In the hallway outside Jonathan’s rooms on Lansdown Crescent, as he still slept with Alice’s letter clasped in his hand, Starling found Mrs Alleyn waiting for her, tall and serene. Jonathan’s mother was past fifty years of age, but still very lovely. In her day, it was said, she had been one of the most celebrated beauties in the West Country. Starling had first met her when she was forty, in the first awful weeks after Alice disappeared, and indeed she had been beautiful then. Now her cornflower-blue eyes sat surrounded by fine lines, and there were deep creases bracketing her mouth, which had begun to lose the curve in its upper lip. But her cheekbones were still high and smooth, her brows still delicately arched, and her jaw still firm. Her hair had once been a deep, dark brown, the colour of molasses; now it was iron grey, swept back against her skull but for some precise ringlets to frame her face. Many women half her age were not half so handsome. Starling curtsied at once.
‘Starling! How is it you are upstairs? Don’t tell me my son has seen off another housemaid?’
‘I don’t think she has quite run away yet. Mrs Hatton hopes to persuade her to stay.’
‘But she will not go into my son’s rooms?’
‘No, madam. She will not.’
‘Foolish creature.’ Josephine Alleyn sighed. ‘He is heartsick, and unwell. He is not a danger to anybody.’ Starling said nothing to this, and Mrs Alleyn studied her closely. ‘What is it, girl? You look as though you have something you would say?’
‘No, madam,’ said Starling.
‘You do not mind, then – helping my son when others will not?’
‘No, madam. Only…’
‘Speak.’
‘It makes it rather hard, to do all my work downstairs, when I have duties upstairs as well.’
‘I see. What do you suggest? That I raise you to housemaid, and employ a new kitchen maid in your place?’
‘If it please you, madam. There might not be another girl better fitted to serve Mr Alleyn than I am.’
‘Ah, but the very reason he does not shock you is the very reason that keeps you below stairs, Starling.’ Mrs Alleyn smiled, not unkindly. ‘I fear you are better suited to the kitchen and still room.’ Starling heard the unspoken implication of this quite clearly: You are a hedge rat. And you belonged to Alice. ‘But perhaps, if you are to continue with this extra work upstairs from time to time, it ought to be reflected in your salary. I shall speak to Mrs Hatton about it.’
‘Thank you, madam.’
‘Well. Now tell me, how is Jonathan this morning?’
‘He is quiet, madam. He does not eat, and his bed had not been slept in,’ said Starling. Mrs Alleyn took a breath; her eyes reflected a deep anxiety.
‘He… does he shake? Do you think it is the pains in his head again?’
‘I think not, madam. He seems only tired today.’
‘Well then, I shall visit him now.’ The older lady drew herself up, full of resolve. ‘Be about your work, Starling.’ She halffears him herself, Starling thought. She turned to go, but after a few steps she paused, glancing back. Now is your chance. Mrs Alleyn’s hand had frozen halfway towards knocking at her son’s door. ‘What is it?’ she said.
‘I saw Mr Weekes, the wine man, just the other day. He asked to be remembered to you. He is lately wed, and begs leave to present his new bride to you, if it please you, madam.’
‘Young Richard Weekes, married at last?’ Mrs Alleyn smiled slightly.
‘Yes, madam.’
‘And is his bride quite fit to be met?’
‘By all accounts, she is most refined. Perhaps… a deal more refined than Mr Weekes himself. She struck me as a somewhat… singular lady.’
‘Indeed? In what way?’
‘Perhaps you might be the better judge yourself, madam.’
‘Well, then, I should be interested to meet her. Curious that he did not call to make this request himself. But you may pass on a message for him to call on Thursday, at four, if he pleases.’
‘As you say, Mrs Alleyn.’ Starling curtsied and turned away, her heart thumping.
She knew that Mrs Alleyn would wait until she was out of earshot before going in to her son, but she still heard the shouts when she did enter, and the thud of something thrown across the room. Starling carried on to the lowest floor, checked that the coast was clear, then took a jar of pickled eggs from the pantry and added it to the bag of such items she kept pushed far back beneath her bed. Thursday, at four. She must make sure she could watch, if possible, the exact moment that Josephine Alleyn set eyes on Rachel Weekes.
At the thought, some restless uncertainty gripped her, and made it impossible to keep still. She suddenly realised that she had no idea how Mrs Alleyn would react to a person who looked so like Alice, the girl she blamed for her son’s illness and decline. And she realised that she herself longed to see the new Mrs Weekes again – however painful it had been the first time, feeling that wild surge of joy, dashed in the next instant when she realised that this was not Alice returned. Still, the novelty of such an uncanny likeness was fascinating. Starling longed to look again, and to compare – to verify her first impression that this woman’s face was the mirror image of that which haunted her memories. And if Josephine Alleyn is incensed at the sight of her, throws her out and refuses to have her back… then it is all over before it has begun. She paced the cramped floor of the bedchamber, turning so many times it made her dizzy. But the thing was set in motion now, and could not be stopped.
1803
The day that Alice’s benefactor was to visit was one of driving rain. It fell in stair rods, straight down from a leaden sky, pocking the ground outside and slithering down the chimneys to fizzle in the fireplaces. Alice ran repeatedly to the kitchen window to look for his arrival, all nervous excitement, seeming far younger than her seventeen years. Starling noticed that Bridget had dressed in her best clothes, and wore a spanking clean apron, and that Alice had taken particular care with her pale hair that morning. The wan light of the day glanced from its ringlets. Bridget had run up a plain, long-sleeved dress of grey wool for Starling; she loved the feel of it brushing her ankles, and the warmth of it. They’d also bought her some second-hand shoes from a pedlar who came to the door, and though they were a good fit they seemed intolerably constricting to Starling, and she kicked them off whenever Alice’s attention was elsewhere.
‘Be still, Miss Alice! Don’t excite yourself so,’ Bridget admonished her. Alice sighed, and sat back down again. But when the rattle of the gate was heard she was back at the window at once. Her eyes went wide and she clapped a hand to her mouth.
‘He is come… and… and Jonathan Alleyn is with him!’ she gasped through her fingers. Bridget was all business. She took off her apron and folded it quickly into a drawer, and tucked some stray hairs more neatly into her cap.
‘Alice, to the parlour. Pick up your sewing and do not stir until I bring them in. Starling, child, go upstairs and do not come down until I fetch you. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Bridget,’ said Starling. Her voice was still a small thing, a piping sound so quiet it was almost lost in the roar of the rain outside.
Starling almost did as she was told, but not quite. She stopped at the top of the stairs, where the wooden rails turned, and crouched there with her skinny knees tucked under her chin. She was in shadow; nobody would see her unless they looked right up at her. It was the perfect place to eavesdrop, and to see whoever came into the hallway; she saw two gentlemen, one old and one young. They were dressed as finely as lords, though their coats were sodden and dripping from the hems, and their boots were spattered with mud. The older man was stout and florid, though not unhandsome. He had great hands the width of dinner plates, and wore a curled grey wig under his black hat. When he smiled his cheeks rode up to near swamp his eyes. He greeted Bridget very cheerfully, and far more courteously than a servant might expect, with a wide smile and a how do you do? But Starling saw that Bridget’s reply, and her curtsy, were stiff and reserved. The gentleman did not seem to notice or to mind.