Untitled (26 page)

Chapter 19

T
he widow seems to haunt her. When Mina comes down for an early breakfast with Robert she finds Victoria already at the table. She sits there fiddling with her kippers, her eggs, her toast. In the evening, soon after Mina calls for tea and takes the armchair across from Robert, the widow appears, summoned by the quiet tread of Cartwright's feet.

   Tonight, even though the evening is getting late, the widow doesn't move from her chair across the fire. Instead she yawns and leafs through an old magazine without reading it. The possibility strikes Mina that she is not just an impostor but something more. Is she here to keep watch? She bites her teeth together and looks into the fire. Ridiculous, she tells herself. All because of Marie's mention of
un gros anglais
who was looking for her. He could have been anyone—a chance acquaintance, an Englishman in search of English conversation.

   No, she can't convince herself of that. Was it Popham? Or a man in his pay? But if he knew she was in Paris, why wait so long to follow her? Maybe it was just by luck that she escaped him— something had brought her to his notice and he pursued her to France only to discover she'd just left. Is he so angry at how she helped fool him all those years ago that he would go to those lengths to find her? Is he clever enough to have tracked her down? Was their encounter in Mortimer's not accidental after all?

   No, she tells herself—he was surprised to see her there, she's certain of it. But then, perhaps he was surprised to pick up her trail again so easily after it came to a dead end in Paris.

   She excuses herself to the widow—a headache, feeling exhausted because it has been too much, these funerals, this house to look after. Along the hallway she goes, to the study, where she gives Robert a quick kiss before she makes her way up to the bedroom. Upstairs she has to ring for Sarah, to wait for her, to stand patiently while Sarah unfastens her dress and helps her out of it, and her corset. Tonight the girl yanks hard on the lacings and drops the corset on the chair like a dead thing. When Sarah catches Mina's gaze in the mirror she stares back for a moment too long. Still angry that her follower has been discovered, that she is being
watched
. Mina sends her back downstairs—she cannot bear to have her around a moment longer. She puts her dress away herself, then sits by the fire and brushes her hair while she waits for Robert.

   She has finished by the time he opens the door, and she sits in bed as he undresses. She loves this—watching him remove his jacket and shirt and trousers, his body all long curves under his clothes. When he pulls back the bedcovers and leans forward to blow out the candle, she stops him. She whispers, "We need to act quickly."

   "Do we really need to whisper?"

   She pulls the covers up over her belly, then sits back. "How do you men stay so wonderfully innocent when it's your job to go into the corrupting world out there?" She nods towards the window. He lies beside her, propped on one elbow, and she rests a hand on his thigh. "Haven't you noticed the way Sarah hangs around doors? Or how she's always off on some errand or other?"

   He lays a hand over hers. "Is she?"

   "Apparently she has an admirer. I had to have a talk with her. Now she's angry, of course."

   He gives a low laugh. "You aren't turning into one of those mistresses who objects to servants having a life of their own, are you? First poor Lizzie—"

   "It isn't Sarah's admirer I mind, it's her way of sneaking around. I know that she goes through our things—she even had the nerve to look through my desk."

   "Isn't that what servants do? If you leave something unlocked, curiosity gets the better of them. They don't have much else in their lives, so it's no wonder they take an interest in ours."

   "The usual curiosity I could put up with. Sarah goes too far."

   "Then dismiss her."

   Her hair is pulled back into a long rope, and she brings it over her shoulder. "Am I the mistress of the house now?" She pulls a face to make him smile. "Should I be the one counting out dusters, and checking under the carpets for dirt, and making sure the cook doesn't sell our butter?"

   He takes one of her hands and plants a kiss on the palm. "You would be perfect."

   "Oh, you're so
gall
ant." She slides down in the bed beside him and presses a kiss on his lips. "But we still have the widow to contend with."

   With a sigh he rolls onto his back. "Darling, what more can I do? Cyril says he'll look into it. We need to be sure before we start making accusations. Imagine if we are wrong. This poor young woman— the woman my brother loved—just think what we are doing to her."

   She leans over him, her arms on his chest, and feels the warmth of his body against hers. "We've barely had three weeks to get to know her. I wouldn't be surprised if she plans to sell the house next. She's made no secret of the fact that she isn't going to stay."

   He turns to her. In the candlelight his eyes look dark and mournful. "If she's an impostor, why on earth would she do that? Why tell us that she's planning to flee? It doesn't make any sense."

   "Yet if she's not an impostor, why can't Cyril find a record of the marriage? Why hasn't anyone heard of her?"

   "I don't know."

   He blows out the candle on the chair beside the bed. Into the darkness he says, "What sort of woman would want to profit from death and misery? She'd have to have icewater in her veins."

   Mina rests her head in the hollow of his shoulder. "She'd have to be a ghoul, Robbie, a ghoul."

Chapter 20

S
ome mornings it is almost more than she can do to get out of bed. Six o'clock, and the air in the room is so cold that it stings her legs as she swings them out from under the covers. With one hand she feels for the matches and the candlestick. All those lessons on cleanliness at the orphanage, and now it is too cold to do more than splash water on her face, water covered with a thin crust of ice. What would it matter if they had a fire up here? Yet Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Cartwright have said no, as Mrs. Bentley wouldn't have allowed it— a waste of coal, for when are she and Sarah up here, except to sleep? Besides, don't they have covers enough on their beds to keep them warm? It's the
getting w
arm that's the problem, though. Cold sheets, a cold mattress beneath, all of it so cold it feels damp.

   She dresses fast, pulling on her flannel petticoat, her dress, her stockings, her cap, her apron. Then she knots her boots around her neck, picks up her chamber pot and candle, and leaves Sarah sleeping. She creeps along the corridor to the stairs so quietly that only the creaking floorboards give her away. No one will punish Sarah for not being downstairs on time. No one will tell Mrs. Robert, and Mrs. Robert is never up early enough to see for herself. After all, it's not for ladies to be out of bed before eight o'clock.

   Or maybe even Mrs. Robert wouldn't dare say anything.

   Sarah has been looking for something against her, and maybe

there is something to find. Is Sarah clever enough to win against a lady like her, though? Jane doubts it. At least, not on her own.

   She makes her way down the last flight of stairs and along the corridor to the water closet. She sets down her candle and pours the contents of her pot down the toilet before settling herself onto the seat. It was Sarah who arranged for the burglar to knock at the door on that day, at that time, she is certain. Did he simply pay her? Was he looking for something of Mrs. Robert's? Has Sarah been spying on Mrs. Robert for him ever since? It could have been him at the area railings. If only it hadn't been so dark and she'd caught more than a glimpse of him.

   There is little newspaper left for wiping—she'll have to cut more after Mr. Cartwright has finished with yesterday's paper. Another job to do. When she'd first arrived it seemed that there wasn't time for it all in a day, but now, on top of the cleaning and carrying, there is Price to be looked after, and the young widow. Mrs. Saunders once told her that with efficiency, anything was possible. Anything? To do the work of two or even three people? How would Mrs. Saunders know anyway?

   At least, she thinks as she pulls down her skirts, she'll have an excuse to get out the newspaper and scissors, and who's to notice if she cuts out the classifieds and puts them in her pocket? She opens the door and creeps past Mr. Cartwright's room towards the kitchen. There must be other mistresses in need of maids in this city. Mistresses who will not make her spy on other ladies. Mistresses who run households in which one maid does not prey on another. In a few days she will be paid this month's wages. Will Sarah be waiting for her upstairs again? Will she give one of her narrow smiles and reach out her hand? What are the chances that she won't?

   In the kitchen Elsie is busy lighting the stove. A candle sits on the table. Just outside the circle of its light, beetles cling to the ceiling. One falls and Elsie, quick as a hungry dog, stamps on it. Then she stoops to pick it up by a leg and flings it into the fire.

   Jane sits down and pushes her feet into her boots. In a couple of hours she will see if the widow is ready to get up. By then she will need more questions, gentle ones that seem to arise out of nothing more than a maid's curiosity. Mrs. Robert is not satisfied, and it's not surprising—so far she has found out little.

   Should she instead warn her about Sarah again? Should she be more insistent this time? Yet she has no evidence other than having seen Sarah go through her desk, and taking Mrs. Robert's letter and finding out what it means. The trouble is, to tell would be to tell on herself, too. As for the rest, she'd just be guessing, and guessing might look like trying to shift suspicion away from herself.

   She fetches yesterday's tea leaves, the housemaid's box, a bucket of coal from the coal cellar, which she leaves by the foot of the stairs. Only then does she start up the steps with the familiar weight of the box banging against her calf and the candle stretching shadows over the walls. As she climbs she thinks up questions: Was it a big wedding, ma'am? Had you known each other long, ma'am? All of them ridiculous, all of them bound to fail to get anything out of the widow. She yawns and instead imagines herself in a church, Teddy beside her, this life of cleaning other people's dirt left behind because she and Teddy will—she and Teddy will do what? She has pictured the two of them coming out of the church, yet now she wonders—what then? To marry they'd have to leave service, and what would they do? Open a shop? That takes money. Teddy could go to work in someone else's shop. Yes, she thinks, to start with. And she'd be at home, with a baby, with a cat, with his dinner to cook and evenings with him by the fire to look forward to.

   Her candle does little to dispel the gloom of the morning room. The pattern on the carpet is reduced to pale shapes against dark, and on the mantelpiece a small stuffed bird under its glass dome is poised menacingly. Its long blade of a beak is raised, its eyes intent as though, at any moment, it will launch itself at her. She can't help herself—every day she wastes precious time coming over to touch the dome, just to reassure herself of its substance. Yes, the bird is still trapped on its branch under the glass. A gruesome thing, she thinks— who would want to keep a dead bird to look at?

   She smoothes the cushion of the armchair and picks off a stray thread. She'll be back here later, with Mrs. Robert sitting in this chair. She'll be standing on this carpet, staring down at her feet and saying, "No, ma'am, nothing more." The widow is like a winkle, and she needs a pin to pull her out, naked without her secrets and silences.

   She ties on her rough apron and kneels in front of the hearth. Is it hot this time of year in India, ma'am? she thinks. Did you and Mr. Henry have many servants?

   And so the early morning passes, a morning of sweeping ashes, shaking out cinders to be reused, blacking the grate, carrying buckets of ashes downstairs and others loaded with coal back up. Before long the stiffness in her hands is replaced by a dull ache, and her hands are filthy from the blacking, the soot, the coal. Has she touched her face? She isn't sure, so she stands on tiptoe in front of the mirror and raises the candle to her face. Her cap is askew, and a dark smudge runs from her nose across her cheek. She lifts her arm to her face and wipes at it with her sleeve. The dress is black, so who's to know? However, the smudge is stubborn, and she can only reduce it to a shadow. It'll take soap and water to remove it entirely, and that'll have to wait until she goes back down to the kitchen. She tries to fix in her mind exactly where it is. For who knows—Teddy might appear at the top of the area steps again. He might see her dishevelled and dirty and walk away without calling her name. And if he didn't come back? What would her life be except day after day of working herself into exhaustion just for food and a bed? What would be the point of that? If there's no hope for something better then . . . then you might as well just throw yourself in the river and be done with it.

   She has to hurry to finish up the dining room and get downstairs after the clock in the hall strikes the hour. At least the kitchen is warm, and the air heavy with the smells of toast and bacon. She washes her hands and face, then sits down heavily, as though already the day has been too much. Mrs. Johnson pushes toast and a cup of tea towards her. "That'll keep you going," she says. "On a morning like this, we all need something warm inside us."

   "What's it like out?"

"Bloomin' awful. Another freezing fog. Horrible stuff."

   Jane takes her tea over to the area door and opens it a crack. Beyond the damp paving stones around her feet, the city has disappeared—this is how she imagines it must be underwater. The air has turned thick, muffling the clop of a horse's feet coming up the street. She steps out into a yellow murk and it makes her cough. Even here, only a couple of feet away from the kitchen, the light from the window is blurred and dirty. So much for worrying about what she looks like. Teddy won't be going out in this. She turns back and shuts the door behind her.