Page 5 of Speculations in Sin

Tess’s lower lip quivered. “Ye said ye had a trying day, you’re cross with Mrs. Redfern and me, and you nearly put a handful of salt in that soup. Would have if I hadn’t stopped ye.”

True, I had thought I’d reached for arrowroot to give the soup a little thickness, but my hand had closed around the salt bowl instead.

“Yes, I know I’ve been a bit pensive this evening…”

“More like not yourself at all,” Tess contradicted. She tooka step closer, lowering her voice so Elsie in the scullery would not hear. “Anything wrong with your little girl? Is she ill?”

Her concern for Grace touched my heart, and I softened. “No, no, nothing like that. She’s well and bonny. No, my friend Joanna has had a bit of trouble, that is all. I am trying to decide how to help her.”

Penetrating the world of high finance was nothing like investigating missing paintings from the home of Lady Cynthia’s friend or even a murder in this house or next door.

I only ever went to the City to visit my daughter or to find comestibles at special markets like Smithfield or the many shops in Cheapside. I rarely ventured down Poultry, Threadneedle Street, or Cornhill, where the Bank of England, the Royal Exchange, and other houses of high finance lay. That was a closed territory to me. I turned over most of the pay I received to Joanna for Grace’s keeping and kept the remainder well hidden in a box in my chamber.

“If there’s anything I can do, you say the word,” Tess stated.

Her eagerness to assist disarmed me. “Thank you, Tess. That is good of you. I did not exaggerate when I said you did a fine job today. You have a talent for cooking.”

Tess did flush now and dropped me a habitual curtsy. “You’re that kind to me, Mrs. H.”

“It isn’t kindness—it is the truth. Cease all your nodding and bobbing and get on with scrubbing the table.”

Tess grinned as I spoke in my more usual tones. She skipped back to the work table and plied her rag with vigor.

I thought that would be the end of it, but as I sorted through the remains of today’s meals, deciding what to tuck into the larder for later, Lady Cynthia appeared in the kitchen doorway.

She’d dressed in a frock tonight, as she’d attended supperwith her uncle’s guests. This gown was a dark blue, with an easy swing to its straight skirt and a close-fitting but not overly tight bodice. No bustle, no multitude of lace, ribbons, and cloth flowers, and no waist cinched into impossible proportions.

Cynthia’s artist friend, Miss Judith Townsend, who dressed in a similar fashion, had influenced Cynthia into having these sorts of dresses made up. Cynthia’s aunt, Mrs. Bywater, expressed dismay that Cynthia did not bedeck herself in layers of fabric over a creaking cage, fearing she’d never attract a gentleman without them. Mrs. Bywater herself dressed quite plainly, but I suppose she justified that with the fact that she was already married.

Cynthia strode into the kitchen when she saw that only Tess and I were there. She halted in the middle of the flagstone floor and regarded me quizzically.

“What has happened, Mrs. Holloway?”

“Pardon?” I continued separating the leftover food. The beef from the roast would become a cold aspic or be put aside for a quick bite with a bit of bread tomorrow.

“You know exactly what I mean. Davis did not serve at table tonight, which must mean the Second Coming is imminent. And while your meal was good as always, it didn’t have your usual flair.”

I ceased scooping up leftover potatoes and gazed at her in dismay. “Did the guests complain? Did Mrs. Bywater? Which dish was off?”

“None of them,” Cynthia answered with impatience. “The guests raved, and said they never ate so well in their lives. Aunt and Uncle didn’t notice either. But you’ve rather spoiled me, and I can tell the meal wasn’t your best. Which means something is wrong. You had better tell me at once, so we can solvethe problem, and I can return to the one thing in this house that is worth living for—your food.”

Her mixture of flattery and command would amuse me any other time. I shot a look across the passageway to the servants’ hall, where the footmen, finishing their own meals, had become loud and unruly. Without Mr. Davis to tame them, they took the opportunity to shout at one another and even pitch hard-crusted rolls across the table. Rolls it took two days to make, the wretches.

“I cannot speak to you here—”

“The housekeeper’s parlor, then,” Cynthia said. “Mrs. Redfern is upstairs still tending the guests, and we will be private there.” She swung out of the kitchen and paused at the servants’ hall. “Oi, you lot. Cease your bellowing, or Auntie will be down here demanding you lug things about for her.”

The volume receded quickly. “Sorry, your ladyship,” one of the footmen muttered. Cynthia moved on down the hallway, expecting me to join her.

“You go on, Mrs. H.,” Tess said. “I’ll finish up here.”

I knew Tess wanted very much to know what troubles I had found on my day out but bravely suppressed her curiosity. She no doubt hoped I’d confide in her later.

I wasn’t certain I wished to confide in anyone, as the problem was not my own. Joanna would hardly want it put about that her husband was suspected of embezzlement. So many people were quick to believe what was said about anyone without the first shred of proof.

I removed and rolled up my stained apron, dropping it on a chair before I left the room. My feet ached with the walking I’d done today as well as moving about the hard stone floor of the kitchen.

It was a relief to sink onto one of the soft chairs in the housekeeper’s parlor. They were mismatched—castoffs from upstairs—but none the less comfortable for it.

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