Cook snorted and wiped the table with her apron. “It’s kind you are to think so. A regular terror, I say.”
A tall figure entered the room and Cook straightened up immediately, jamming her wooden spoon into her apron pocket and feigning innocence. “Evening, sir,” she said, nodding. Mr. Rochart looked down at her until she turned and fled, muttering something about the potatoes.
Dorie jumped down from the chair, buried herself in her father’s knees. “Did you manage all right this afternoon?” There was worry in his dark eyes as he gently stroked his daughter’s hair.
“I’m not giving up yet,” said Jane. She stopped Dorie’s chair from falling over, steadied the table.
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” said Mr. Rochart. He was still in the worn wool slacks he had on earlier, though now they were covered in a faint white dusting of powder. A similar smudge streaked one shirt cuff. He ruffled Dorie’s curls and lifted her up. “You’re too stubborn for that, aren’t you? You don’t back down.”
Jane felt pleased by his accurate assessment—and that made her feel cross and prickly. She was not going to roll over like a puppy dog just because he seemed to be paying attention to her, Jane, and not her, the ironskin. She said, “How do you know I don’t?”
Mr. Rochart’s black eyebrows drew together at her tone, shadowing his eyes once more. “A less principled girl might’ve sought refuge in her sister’s new home,” he said, laying out his chain of thought for her. “And no one would’ve faulted her.”
“Except the new husband, who might not want an extra mouth to feed,” retorted Jane.
“So stubbornly this wisp of a girl seeks gainful employment,” continued Mr. Rochart, “and she will not be turned from doing it to the best of her measure. Not be frightened off by all the demons in hell.…” He looked down at Jane, and she took a step backward from the peculiar warmth in his eyes. “You are indeed determined to help us, are you not?”
“Of course, sir,” she managed, chin up. “Have I given you reason to doubt it already?”
He still studied her face, and she was surprised to find that it did not feel like he was judging her deformity, but was simply curious what made her tick. “When what you hope for appears on your doorstep, there is every reason to doubt its reality, Jane.”
She did not know what to say to that, but then from the front of the house the twisted doorknocker sounded, just as Cook bustled in with the potatoes.
“What, at dinner?” Cook said, but a glance from Mr. Rochart forestalled any other protest.
“Have them eat,” he said, setting Dorie down. He strode off toward the front of the house.
Jane took Dorie’s arm, guiding her back to the dinner chair, but Dorie wriggled free and was suddenly trotting after her father. Jane grabbed for her frock but missed, the cotton skirt slipping through her fingers.
Jane took off through the maze of rooms and halls after the fleeing girl, caught up with Dorie just behind the sapphire curtains that opened onto the foyer.
Dorie was peeping through. “Pretty lady,” she said, and clacked.
Jane stopped, looking at the foyer through the narrow gap Dorie had made. The short butler was saying, “An’ ye be human, enter,” and the woman swept over the threshold. Mr. Rochart bent to bestow a kiss on the visitor’s hand. “Miss Ingel,” he said. “The honor is mine.” She had kind eyes; she smiled and corrected him: “Blanche.”
An odd pair, Jane thought, for the woman, though more smartly dressed than Mr. Rochart, looked unformed next to him. Perhaps his hair stood up, perhaps his cuffs were mended, but still he wore his clothes and they did not wear him. Whereas the woman’s figure was good enough, and her coat and frock were smart, but she looked ill at ease, lost inside her fur and aquamarines, almost nervous. Her brilliant bobbed red hair was frozen into stiff pin curls that did not suit her face, which was plain, with pouched eyes and a large smashed nose like a prizefighter. Her eyes lingered on the sapphire curtains, then slid away, as Mr. Rochart ushered her into the red room of masks.
Mr. Rochart turned as he entered the garnet curtains. He glanced at the darkness behind the sapphire curtains, and even buried in shadow, Jane was suddenly positive his eyes fell on hers. Embarrassed at being caught spying, she drew back immediately, grabbing Dorie by the back collar of her dress and propelling her down the hall toward dinner.