Page 73 of Speculations in Sin

On days like these, I longed to throw aside my apron and run to Grace, snatching her up and fleeing with her far from filthy London to carve a life of our own.

Then I’d come to my senses and realize that a destination was reached by the accumulation of small steps. Year after year, I was saving my pay and planning a future. In moments of despair, I’d think my work all for naught, but then I’d seehow much my lump of money had grown, and realize that one day, my dream would become real.

I was hard-pressed to cling to this philosophy this morning when Mrs. Bywater demanded I make a mountain of lemon custard that she could take to a charity meeting in Oxford Street that evening. I explained to her that custard did not travel well, and she might be better off with scones. I could make them with lemon zest or dried fruit, very tasty.

No, she must have custard. Why, I could not fathom, but when Mrs. Bywater set her bony shoulders and gave me a steely stare, I had to give in. Custard it was. By the time she reached her destination it would have become watery or fallen apart entirely, and I, the cook, would be blamed.

If I stabilized it with arrowroot and egg whites and packed it in ice, it might survive. I had Tess gather all the cream and eggs in the larder before she went off on her day out and set about creating a vat of lemon custard. I made the scones as well, for good measure. If the custard was a disaster, at least the ladies of her charity organization could praise the scones.

Mr. Davis continued to speak little but went about his duties as though determined to think of nothing else. As this is what I also had to do today, I could not condemn him. We both threw ourselves into work to keep from breaking down. I wished I could comfort him, but at the moment, I had little of that to give.

Mrs. Bywater fussed about using the expensive ice to pack around the tubs of custard, but I assured her they were necessary. I would have to have Cynthia write to Lord Rankin and ask him to have ice delivered a bit more often.

Mrs. Bywater went off, and I scrubbed the kitchen and set about making the leftover lemons into ices and also a butterylemon cake. Miss Townsend and Bobby raved about my lemon cake, and they’d been kind to me over the Millburns’ troubles. I’d find a moment to deliver the cake to them.

Daniel did not arrive that night after service. I hoped Mr. Monaghan hadn’t sent him off on some impossible commission, or perhaps on the final, dangerous job he didn’t mind if Daniel never came back from. I decided I would inform Mr. Monaghan that if he got Daniel killed, he would have to answer to me. I would not sit by and let him destroy the man I’d come to deeply care for.

On Sunday, Daniel sent word to me through James that he would like me to meet him at Newgate on Monday afternoon, so we could speak to Sam again. Mr. Thanos had run his expert eye over the papers and had much to say about them.

Though I never wished to see the inside of Newgate again, I did want to both bring Sam some comfort and hear what Mr. Thanos and Sam made of the papers. I also wilted in relief that Mr. Monaghan obviously hadn’t yet sent Daniel off to his possible death.

I thought I knew why Sam hadn’t mentioned the papers to me or explained what was on them. He was the sort who would try to bludgeon through everything himself without bothering anyone until he had answers to give them. Sam was learning the hard way, I supposed, that he had to let others help him. That lesson had been a long time coming to me as well.

I sent James away with the lemon cake to deliver to Miss Townsend, with a few scones for himself. He sprinted off with the energy of youth, cramming an entire scone in his mouth as he went.

Mrs. Redfern came downstairs to tell me Cynthia had said the lemon custard had been a success. Served with the scones, they’d made a perfect repast. Cynthia hadn’t been at the do,but she’d heard this from one of her aunt’s friends who had attended. I was pleased that the custard had reached Oxford Street intact but grumbled that Mrs. Bywater hadn’t bothered to tell me the outcome herself.

I woke Monday with a lighter heart. Today, I would see my daughter and move forward with restoring Joanna’s happiness.

After Tess and I sent up the luncheon, I snatched up the basket I’d prepared and walked up the outside stairs to spy Lewis waiting with his cab some way down Mount Street. I hurried to him, passing a scowling gentleman Lewis had just turned away, and sprang into the cab. Daniel hadn’t come himself to fetch me, but I was grateful to Lewis for saving my aching feet.

Daniel met me at the gate of the prison. I shivered mightily as we went inside, the same gate guard bidding us a cheery good afternoon.

Sam had been put into the tiny room where we’d met him before. Today, however, the drab space was brightened considerably by the presence of a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man with spectacles, who leapt to his feet when I entered and bathed me in a radiant smile.

21

Elgin Thanos was as sunny-natured in a dreary prison room as he was in a grand parlor. He never noticed or minded his surroundings, just as he never noticed or minded whether his friends were aristocrats or laborers.

“Mrs. Holloway, how lovely to see you.” Mr. Thanos advanced on me and seized my hand, though my basket hung awkwardly from my arm. “Come. Sit.”

He relieved me of the basket and passed it absentmindedly to Daniel while he led me to the chair he’d vacated. Sam had risen the best he could while still shackled, but I waved him back down as I seated myself.

“Do not be so formal,” I told Sam. “Hardly necessary. I’ve brought you sustenance, which should last until you go home.”

Sam shot me a skeptical glance at my optimism, but I noted his gaze strayed longingly to the basket.

I decided to share out some of the treats as we settled aroundthe table. Daniel this time coerced the guard outside to bring in a rickety folding stool for Mr. Thanos, though Daniel remained standing.

Sam lifted the cruller I handed him—a twisted roll fried in butter—and held it to his nose, closing his eyes in rapture. Then he laid it in front of him and waited while I handed a scone to Mr. Thanos, Sam always polite. Mr. Thanos examined his scone as though he’d never seen anything like it.

“They’re for eating, not admiring,” I said to both of them. “Go on.”

Sam obediently bit off a large hunk of the cruller. He inhaled as he chewed, his face relaxing as he took in the buttery, crackling goodness. Mr. Thanos pulled off a smaller bite of his scone but ate with the same sort of thankfulness.

“You are a goddess, Mrs. H.,” Thanos said. “How did you know cranberry scones were my favorite?”

“A fortunate guess,” I said, but it had been nothing of the sort. Cynthia had described to me how he could easily devour a platter of them.

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