The only choice that would ease her mind would be the choice not to attend, but she could tell that this one was to be denied her.
And … he needed her. “We will come,” she said.
He inclined his head in thanks, and then they were at the house. He opened the back door for her and gestured her to precede him into the narrow hallway.
“I assure you, there is no one on earth who can bargain for a soul,” he said softly, as if there had been no break in the earlier conversation. The sunlight cut off as she stepped into the dark hallway, birdsong and cricket buzz, all gone inside that dim swallowing house. His eyes were lost in shadow as his fingers released their hold on her elbow, leaving five spots of cold in their place. “Bodies, however, are under earthly jurisdiction.”
Jane was all the way upstairs before she realized that she had not asked for his advice on Dorie’s listlessness. And yet he had inadvertently told her one thing that had to happen, for Dorie could not appear before everyone in metal-cloth gloves with sequins dangling from their backs.
Dorie was still in bed. “Father in forest,” she said. “Jane in forest.”
“Yes,” said Jane.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothed out the white swiss-dotted coverlet as what to do straightened itself out in her head. Dorie stared through the wall as if she could see the black trees.
“Here’s the story,” Jane said finally. “Your father wants you to come down and meet these people tonight. You’ll like that, won’t you? All the ladies in their pretty dresses?”
Small voice. “Pretty dress?”
“Yes, one for you, too,” said Jane. “Your father brought you one from the city. And.” She took a deep breath before offering Dorie the bargain. “You won’t be wearing your gloves the whole time his guests are here.”
Dorie rolled over and looked at her. The first spark of interest lit her blue eyes.
“But,” Jane said, forestalling. “That means you have to be very good on your own, without the gloves.” The blue eyes flickered and she pressed harder. “Dorie. Your father is counting on you to behave. I don’t know how to impress on you how important this is to him. If we leave the gloves off during the day, will you promise me that you won’t do anything with the lights or moving things without touching them?”
“Mother stuff.”
“Right. No mother stuff. Your father would get in so much trouble, I can’t even tell you. Can you promise me that you won’t get him in trouble?” Jane held her breath, used her tiny bit of leverage for all it was worth. Would the girl do for her beloved father what she wouldn’t do on her own? She hadn’t when Jane arrived, but now, maybe, maybe after their weeks of work and toil, the days of wearing the hated gloves…?
Slowly Dorie nodded. “I promise,” she said.
Mindful of her charge’s fragile self-discipline, Jane cranked the gramophone for Dorie for most of the morning, and she did not make her do any of the hand exercises that would persuade her that “mother stuff” was a good idea after all. Even with the door shut, she heard the entrances and chatter in the foyer below, as the house party guests arrived one by one. After lunch Dorie wanted to go outside, and Jane eagerly seized on that, glad Dorie seemed to be taking an interest in life again.
When they exited Dorie’s rooms, another guest was arriving. The servant’s footsteps were silenced by the carpet, but the door creaked as it opened. Dorie tugged to go see, but Jane clamped down on her hand, held her fast. She recognized that plum silk wrap, that drawling, amused voice.
Jane and Dorie went out the servants’ side door, wound their way past a coach and four, a shiny black steam-powered convertible, and the same reliable old Peter with his lurching motorcar who had dropped Jane here two months ago. He pulled out onto the road, looking shell-shocked by the passenger he’d just dropped off.
Jane and Dorie crossed the hard-packed road, walked out the opposite way from the forest, walked onto the open moor. It was the end of April, and wildflowers were beginning to bloom in the heath: purple heather and yellow cowslip and fringed blue-eyes like tiny daisies, no bigger than Dorie’s thumb. The fields around Jane’s childhood home had been covered in cowslip; it had been blooming early the year she and Charlie marched into battle. So she looked away from the butter yellow petals and envisioned the field in another month, when it would be covered with color, the cowslip lost in a sea of purple and blue.
The ground was damp. She leaned back on her hands, watched bits of white and grey after-storm clouds chase each other around the sky. The sky behind them was as blue as the daisies, which made the clouds the white petals, blown carelessly across it.
Dorie ran around the field as if she’d been let off a leash. There was already more pink in her cheeks and her curls were bouncing back to life. Amazing what a holiday from work could do. When Dorie tumbled on the grass in a clump of the tiny blue daisies, Jane watched her out of the corner of her eye.
Dorie stretched her palm over a yellow blotch of cowslip. Jane waited, dying inside, wondering what choice Dorie would make. Wondering what she could do if the girl refused to play along, if she refused to keep her extra abilities under wraps. It would look strange to have her in the mesh gloves, but there wasn’t another alternative if Dorie didn’t cooperate. And if her love of her father didn’t make her try for these two weeks, what else did Jane have to bargain with?
Slowly, slowly, Dorie withdrew her palm.
No flowers jumped to her hand, no blue lights sketched patterns on the moor.
She also did not lean over and pick the cowslip with her fingers, but Jane was all right with that. Dorie didn’t have to succeed in all her goals today, as long as she started to show some control.
Dorie looked over at Jane, who was careful not to show that she was studying Dorie’s behavior. She put her hand over the flowers one more time.
Then she jumped to her feet and started running down the moor again, running in circles, running with her curls streaming behind her.
Jane let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and wiped a cheek she hadn’t known was wet.
Chapter 11
Mask and Shadow
By evening the guests were all in. All dined, already bored and ready for the amusement of repairing to the drawing room with drinks and painted chocolates. One of the younger girls sat down at the rosewood piano—to show off, but she was good, and the latest waltzes sang from the freshly tuned keys. The women laughed and flashed rings and angled their hips to display their dressmakers’ concoctions of slim silk and beaded net.
And yet. Now that Jane knew Edward’s true occupation, she saw the women with a different eye. Not art patrons, but women wealthy enough to buy themselves new noses and cheekbones. Not content with the normal faces she’d give anything to have. For an instant she viewed them with disdain, sad creatures focused on appearance. And in the next moment that superiority washed away in shame as she reminded herself that she was focused on her own looks, whatever justification she felt she might have.
Jane ducked out of the shadow of the doorway as one of the new hires hurried through, intent on not spilling her tray. The woman’s pinched, set mouth implied it had been a long day for her already, trying to properly navigate her new employment. Jane wondered if it would be better or worse to carry a tray rather than mind a child. More boring, certainly—but perhaps easier during times like this.