Untitled (33 page)

   "No, not nasty like this. This cold slices right into you. We'd better get in the warm somewhere. How about that?"

   "As long as it's somewhere respectable."

   "I'm a respectable man, I am," he says. He squeezes her arm a little too tightly. "You wouldn't catch the likes of me taking advantage of young maids. I wouldn't be caught kissing one of them on the stairs."

   She makes herself laugh, though the wind sends a shiver of pain through her tooth. "People will hear," she hisses.

   "Who?" He stops and looks around. He's right. Anyone who didn't have to venture out must have stayed home today, and the few who are on the streets are scurrying along with their heads dipped against the wind.

   So they walk, a little faster than she would like, down the street, across to a road she doesn't know, and she hopes that wherever they're going it's somewhere close. In the cold his face looks harder, the angle of his chin more severe than she remembered.

   "Couldn't hardly believe it when you said you could get the afternoon off," he says, then he looks at her.

   "I'm in for it back at the house. It's put Mrs. Johnson's and Sarah's noses out of joint."

   "So why'd your mistress do it? Out of the goodness of her heart?"

   She's hurrying to keep up with him. Her heels hammer against the paving stones, and she listens to the empty sound of them. She wonders what she should say. She could tell him her mistress thought she deserved it from all the extra work she'd had—but what mistress ever paid attention to something like that? Still, she has no other explanation ready.

   She blurts out, "I've been run off my feet fetching for the widow; she's locked herself into her room and won't let me in. And I've got Price to care for, because she's taken to her bed."

   Beside her he slows and swings her around him until they're face-to-face. "Come on," he says. "They don't give you an afternoon off because you've been working so hard." He hooks a finger under her chin. The leather of his glove feels cold. For a moment they stand like that, and her heart leaps uncomfortably against her ribs.

   In the shadow of his hat his eyes move like fish underwater, crossing her face, quick. She lets her gaze slip from his eyes to his nose, his lips. She remembers their warmth and their surprising softness. She remembers how he kissed her gently, not greedily. His eyes are still on her face, and she wonders now if it's hardness she's seeing in them, or disappointment.

   There's snow in the air, sharp flakes blowing against her cheeks.

   "I'm sorry," she says.

   "Sorry?" He lifts his eyebrows and rubs his thumb against her chin. "What on earth are you sorry for?"

   "She's up to something. Mrs. Robert, I mean."

   "I don't—"

   "I'm supposed to tell her whatever I hear about Mr. Popham's household. That's why she wanted me to wait when I brought the letter, that's why I got an extra half day—I have to tell her whatever I hear from you."

   She turns her head away because this must mean the end of things for them. As for Mrs. Robert, what will she tell her? Anything— anything at all, for what does that matter now?

   He laughs. When she looks back she sees his head tipped back and his eyes narrow in delight. "Oh my Lord," he says, tucking her arm back under his. He's still laughing as he leads her along the street once more. "So you were supposed to let yourself be taken out by John the footman, or Jarman the butler? Was that the plan?"

   The pain in her tooth pulses like an ember being blown on. She stares down at the paving stones. Specks of fresh snow are caught between them. "Except I wouldn't have. I'd have told her no one asked. Then I saw you, and I thought it was such luck—"

   "So you were going to ask me all about Mr. Popham?"

   "No, no. It was just a chance to see you." She runs her tongue over the tooth, feels the warmth of it against her gum.

   They're close to the river now, and when she glances up she sees the balustrade along it, and the end of the bridge. Where tears have leaked onto her face her skin is icy.

   There's a road to cross, and more traffic here. Hansom cabs, an omnibus, a cart carrying coal, a gentleman on a tall, delicate-legged bay horse.

   Teddy turns to her. "What's she up to, then?"

   "I don't know." She doesn't look at him but into the road, at the backside of the horse as it walks away.

   "You must have some idea." He touches her face, rubbing away what's left of the tears. He's taken off his glove to do it, and his finger is warm. "What have you got yourself caught up in, Jane?" He says it so softly that the wind nearly pulls away the words before she catches them.

   She shakes her head, then leans her face into his hand.

        
O
f course they had to invent details. Over cups of tea and buns they laughed into their hands. Soon her tooth stopped hurting, and the cold wind and snow just beyond the window were forgotten. Teddy said she could tell her mistress that his master drinks too much port, and has a liking for quail eggs, and is scared of his old mother. She giggled, and let him rest his hand on hers. But now that she's standing on the hearth rug and Mrs. Robert is looking at her with her face all closed up in annoyance, Jane wishes she'd got something more from him.

   "That's all you found out?"

   She sniffs. Being out in that wind has given her the start of a cold, she's sure. "I don't know what you want, ma'am. I let him talk and tried to remember it all."

   "Who comes to his house? Who are his associates? What are his bad habits?"

   "I tried, ma'am. But I didn't want him to get suspicious."

   With a snort Mrs. Robert turns away. "I'm sure you succeeded on that score, at least."

       
A
few streets away a valet is standing by his master's chair. His master is in a freshly ironed shirt, for he's going out tonight.

   "What sort of odd qualities?" he asks his valet.

   "Apparently she is able to spot a forged letter from the ink."

   His master slaps his leg. "Ha," he lets out. "Is that so? That's extraordinary."

   "There's more, sir. She's so suspicious of her brother-in-law's widow that she's got this maid to spy on her."

   "What's that?"

   "From what I understand, sir, she is not convinced that the young lady is who she says she is, and other evidence is lacking. Of course, unless she is exposed she will inherit Mr. Henry Bentley's estate and collect his life insurance."

   "An impostor? Extraordinary!" He chews at his moustache. "Well, well," he says, "you've done very well."

   "Thank you, sir. She's a clever woman, by the sound of it—clever enough to ask that maid to spy on you."

   His head jerks up at that. "Good Lord, do you think she suspects?"

   "No, no, sir. But the coincidence is extraordinary."

   He stretches out his legs and smiles at himself in the mirror. "Well, I think we shall have to oblige her with a little information, shan't we, Edward?"

Chapter 28

T
his morning Mina starts at every knock at the door. Surely it is a messenger with a note from Popham, agreeing to what she suggested. She will pay him back, every penny he was swindled out of. Isn't that reasonable? Of course, it cannot be all at once. She does not have such a sum saved; she will have to find it, here and there. Every month she will give him what she can. She does not ask for understanding, only for his patience.

   Will it work? She's not sure. He may not want to be reasonable. She landed a blow to his heart, but also to where he was most vulnerable—to his pride. His mother wanted him to marry well, yet he chose her, a young thing with money and a certain kind of beauty, but with a family history that was—didn't he notice?—suspiciously curtailed. He'd had to argue, to convince the old lady that she wouldn't bring shame on their family, that this was a good match.

   He didn't suspect a thing until too late, and then he was left with no fiancée, and nothing to show for the investments his fiancée's father had encouraged him to make. If he hadn't been so greedy he wouldn't have bought so many shares, and if he hadn't been so keen to boast he wouldn't have persuaded his cousin and friends into parting with their money too. So wasn't his undoing of his own making? Wasn't he a fool to want to believe that a silver-rich mine so many thousands of miles away existed? Wasn't he a fool to think he could have a woman like her?

   Mina looks at herself in the dressing-table mirror. Dark eyes that catch the black of her dress, a pointed chin, delicate cheeks, over her forehead hair in curls that catch the light. Not a doll's face—she never had that. A face that can be charming all the same, at least when she smiles. And when she doesn't? She leans forward now with a frown. When she doesn't, she looks like a woman who thinks too much for most men's liking.

   His kisses were soft in an unpleasant way; they made her think of blind, underground creatures feeling their way with their formless bodies and their awful wetness. When he pushed his lips onto hers it felt as though part of him was seeping into her, dirtying her, and each evening when he left she'd rush upstairs and rinse out her mouth and wash her face and ears and neck, everywhere he'd left his traces.

   It doesn't do to dwell on all of that. She stands and brushes her hands down her dress to smooth it, then crosses to the door. Her face is blank, her chin slightly raised, ready to meet whoever might be in the corridor—one of the servants; perhaps even the widow. Since she and Robert confronted her, the widow has been shut up in her room—in Henry's room. Trays of food have been left at her door. She is indisposed, Mina has explained to the servants, but she is certain they do not believe her. After all, it is evident that the widow has not taken to her bed. Her footsteps can be heard crossing and recrossing the floor, and once or twice the sound of crying has crept into the corridor.

   Mina steps out of the bedroom. No one in sight, no sound. The floorboards creak as she makes her way along the carpet to the widow's door. She doesn't press her ear to it, simply stands and waits for what she might hear. This morning there is nothing. Has the widow gone? Now that she has been found out, has she fled before Henry's money could be hers? Does she know that Robert has gone to Scotland Yard this morning, and that she will no longer be able to hide?

   Mina leans her head a little nearer the door.

   A creak, as though the widow is on the other side, also listening.

* * *

You have to develop a certain gait to carry a tray up stairs without tripping on the hem of your skirt. Lift your knee, kick your foot out and lift yourself up, over and over. One of these days, thinks Jane, she is going to fall. She has imagined it so many times that it has come close to taking on the solidity of a memory: her foot catches, she feels the tug of fabric as she tries to step forward, but with a tray in both hands—a heavy tray, loaded with a teapot and extra hot water—she cannot reach out to save herself. She falls forward as the tray tilts and the crockery slides onto the stairs. It shatters, and she lands on the sharp edge of a stair amongst shards of porcelain shiny in the spilt water.

   Does she dream of such accidents? Maybe, because often as she falls asleep her foot kicks out and her arms flail, waking her. Certainly she has seen such accidents. In the orphanage a tall scarecrow of a girl tripped one day and fell on her face. She broke three teeth, all of them in the front. There was another who was working in the laundry and slipped on the wet floor and landed with her head against the copper. Jane heard it—that thud that meant the end for that girl, because she was never quite right afterwards; could barely even say her own name.

   This corridor is brighter than the one outside the servants' rooms, but still it is gloomy with the doors closed. She knows her way without looking, and as soon as she has tapped on the door she bends to set the tray on the floor. No chamber pot waiting today, no empty coal scuttle. She's still wondering what this means when the door swings open. Brightness floods over her and into the corridor. There stands the widow against the light, her hair pulled back, her eyes blinking fast, looking for all the world like a fledgling on the brink of taking off into the world.

   Jane straightens up. "Ma'am?"

   "My dress," she says. She turns her back, because of course it is not fastened.

   "Yes, ma'am." She carries the tray into the room.

   Outside a weak sun is shining through low clouds. Even this light is shockingly bright. It turns brilliant the roses woven into the carpet, the green cover of the neatly made bed, the underclothes folded on top of two black dresses.

   The widow has thrown high the sashes of both windows. It is cold in here, a brisk cold alive with the smell of smoke from outside. Jane sets down the tray on the dressing table, then she fiddles with the cup, the bowl of sugar, the plate of eggs and bacon, because more than anything she wants to take in this sense of life going on outside. The hollow clop of horses' feet, the rumble of wheels, the echoing shout of a man selling pies. She leans towards the window. Out there the world looks fresh. Windows glinting, the walls of the houses opposite as white as laundered sheets and, down below, the outlines of people and horses as sharp as though they've been cut out with scissors.

   The widow is still waiting. In the long gap of her open dress, the light catches the paleness of her underwear, her skin. Jane pulls the sides together and fastens them. She wonders—has the widow been in her corset since she shut herself away? How else did she get herself into it? But this lady seems to have more cunning than she'd ever have guessed. She has lied to the Bentleys—is lying still, no doubt. Now that she is so close to making off with whatever money Mr. Henry left, she knows the Bentleys no longer trust her. Who'd have thought that a pale young thing like her could be capable of so much?