A Spy in the House (15 page)

But — Mary blinked and nearly stumbled as a second possibility struck her: both could be involved in Thorold’s illegal business! Never mind who was leading whom. It too made sense. Michael brought Angelica delicate information from the counting house; they now had to modify their plans because of this projected holiday in Brighton; and they maintained a cool social distance before the family in order to prevent suspicion. And who better than Angelica to carry off an unlikely financial deal? It was the Scrimshaw Principle in action: nobody paid attention to women, especially women in subordinate positions. Michael was automatically suspect as Thorold’s right hand. Mrs. Thorold, whether invalid or cunning adulteress, was entirely uninterested in her family. But Angelica was perfect — the rich, idle daughter of a merchant with nothing in particular to accomplish and all the time in the world in which to do it. Her viciousness — the evidence of which scarred Mary’s left hand — seemed entirely logical, in this light. Really, Mary chided herself, as a member of the Agency, she was the last person who should underestimate a woman’s capabilities.

It was a long conference. Mary followed the cab on a meandering route through Kensington and around the parks. She contemplated a bold move —
Why, hello, Miss Thorold! Mr. Gray! Fancy running into you two,
together,
on Rotten Row!
— but decided against it. She needed more information before she could act.

After three-quarters of an hour, the hansom drew up. Michael jumped out, paid the cabman, and issued some firm instructions. Then the cab rattled off, presumably toward Cheyne Walk. Michael walked eastward. His hands were thrust in his trouser pockets, and everything about his posture suggested that he was satisfied with the outcome of the conference. Was it worth following him? What if he went somewhere else before returning to the counting house?

She followed him to the edge of St. James’s Park, where he suddenly consulted his watch, put it away hastily, and accelerated his pace southward. Mary relaxed. His meeting with Angelica had taken longer than anticipated; he now had to return to Thorold’s offices. It was a relief not to have her attention fixed so strenuously on a target. She sighed happily, looked about her, and realized that the soup-like miasma that clung so tenaciously in Chelsea had dissipated here in the park. It was a good omen.

It must have been a successful meeting: for the rest of the day, Angelica floated about the house in a cloud of good humor, playing scraps of Mozart and humming dreamily. It was a marked change from her usual sulks and tantrums.

The family had just finished dinner when Mr. Thorold cleared his throat. “My dears, I have something to say to you.”

The ladies put down their dessert spoons, and Michael took a gulp of wine.

“Town is most unpleasant at the moment,” said Thorold. “I am very concerned about the effects of the heat and the miasma on your health.” He paused to cast a worried glance at Mrs. Thorold. “I have arranged for your removal to Brighton, where the air is pure. You will depart on Saturday and remain there for the summer.”

His announcement met with perfect silence. Angelica, whom Mary watched from beneath her lashes, feigned surprise rather well. Her eyes went round, and she pressed one hand to her throat. At the foot of the table, Mrs. Thorold’s lips thinned into a flat line. The look she directed at her husband was dark with reproach — even anger.

Angelica cleared her throat. “This is very sudden, Papa. What are we to do in Brighton all summer?”

Thorold blinked. “Why, make a holiday, naturally. The house is situated in a charming location — so convenient for the seaside.” The general mood slowly began to seep into his consciousness, and he frowned slightly at Angelica. “Why, I thought you’d be pleased, my dear. I thought you quite enjoyed Brighton last year.”

Angelica drew a deep breath, as though summoning a reserve of patience. “I did, Papa. But that was for only a fortnight. And in any case, it’s such unexpected news — I must rearrange all my music lessons, and any number of social engagements if we are truly going away the day after tomorrow.”

Frustrated now, Thorold looked across the length of the table to his wife. His mouth drooped at her expression. “I — I suppose my good news is unwelcome to you, too, Mrs. Thorold?”

Mrs. Thorold sighed and began a long, meandering bulletin on her health.

Mary leaned back in her chair, her gaze focused on Angelica. The girl wasn’t surprised. In fact, she was watching her mother with amused expectation. Had she enlisted her mother’s help in trying to remain in town? How had she managed to manipulate the old lady without giving away her own interests?

Mary had a sudden, vivid memory of the coachman’s insinuations — suggestions she’d not had a chance to pursue earlier that day. If Brown was correct, Mrs. Thorold’s desire to remain in London was deeply personal. Perhaps Angelica hadn’t put her mother up to it after all. And it certainly gave a new interpretation to Thorold’s anxiety to remove the family from town, as well as his tense expression. Extracting his wife from a shameful entanglement? The Brighton plan suddenly seemed reasonable and urgent.

And if this was truly the case — if Mrs. Thorold was conducting an extramarital affair — her entire role as an invalid had to be a sham! How could she have enough energy for passion and deception while lacking vigor in all other aspects of her domestic life? Mary’s fingers tightened round the stem of her wineglass. A grand deception . . . larger than any she’d imagined and, in its own way, possibly even more comprehensive than Mr. Thorold’s dirty business. After all, if a woman could dupe her husband, daughter, and household staff about her health, her abilities, her character . . . she was a woman of talent, indeed.

Mary realized that she was in danger of snapping the fragile crystal goblet. With an effort, she refocused on Mrs. Thorold’s voice. “I cannot possibly find an internist of Mr. Abernethy’s stature in Brighton. It’s simply impossible. The same goes for Mr. Bath-Oliver, my cranial specialist, who is the best man in Europe in his field. Then there’s the . . .”

As the plaintive list expanded, Mary glanced at Michael. He immediately withdrew his gaze from Angelica.

Finally, Thorold grew impatient. “Very well, Mrs. Thorold, very well. I understand. I am still very anxious to have you all away from this city. This evil stink from the Thames is becoming absolutely intolerable.” He paused. “But if your health would be greatly compromised if forced to leave the care of your physicians . . . Indeed, if you think the risk of removing greater than that of remaining . . .”

Mrs. Thorold’s eyes glittered, a brief flash of underlying steel. When she spoke, however, her voice was chalky soft. “I do, Husband.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. After a minute, he spoke in a strained voice. “That leaves one remaining decision. I shall take the house at Brighton regardless; I should feel more comfortable knowing that you have a place to go in the event that the atmosphere here becomes yet more vile. But you may choose, Angelica, whether you wish to remain in town with your mother or if you prefer to go to Brighton with Miss Quinn for companionship.”

He looked at his daughter helplessly. Michael allowed his gaze to return to her. Mary, too, was watching, as was Mrs. Thorold.

Angelica clearly felt the importance of the moment and let it stretch out for a few seconds, luxuriating in her fragment of power. Finally, she smiled at Thorold. “Papa, you are most kind and generous, but I really think I ought to stay with Mama. Surely if the air becomes truly poisonous, you and Mr. Gray will join us in going to Brighton? It cannot be right that we should go to purer air while you remain in danger.”

It was a splendid performance: modest, sweet, and dutiful, just as a daughter should be. If Mary hadn’t known better, she would have been tempted to think well of Angelica for nearly the first time since they’d met. As it was, she could only admire the girl’s stagecraft. She did not even permit herself a glance in Michael’s direction.

After her day of discoveries, Mary found it difficult to fall asleep. Head buzzing with anxiety, she couldn’t shut off various streams of speculation about Michael Gray, about Angelica, about the curious lack of evidence pointing to Thorold so far. But when she tried to focus her thoughts, they returned with rebellious persistence to the subject of Mrs. Thorold’s “physicians.” Mere prurience? Or was the paramour part of the scheme as well? Perhaps — the idea flashed through her weary mind so swiftly she scarcely caught it — they were all in it together: husband, wife, lover? Too scandalous? Too damned impossible given the personalities involved? She didn’t . . . perhaps . . .

Sleep ambushed her train of thought. The next thing she knew it was morning, announced by the groan of rusty door hinges.

“Tea.” Cass placed the saucer on the bedside table with less than her usual crash.

Mary raised herself on one elbow and squinted at the girl. “Thank you.”

Instead of the usual question about her bath, there was a silence. Then, “Is it true, then?”

Mary sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Is what true?”

“What Mr. Brown said.”

Gad. “About Mrs. Thorold? I don’t know.” Mary took a sip of tea and looked at Cass. “Do you believe me?”

Cass shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Another shrug. That should have been the end of the conversation, but instead Cass looked at the floor and began to pick at her fingers. They were raw and chapped and scabbed round the cuticles.

“Do your hands hurt?”

A third shrug. “Can’t help it. It’s all the washing up.”

Mary considered her for a moment. “Pass me that jar on the washstand — the one made of blue glass.”

Cass obeyed mechanically.

“Sit here.” Mary patted the bedside chair. “Roll up your sleeves a little.” The cuffs were grimy and tattered, and the child smelled of mutton fat and dirty hair. Was she a child? At this proximity, Mary noticed for the first time that the eyes were old and weary. Twelve, at least. Perhaps even fourteen, in the spindly body of a ten-year-old.

Her hands were stiff at first under Mary’s touch, but after a minute she relaxed a little. “That stuff smells nice,” she whispered.

Mary nodded and took care not to make eye contact. “It stings a little at first, but it helps.” She massaged the little clawlike hands for a few minutes. It was longer than necessary, but they had softened dramatically and Cass seemed in no hurry to go.

“Are you a lady?”

Surprised, Mary looked at her. The girl had intelligent eyes. “What do you mean?”

Cass frowned impatiently. “Just, are you a lady?”

“Er . . . well, I work because I haven’t any money,” Mary said cautiously. “But I had a lady’s education. You know, French and geography and history and all that.”

“So your father was a gentleman?”

Mary made a wry face. “No, he wasn’t. Why do you ask?”

“’Cause you look like a lady, but you don’t behave like one.”

“What do you mean?”

“You talk to me. Say ‘thank you.’ And Miss Thorold would never ask about my hands.”

Mary gave the hands a final pat. “I doubt Miss Thorold ever sees you.”

Cass shook her head. “No.”

Mary waited, but the girl didn’t move.

Finally, Cass asked, “Do you think
I
could be a lady? Like you, I mean,” she clarified. “Not a real lady.”

Mary hid a grin. “Do you want to be ladylike?”

Cass shrugged. “I don’t care about French and history. . . .”

“But it seems easier than the scullery?”

“Yes.”

“It probably is.” Mary looked at the alert eyes, half hidden by a tangle of dirty hair. She felt a sudden jolt: she must have looked like this once. “It’s getting late,” she said, putting the stopper back in the ointment pot. “Come and see me before you sleep tonight; I’ll rub your hands again.”

Breakfast was a silent meal at Cheyne Walk. Thorold disappeared behind his copy of the
Times
while Michael scanned the other papers for news pertaining to the company. At the Academy, breakfast was simple and communal: porridge eaten at long wooden tables in the company of high-spirited girls. Now, with an amazing array of hot dishes under silver covers and the luxury of silence, Mary wondered how she would ever return to the noisy austerity of the school once her assignment was over. She was spooning quince jelly onto toast when one of the footmen appeared at her elbow with the day’s first post.

Mary blinked. “Thank you.” It was the first letter she’d received since coming to live at Cheyne Walk, and she recognized Anne’s sharp scrawl immediately. A slight prickle crawled up and down her spine, and she broke the seal hastily, her hand shaking slightly as she unfolded the single sheet.