She took a small breath. To tell the truth would be to leave herself with no money at all between this strange household and ruin. So she said, "Two pounds. It's all I've got."
"You can give me your wages every month until you've paid me back the rest." Sarah gave a small smile, then laid a hand on Jane's shoulder. "All right?"
She could have said no. She could have gone downstairs and told Mrs. Johnson what she'd done and endured whatever punishment was her due: having to work on her half days off until she'd made amends; being sent away because, on her very first day, she'd failed the Bentleys. Instead she'd let Sarah help her gather the pieces of the tazza into a napkin and take them away.
In this cold bed, in this cold room, her relief now wears thin. Already she has resorted to deception again. And not only has she lied to Sarah, but worse still she's in her debt. She presses her cheek into the pillow. She remembers how Sarah's fingers closed over the two sovereigns, and the tightness she felt in her chest. Now she wishes she'd at least asked how much a new tazza would cost. All she has left is the half-sovereign, a sixpence, and a few pennies, and those she has hidden in a slip of paper at the bottom of her box.
It grieves her to think that she is spoiling her chances of doing well, as though Mrs. Saunders was right: with a mother like hers, who stole and murdered, she will have to fight her criminal tendencies.
Criminal tendencies.
She imagines them as shadows that slip out of her bodily self and take on a life of their own: a wanton self with rouged cheeks, a hard-eyed self with quick hands, a sneaking self that hides in the dark and glints viciously when it moves. Maybe she should have burnt the photograph of her mother that lies at the bottom of her box. Maybe it has set a curse upon her: her mother in her best hat with a feather drooping from it, her chin raised, one end of her mouth lifted. If you look carefully, there's a hardness to her eyes and faint lines around her mouth that suggest a cruel nature. Or is that a trick of the light? Still, it makes her afraid to look too closely at herself in the mirror.
It takes her a long time to fall asleep. Eventually, though, the shadows slip away and leave her in a dream: she is clearing a dining table so long that the candles at its far end look distant as stars.
Chapter 2
I
n a chair by the fire, Mina Bentley brushes her hair. She is still a young woman, a beautiful woman even, though there is something of the fox about her—in her nose, which is a little too sharp; in the point of her chin; in her hair, which glints orange in the glow of the fire and the candles that light this room.
This has long been a habit of hers—to end the day with a cup of tea and the strokes of a brush against her head. Except, until a few weeks ago, it was Marie who brushed her hair. Robert has told her to send up for Sarah, or for Price—what else is that woman, if not a lady's maid?—but she never has. What pleasure would there be in having that sour-mouthed woman wait on her? As for Sarah—she doesn't trust her. Sarah's eyes slide away at the wrong moments, and she has a tendency to tilt her head in a manner that is almost insolent. As it is, she has had no choice but to call her upstairs to fasten her into her dress every morning, to help her out of her dress each night, to bear away her soiled clothes and replace them with those that have been cleaned.
Tonight she sent Sarah away early to see to the new maid. An excuse. But better that than catching the way her eyes flit around the room. She is sure that Sarah takes advantage of the times when she is alone in here to rummage through her drawers, to try the lid of her jewelry box and her portable desk. And Mina has noticed her taking off up the area steps at odd times of the day—to post letters, apparently, or take a message to Beecher's about the meat. Always some explanation, given reluctantly because Mina is not the mistress of this household, she's not
the
Mrs. Bentley. She can see the servants' resentment in the way they stand so stiffly when she calls them and in the clipped way they reply to her. Ever since
the
Mrs. Bentley's seizure, they've been a law unto themselves—at least until she and Robert arrived.
Let them hate me then, she thinks. Just let them see who is going to win.
There is a click, a squeak of hinges as the door opens, and she turns. Robert. He comes over and rubs her shoulder, then presses a kiss against the side of her neck. He takes the brush out of her hands and runs it through her hair. "How's that?" he says.
"Delicious." She lifts her head a little, even though he presses too hard and the bristles scratch her scalp.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I was too abrupt." He stands against the side of the chair and she leans over so that her shoulder rests against his hip.
"You talk about it as though it wouldn't make any difference to me."
"Must we live the rest of our lives in France? Bertillon can't pay me for my work—sometimes I feel I should pay
him
for all the trouble he's taken with me." He sighs. "We've always known that your inheritance would only be enough for a few years." He pulls the brush through her hair again. "And we haven't been as careful as we might."
She glances up at him. Even in this soft light he looks tired out with worry—their money fast disappearing, his mother ill. She wants to cup his face in her hands and press her mouth against his—it will be all right, she wants to tell him, somehow, if only they can leave this city soon. Instead she turns towards the fire and says, "I've grown used to Paris. I feel at home there."
"As though the city I was brought up in can't be your home, too?" He gives a small laugh, then leans closer. "Is London really so dreary? You have it laid out at your feet—all the museums, the galleries. The shops, too. But you sit in the house, day after day."
"Not every day. And your mother—"
"She has Price to nurse her. Mrs. Longman has offered to take you around. She said so again tonight. She'd be only too happy to introduce you, and yet you stay home."
"It hardly seems worth it when we're only here a few weeks." She takes the brush from his hand and sets it down on the table beside her.
For a moment his hands hover, empty, then the weight of them settles on her shoulders. "If we stay you'll need friends like her."
"With your mother so ill, someone needs to keep an eye on the household."
"Oh Mina." He gives her a squeeze. "I'm certain the household runs itself. Mrs. Johnson and Cartwright have been here so long, is there much for you to do other than look over the menu?"
She presses her hands onto her knees. "There was that business with the housemaid, and a new one to be found." She takes a breath. "And no one had gone over the books in months. The bills are far higher than they should be. Servants can't be left to manage things without supervision. They get careless—after all, what does it matter to them how much the bill from the butcher is, or how much butter is being used? I've done what I can, but I'm not their mistress and they know that. It makes a difference, you know—it makes everything more difficult."
He bends so low that she feels his breath on the side of her neck. "Who'd have thought you'd turn into such a tyrant?" He kisses her just below the ear. "When Mother recovers she'll be grateful for all you've done, I'm sure. Plus you've smoothed the way for when Henry gets here."
She watches the flames shifting amongst the coals. "Then will we go home?"
His voice is low, his mouth close to her ear. "How much longer can we live there without an income? Mother can't help—she has barely enough to keep this place going."
"I know," she says gently, and turns her face to his. It is all she can see—the old-wood brown of his eyes, the thick arc of his moustache, the surprisingly delicate pink of his lips just beneath it. She lays a hand on his cheek, his moustache prickling her palm. "Robert," she says, "I do understand. But you could find yourself a position in France, surely." She slides her nose against his and lets her eyes close. "I think I would die here. I really do."
"Is London so bad?" He shifts his head a little, whispers. "Does it remind you of him? Is that it?"
Him. Her first husband. The man who haunts the edges of their marriage, because they barely speak of him.
She could tell him Y
es, that's it
, and they would not have this conversation again. But she can't bear to. To think about him, to mention him even—it conjures up the man and their life together. "It's not that. I've grown so used to Paris. Life here—it wouldn't be much of a life at all."
He laughs and stands straight. "I should be grateful you never took it into your head to move to Bombay, like Henry did. You'd be wearing a sari and eating curry three times a day, and I'd have a devil of a job to civilize you enough for London society."
She gives him a smile. "I'd have caused a sensation—and maybe you'd have rather enjoyed that."
"You are the most provoking woman I know."
"Maybe your brother's taken on all sorts of Indian ways. Maybe he's bringing an Indian servant or two with him."
"You don't know Henry. No wonder he's never found a woman to marry him—he's as inflexible as a cricket bat. I'm sure he demanded oxtail soup and suet pudding from his Indian cook, just as if he were at home." He sighs and walks over to the bed and sits on its edge. "I think it would be best if we stayed until he's settled in. Besides, Sir Jonathan is interested in my work. I should make the most of the opportunity. It may lead somewhere—he can get me into other prisons. The more research I do, the better."
"We agreed to stay six weeks at the most." She tries to keep her voice light, but it comes out strained.
"Darling, if it's not a matter of . . ." His voice hangs in the air. "I mean, if it's simply a matter of you feeling at home in Paris, it can't make a great difference if we stay here a little longer. And it would offer advantages, don't you think?" His voice slips away as she twists around to look at him. Her hair is still loose and falls around her shoulders. But her face has a severity to it, an expression that he has only rarely seen in the four years they have been married.
"I realize that it is not easy to live in another woman's household, even if she's sick and unable to manage it herself. I realize that you'd rather be anywhere than London. But I need to be here—and I need you at my side. What would I be without you?" His eyes hold hers for a moment, then he looks down at the carpet.
The start of a sigh leaves her mouth, but she's careful not to let him hear it. Instead she smiles. "My love, you are a terrible flatterer."
"Is that so bad?" He leans back onto the bed, his head propped on one hand.
She walks over to him. "You know that I can defend myself, don't you? I might even retaliate."
"I doubt it." He reaches for her hands and pulls her to him. "What weapons could you have hidden away?
She lets him draw her down onto the bed on top of him, and she laughs.
"Oh my darling," he says into her ear, "how I wish I'd been the first to find you." Then he presses his lips into the soft skin under her chin and licks it longingly.
There is a knock, a subdued if businesslike
rat-a-tat-tat
. Barely do they have time to sit up, to swing their feet to the floor, when the door opens. Cartwright, his face stiff, his eyes fixed on Robert's as though he cannot bear to understand how they came to be sitting on the bed together. "Sir?" he says. "I have finished locking up. Will you be needing anything else tonight?"
Chapter 3
I
n her fitful dreams she has loaded trays with plates and glasses and heavy tureens, straining her arms against their weight, on and on so that when Sarah wakes her at six o'clock, she is as tired as if she has worked all night.
The candle throws startling shadows against the walls of the stairway. Down she walks, candle in one hand, chamber pot in the other. Her boots thud against the wooden steps and she wonders—should she have waited to put them on until she got downstairs? Can the Bentleys hear every footfall, and will they complain? She's already late, what with having had no time to unpack her box the night before and trying to find her dress and an apron and a clean pair of stockings by the shifting light of this small candle.
Her bladder is tight and painful. She couldn't bring herself to crouch over her chamber pot again while Sarah watched from her bed. The pressure makes her go a little faster, but she doesn't know these stairs, and going around the corner, her heel catches on the edge of a riser—she stumbles, wax drips onto her fingers, the chamber pot tilts and sloshes. Just in time she steadies herself against the wall. To have fallen—she imagines the pot tumbling from her hands, tipping its contents down the stairs, breaking apart with a crash that wakes the whole household—what humiliation! She stretches her fingers to loosen the wax hardening on them, then, despite the burning urge in her crotch, puts down her feet as gently as she can, one step after the other, down one flight after the next of unfamiliar stairs, all the way to the sudden hardness of the basement's stone floor. From the kitchen she hears the scrape of a chair pushed back. Someone is up. Someone who coughs hard and long. She creeps away down the dark corridor, all the way to the water closet at the end. And there, in the tiny, dank room, she lifts her skirts and settles herself onto the seat with a flood of relief.
Afterwards there's nowhere to leave the emptied chamber pot except in the darkness under the stairs, so she pushes it out of sight. Later, she'll carry it back upstairs. Later, whenever that might be.
In the kitchen she finds Elsie crouched at the stove, breathing life into a sickly flame. The light shifts over her bony face. She looks as though she has never had enough to eat. Next to the table waits a cinder pail and a housemaid's box.