Page 36 of Speculations in Sin

Tess had piled the orange ingredients on the table. “Quite a lot of them,” she said as I entered.

“They’ll be eaten up quickly.” Everyone loved a bright, sweet orange ice, like a taste of summer in the midst of winter.

“Is Mrs. Millburn all right?” Tess asked me in a low voice as we began to set out the cut orange rinds. “Her kiddies and Grace too?”

“She is upset, naturally, but she will rally.” I spoke with the confidence I did not feel. “Her children will need her to be strong, and she understands that.”

“Still, it must be hard for her.” Tess’s mouth drooped in commiseration. “I know what I go through when people try to take my brother away. As though locking him into an asylum will do him any good.”

Tess’s brother was a simple lad, and part of her wages went to look after him.

“Sam will be released.” I sloshed sugar into a bowl. “He has to be.”

I’d take Joanna and our families somewhere far away if Sam was hanged for this murder. We could move to the country, to a little village in the north perhaps. I’m certain that people wholived in Carlisle and thereabouts might be thankful for a good cook seeking a post.

The fact that I’d be leaving everything I’d known all my life and all my friends here, I pushed aside. No use fretting over something that hadn’t happened yet.

I added plain, clean water to the sugar, making certain I had exactly the same proportions of water and sugar. This I put in a pot on the stove, and had Tess watch it carefully. The sugar should dissolve, and the liquid should just boil, making a light syrup. If I’d wanted caramel, I’d have let it continue to boil until it was golden and formed a little ball on the tines of my fork. An amazing array of syrups could be made from the simple mixture of sugar and water.

To a good helping of orange juice, I added some grated orange zest, a tiny bit of salt, and a dollop of vanilla. I had made the extract myself, adding leftover vanilla bean pods to a bottle of spirits and letting it sit for months on a warm shelf.

Once Tess announced the syrup was boiling, I carefully poured it into a clean bowl and set it aside to cool. We turned our attention to juicing more of the oranges, then when the syrup was ready, I added it to the juice and vanilla mixture.

“Why’s it calledsor-bay?” Tess asked as I gently stirred. “Looks like a tasty orange drink to me.”

“It’s a French pronunciation of sherbet, which is a Turkish cool drink. I believe,” I amended. I was going by what a chef had told me, but I’d never seen this explanation in a cookbook. “Sorbet is essentially a flavored ice, but with a fancy name. We will put this in the larder until it is nice and solid.”

I headed for the larder now with the bowl, Tess following with the pans I instructed her to bring. The back corner, the coolest part of the room, contained a cupboard built into thewall. A block of ice could be put into its top shelf, and I often broke up more to put in a zinc tub to use as an ice bath.

While Tess hovered with a towel to catch spills, I poured the orange mixture into a long metal pan and set this into the tub to chill. The ice cradled it and would have it solid enough in some hours.

Ice was a commodity I’d had to battle with Mrs. Bywater to continue. She found it a frivolous expense. Ice had to be delivered regularly by a man who picked it up from a so-called ice well near King’s Cross Station—really an underground storage tank for ice carted there from frozen ponds in England and abroad.

The expense was necessary, I’d argued, if she wanted sorbets and ices for her supper parties. Because the ice did not actually go into the sorbet itself, Mrs. Bywater thought I could make it simply by putting the mixture on a cold windowsill or setting it outside.

I had to point out that such a thing would attract every cat, bird, and rat in Mayfair, as well as become coated with soot. Mr. Bywater had ended the argument by saying he’d write to Lord Rankin—who owned the house—and ask if he’d mind paying for ice.

Lord Rankin, by now exasperated by his deceased wife’s aunt and uncle, had told Mrs. Bywater to spare no expense in the kitchen; he would cover it all.

I’d never approved of Lord Rankin, who had been accustomed to having his way with a maid when the fancy struck him, but I was thankful for his support against Mrs. Bywater. Then again, I knew many of Lord Rankin’s secrets, and those of his wife and her family. He likely believed he had to placate me to keep my silence.

Whatever Lord Rankin’s reasons, I now had ice delivered regularly to help keep food cold and fresh.

I returned to the kitchen to turn more of the orange juice into orange creams, which was essentially the same as the sorbet but with an addition of cream and some isinglass to make it firm. The rest I’d make into marmalade and also to flavor an almond gâteau.

Throughout all this preparation, I received no word from Daniel, Joanna, or Inspector McGregor about Sam and what had happened to him. I knew I’d not be the first person contacted—Joanna would—but as the hours dragged on, my nerves were grated as raw as the onion that would go into the pork pies.

I went in search of James to send for Daniel, but I did not see the lad. I’d have to hope that Lewis the cabbie had heard me ask him to send Daniel to see me.

Caleb passed by on the street on his usual beat that afternoon, and Tess hurried up to speak to him. She came down looking as anxious as she had ascended.

“He’s heard nothing,” she said in a loud whisper as she rejoined me at the stove. “Word of the arrest at the bank came through, but it was noted and put aside. It’s a City crime, so it’s left to them. Caleb only saw Sam’s name and the fact that he’d been taken to the City lockup, but that’s all.”

“I could not expect much more,” I said. “I can’t have Constable Greene ask Inspector McGregor, because Inspector McGregor knows Constable Greene will tell me.” The inspector was not happy I’d recruited Caleb to be my spy.

The only person with any news was Lady Cynthia. Mrs. Redfern brought me word at the last minute before luncheon that Cynthia and Mrs. Bywater were entertaining a guest for the meal. This annoyed me, as I had to make the meal for threeinstead of two when it was already finished, until Mrs. Redfern said that the guest was “that polite Miss Townsend.”

I quickly added a salad with orange slices and another chop to the platters that went upstairs, and I saw Mr. Davis dive into the closet that was the wine cellar to pull out a good bottle. The staff liked Miss Townsend, who was well-spoken and courteous.

---