The tea is strong and barely sweet at all. Its sourness clings to her tongue. She blows on it though it isn't hot, just for something to do rather than look at the women around her. They're talking—about a butcher's boy who's been caught thieving, and his sweetheart who lives next door, poor thing, and whose mistress won't let her out of the house now, not even on her half day off.
When footsteps come thudding down the stairs they disperse like startled rabbits—the scullery maids back to their work out of sight, the cook to the stove. The door swings open. It is a butler with a shock of unruly yellow hair and a jacket a little too tight across the shoulders, his shoes loud across the floor. Strange, that, thinks Jane—a heavy-footed butler. He tugs off his jacket and sits at the end of the table. With his eyes on Jane he says, "What's this, then?"
She opens her mouth, but it is the cook who answers. "Delivering a message from her mistress. Has to wait to give it to the master herself."
"Does she now?" He taps his fingers on the edge of the table. "Well, how about that. Most of the master's acquaintances use Her Majesty's postal service if they are unable to call in person. Is your mistress familiar with the postal service?"
Is an explanation required of her? Jane isn't sure. What kind of servant would talk about Mrs. Robert like this? And what kind of a servant is she to sit here without a word in her mistress's defense? But what can she say when she isn't even sure why she has to deliver the message to the master himself ? Is it simply to give her a reason to sit here and do as Mrs. Robert told her—to drink what she is given, to make herself
useful
by being free on her half day if she is asked? Who is to ask her, though? Certainly not this butler.
What is left of her tea has turned cold and she has not been offered more, though Fanny has poured a cup for the butler. He sips it loudly and watches Jane from over the rim. "Who," he says finally, "is your mistress?"
"Mrs. Robert Bentley, sir."
"Mrs. Robert Bentley? Who is this Mrs. Robert Bentley?"
"She's lately from France, sir."
"Ah, a French lady."
"No, sir. She's an English lady."
"Ah." He sets down his cup. "Indeed."
Somehow he implies that this is not quite as it should be—the thrusting out of his lips, the widening of his eyes. A moment later those eyes of his shift from Jane to the door, and it is lucky for her that they do, for there, hair slicked back, his jacket sharply pressed, stands Teddy. He catches sight of her and seems to falter. Then he collects himself and says, "Mr. Jarman—do you have a visitor?"
"A young person with a message for the master." He lifts his eyebrows as though there is something implausible about this story.
"Ah." Teddy comes forward, eyes hard on Jane's. "Very good. You won't have long to wait, miss. Mr. Popham is due back shortly, then I'll take you up to him." He gives a curt nod, then looks about him as if unsure what comes next.
Jane grips the edge of the table, says softly, "Thank you."
After he has taken off back upstairs she picks up the cold cup. Although it chills her hands, she lifts it to her lips and hides her smile in it. What luck, she thinks, what incredible luck. Mrs. Robert's order can be filled more pleasantly than she ever expected: she and Teddy can have an afternoon to themselves.
But even before she has put the cup back down her smile has fled. It cannot just be luck. The chances are too remote. No, she tells herself, there is something else going on here. She pushes the cup away. Is it her imagination, or can she feel the coldness of unfriendly eyes on her? She glances around. The butler is watching the cook, the cook is busy at the stove, and the maid is nowhere in sight. Still, as she waits for Teddy to come back, she cannot rid herself of the discomforting sensation that someone is spying on her.
Chapter 24
A
ll afternoon he's been shut away making changes to his lecture— there has been no time to confront the widow, no time to think about it even, and now as he dresses he considers when it should be done. Will she flee while he is out tonight, giving his lecture? Has she sensed a shift in the atmosphere of the household? There could be something in their demeanor that has shifted, ever so slightly, but enough to alert her. A ladies' companion, passing herself off as a lady! As if his brother would marry such a person! Why on earth she confessed, to the maid of all people—what luck that the maid told Mina. But then, Mina has taken care to be kind to her.
Tomorrow, he decides. And they must take the widow by surprise. And then—then she will renounce all claim on Henry's property, and leave. How could she not?
There's a knock at the door—Cartwright with a salver, and a letter on it. A letter from Danforth. He takes it, gives Cartwright a cursory "Thank you," and puts the letter on the mantelpiece. His collar is too stiff and rubs against his throat, but it is too late now to change again. "Bloody thing," he mutters. In the mirror he looks absurd: collar and shirt, tie knotted under his chin, legs bare—scrawny pale things like a chicken's. He snatches up his trousers and sits on the bed to pull them on. He scrapes a hand through his hair fast before turning to the door. He hesitates—the letter. No time to read it now, but still, he crosses the room and folds it into his pocket. He'll have time for it later.
It sits in his pocket in the darkness of the cab, in the bright, echoing hallway as Sir Jonathan's secretary escorts him to the lecture room. It must have shifted, for when he takes the chair that the secretary—Stallybrass—pushes forward for him, its corner digs into the soft flesh of his thigh. He presses a hand against it, listening as Sir Jonathan fumbles through his introduction, and to the soft pattering of applause that follows. Then he must stand at the lectern and read from his notes, glancing down at his audience, noticing the door swing open for a latecomer, resting his finger next to one point he feels he must come back to, but forgetting when a man in the front row loudly coughs into his hand.
Afterwards he answers questions, leaning forward as though that will help him through a tangled enquiry about measurement techniques, resting his hand on the letter every now and again through his trousers. His questioner nods—indeed many in the audience are nodding encouragingly—and he touches the letter again as he tells them that very soon, the benefits of anthropometry over dactylography will become dramatically evident. Of course they are intrigued, and he cannot help saying more—a dangerous criminal, an arrest imminent—then he lifts his hands and protests that he is in danger of jeopardizing the whole case and must stop there.
There is a press of people with more questions, and Stallybrass sniffing at his side and only belatedly rescuing him to lead him to where Sir Jonathan waits. Dinner at Sir Jonathan's club, a hansom back to Cursitor Road, and he might just as well have left the damned letter on the mantelpiece, because there is no opportunity to open it until he is back home. Thankfully, the widow is upstairs in her room, having excused herself with a headache.
The end of the evening is delicious in her absence. At least Mina knows better than to question him when he drops into his chair and rubs his brows. She asks Cartwright for a brandy for him, and sits quietly on the other side of the fire as he props his feet on the fender and lets his head sink back. It occurs to him that he and Mina have become an echo of his parents. Him in his father's chair, brooding; Mina with a book in her lap—not sewing as his mother would have, but silent and watchful nonetheless. He waits for the brandy, then allows himself a long sip before he sets down the glass and slides a finger under the edge of the envelope.
Having spent the evening in his pocket, the envelope is no longer crisp. The paper tears softly under his finger, and he pulls out the letter. He is so eager that he has to stop himself, force himself back to the start, read slowly enough to take in what Danforth has written. The damned man takes most of a page to get to the point. Indeed, he seems not to want to get to it at all, because the suspicious Vilaseca's ear length and head diameter are so different from those of the murderous Villanova that there is no chance they are the same man. Vilaseca is, apparently, merely a rich Argentinean.
"Robert?"
He looks up.
Mina has her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders, her face pale above it. "Bad news, darling?"
He stares back at the letter and the dark sprawl of Danforth's handwriting. "Only the dashing of my hopes." He glances up and she seems to flinch away from his gaze. "Danforth," he explains quickly. "Danforth and his plans for glory. Now we're both to look like fools, thanks to him."
"He made a fool out of you?"
He folds the letter. "No. I believe I did that myself."
Chapter 25
I
t would not do to bring the matter up at dinner, when Cartwright and Sarah are in and out with trays and decanters every few minutes. Yet, Robert thinks, when else can they be assured that they will not be interrupted, their conversation not overheard, or any cries or shouts or frantic flights up the stairs not noticed? Leaving the house on a pretext when they are still in mourning would be unseemly, and so they have no choice but to seat themselves in the drawing room and to wait for Sarah to bring in the tea things, and for Mina to tell her, "That'll be all for now."
From the way Sarah raises her eyebrows ever so slightly, Robert suspects she will go no farther than the other side of the door. Even though he feels ridiculous, he waits a few moments after she's gone, then checks the hallway. Empty, but he catches the distant patter of footsteps going down to the kitchen.
The widow sits too stiffly to be at ease. She must, he thinks, know that something is afoot. He coughs and settles into the chair nearest the fire, and looks to Mina. She merely nods back as though, in her opinion, the time could not be better for him to begin.
"Victoria," he says, then coughs again. "Victoria, it has come to my attention—"
Her face swings towards him. "Yes?" she says quickly.
"Well." He pauses. He licks his lips and stares back at her, his words lost.
"What he means," says Mina, "is that we want to assure you that you are amongst friends." She sits forward a little, as though about to divulge a secret. "Please remember that. But in return we expect you to be our friend too."
The widow looks about her, then smiles uncertainly. "Haven't I been? If I have done something—"
"It is more a matter of what you haven't done. You haven't told us the whole truth, have you? About who you are."
It is remarkable, thinks Robert, that an accusation can sound so very charming. He glances at Mina, at her eyes so dark and welcoming, and the slight tilt to her head that somehow suggests that if there has been a deception, it can be cleared up with no unpleasantness.
The way the widow holds her hands together in her lap, you could be forgiven for thinking that her wrists were already manacled together, thinks Robert. Her mouth pulls tight, ready to ask
What?
or
Why? B
ut she seems unable to get out any word at all.
Mina turns her attention to the table between them, and to the teacups. She fusses with them, pouring milk and tea, spooning in sugar. Every few moments she looks up at the widow, and the silence of the room stretches wider. Then she lifts a saucer and the cup on it, and passes it to Victoria. "Why don't we begin with an account of your recent employment?" she says, and gives a little smile.
The widow appears unable to help herself—she takes the cup because it has been handed to her. It rattles unsettlingly. She tries to rest it on the black silk of her dress. It tilts and slops a little tea into the saucer, so she raises it—at an alarming angle—and sets it down on the arm of the chair. For a second it hangs there. Then the saucer slips, the cup overturns in the air, tumbling down to the hearth, where it shatters in a hiss of tea on hot coals.
Robert starts forward, though there is nothing he can do. He opens his mouth. He's ready to call for Sarah or Jane to clear up the mess. Mina, though, sits calmly stirring her tea. "And so?" she says. "Are you prepared to meet the kindness"—she glances at Robert, who nods— "the kindness that you must admit you have been shown here, by clearing up the matter of upon whom our kindness has been bestowed?"
The widow does not cover her face with her hands, or turn away. Her breathing is suddenly loud and wet, and when she blinks tears hurry down her face. "I meant no harm."
"But you are not exactly what you appear to be."
"What would you have thought of me? You, with your dresses from Paris, and . . . and that
bearing
that so much is made of. I knew you'd look down on me." She snaps her mouth closed and swallows. "I can't help who I am. My parents didn't put stock in accomplishments. They wouldn't have sent me to school over here even if they could have afforded to. Do you understand? They left because they hated what England had become. They wanted to do God's work the way Our Lord would have done it. And they did—I believe they did."
"They were missionaries?"
The widow uses the back of her hand to wipe away a tear hanging from her chin. "We rarely saw anyone but Indians. We lived high in the hills. I wish I were still there—everything was better there!" She gulps and lets her eyes close.
"Where are they now?"
"With God," she whispers. "With God these last two years." She looks into the fire. "Cholera is a terrible disease. Dozens of people from the village—my parents, my sister. Even me. But I survived. They took me to a hospital, and after that, it was all over. They were dead. I couldn't go back on my own—what would I have done?"
Mina lifts one hand to shield her face from the heat of the fire. "So what did you do?"