses as Robert laid out his doubts like playing cards—the suddenness of the marriage, the fact that Henry had informed no one, the absence of any proof so that, in effect, they were simply taking the word of this young woman that she had ever been Henry's wife. Each one sounded ridiculous. Yet to have left that office without a protest, he could not do that.
As for the solicitor, he'd sucked at his lips. "Mr. Bentley," he'd said, "you will have to act quickly and discreetly. If the insurance company gets wind of this . . . well, need I say more?" And he lifted both hands. "Further, you are in a position that requires the utmost delicacy. On the one hand, if you have suspicions you must act on them, and report them to the authorities. On the other, you risk compromising the character of a young woman it is your duty to protect at a time when she is most vulnerable. I wish you the judgment to act appropriately."
That, he realizes now, was a warning. He glances at where the widow sits, the cold light coming through the carriage window hard across her face. He must be careful if he is to come out of this without looking a fool or—worse yet—a blackguard. He finds himself studying her. She is ill at ease, looking out the window as though she is forcing herself to appear relaxed, her gloved fingers curled together in her lap.
"You will need someone to advise you," he says at last.
She looks at him. "Advise me?"
"Most women," he says, "have not had experience in handling their finances. After all—" he leans forward so that his elbows rest on his knees "—Henry's money must ensure your future. Properly managed, fifteen thousand pounds should be sufficient to keep you in comfort."
He watches her, but already her eyes have slid away to the window. Is she avoiding his gaze? Maybe, he thinks. Or maybe she thinks him insensitive. He looks over at Mina, but she gives him no clue as to whether he is handling this badly. No, instead she gives him a flash of a smile, and in response he pushes his foot against hers, hidden by her skirts.
The widow says, "When the time comes, you can be sure I'll be careful in how I manage Henry's money."
"Your money," says Robert gently. He watches her: her shining eyes, her jet earrings, the ghostly paleness of her face between the black of her hat and her coat. There is something different about her now, a determination behind her words that wasn't there when they set out for the solicitor's office only an hour and a half ago. Then she'd sat with her black-laced handkerchief pressed up against her nose and made noises that were half coughs, half sobs, that he found difficult to bear.
"You'll have to be wary," he tells her. "You're young, and you're suddenly financially independent. You will need—"
He catches a movement—Mina, raising a black-gloved hand to her mouth. He isn't sure if she is telling him to be more cautious. She holds his eyes for a moment, then her foot moves away from his. She leans towards Victoria. "Everything's so new to you, including your circumstances."
The widow looks at the two of them. "You don't have to trouble yourselves. I'm quite able to take care of myself. In fact, I doubt I shall have to impose on you for much longer."
"My dear, you don't have to be in a hurry." Mina lays a hand on hers. "You have a home at Mother's for as long as you would like. I'm sure Henry would have wanted us to take good care of you." Her voice is deep with compassion. Robert holds his breath and watches as the widow shifts on the seat before sliding her hand free.
"Thank you." Her mouth clamps shut and she stares off into the street again.
Mina catches Robert's eye. He coughs into his hand. "Mina's perfectly right. It is our—our
duty
—to look after you. Henry would have expected nothing less."
The carriage slows. Cursitor Road, and the horse's footsteps ring out on the stones. The widow shuts her eyes. From the way her mouth moves it seems she is praying. But no. When she looks at Robert and Mina a few moments later, she tells them, "I'll be leaving shortly. In a week at the most, I imagine."
"My dear, the insurance company won't have had time to pay you."
"I plan to keep Henry's solicitor informed of my address."
Mina takes her hand and keeps hold of it. "But where will you go? Will you return to India?"
Already the cab has stopped, and the carriage shifts as the driver climbs down.
She pulls her hand free. "India?" she repeats. "I haven't decided."
She does not say more. Instead, she lets Robert hand her down to the pavement, where she peers about her, as if on the lookout for something that hasn't yet come into view. Robert reaches back to give Mina his hand, then leads the way up the steps to the front door and rings the bell.
It is not Cartwright who answers, not Sarah. Instead it is the new maid, Jane, her face flushed, her chest heaving. "Sir," she starts. "Sir—you need to go straight upstairs. It's Mrs. Bentley."
I
n the end there was no need to hurry. She is dead. Price is kneeling by the bed with her face pressed into the blankets by her mistress's feet. The doctor is closing up his bag. "There was no hope," he says. "Even if I'd been called earlier, there would have been nothing I could have done."
Mina nods, and takes Robert's arm. He is shaking—the shock of it, the mounting up of death on death. "Come," she says to him gently. "My love, come and sit down."
"No." He pulls himself away and lifts both hands to his face. He stares out over the tops of his fingers at a world that has suddenly changed around him. It is too much. His brother gone, his mother too. He steps over to the window, where he closes his eyes, slowly, and keeps them closed.
The doctor pours water from a ewer into a basin and washes his hands. He is methodical, working up a lather, soaping each finger, rinsing not just once but twice. The floor creaks under Mina's feet as she picks a towel off the back of a chair and hands it to him. He gives her the smallest of smiles.
Then into the quiet breaks a high, haunting cry. Price. Price with her arms spread across the bed now, holding her mistress's feet through the bedclothes.
Mina lays a hand on her shoulder. "Calm yourself, please."
"My poor—my—my poor dear mistress. To meet her end like this—I was only out of the room a few minutes."
Mina bends close to her. She catches the smell of the woman's unwashed clothes, the cloying sickroom smell that hangs about her. "No one is blaming you," she says softly. "Now let Mr. Bentley grieve."
It does no good. Price falls to the floor, breathing hard. Soon she is sobbing, and lies on the carpet with her fingers pushed through her hair. Mina pulls at her arm, but the woman wrenches herself free. Is this grief, she wonders, or is it Price working herself up? "You must come with me. I insist. Your mistress would expect more of you than this."
Price twists at her feet as though in agony, and from her come noises like those of an injured dog. Mina can barely bring herself to touch her again, and when she does Price flings her hand away. Mina catches the doctor's eye. He comes forward and opens his bag.
"You'll have to hold her arm," he says, so she does. He fills a syringe and stabs the needle into the flesh of Price's forearm, though she thrashes and yells, her skirts riding up to show her dark stockings and her drawers.
Over by the window Robert turns. He was holding onto the curtains. Now he lets go. His face is grim. What choice is there but to step forward and grab Price by the ankles, to hold her fast until the doctor has finished? Then, when the needle has been put away and Price's yells are hoarse, Robert picks her up. She struggles and claws and kicks wildly. He comes close to dropping her until the doctor traps one foot, then the other, and between them they hold her like a calf at the county fair.
"Calm yourself, woman," the doctor yells. "You must calm yourself! You have no reason to carry on like this." Only then does she stop moving. She stares at him, at Mina, then closes her eyes and lets herself go limp, though surely whatever he gave her cannot have taken effect so quickly.
All this nonsense, thinks Mina, when what Price wants is pity. She hurries to the door and opens it. The doctor backs through it with Price's feet held high and her skirts sliding up her legs, and Robert follows with his arms looped under Price's. Perhaps Mina should go with them, but instead she shuts the door and leans against it.
She had forgotten about the widow. She is still in the room, by the bed, staring down at Mrs. Bentley's body.
"Victoria?" she says, and the widow looks up. Her eyes are large and glistening, not with tears, Mina thinks, but with anticipation.
Chapter 16
J
ane has to take the dusters outside to shake them. More snow has fallen, and it illuminates the area, reflecting back the glow of the street lamps and what light escapes the house's curtains. It's too cold to linger out here, so she's quick to snap each of them through the air. She looks about her—once already Teddy has surprised her, waiting for her at the railings, and they managed to steal a few minutes together before she heard Mrs. Johnson calling her back inside. This evening a movement up by the railings catches her eye. Someone standing close by, up in the street. Her eyes haven't adjusted to the dark but, as she watches, what appeared to be one body separates itself into two. One of them turns, and she sees the white of an apron and cap. The gate at the top of the steps squeals, and down comes Sarah. Jane looks past her. A dark coat, a tall hat. A large man hurrying away.