Page 72 of Murder in Matrimony
“But as she said, they don’t pay her to stand around.” Kitty shook her head, and her blonde curls bounced beneath the pink satin ribbon of her hat. “If she had no work to do, they wouldn’t allow her to stay. Mr. Baker seems like a generous man, but he has a business to run.”
“And he was a favorite of Mr. Cross.” She glanced out the window. The streets were narrow, and the noise palpable. A loud buzz of shouting was rising above the din, and she wondered what it was about. “We cannot discount him entirely, however. I’d like to talk to him about the accident if nothing else.”
“How do you propose to do that? You already committed to four dozen biscuits. Must you buy four dozen more?” Kitty pressed her lips together to keep in a laugh.
“I confess I don’t know …” The sentence trailed off as she craned her neck to look around the passing street corner. The problem causing the disturbance came into view. It was thePlate & Bottle. The building was succumbing to flames. “Kitty, stop your driver!”
Kitty did so quickly. “What is it?”
A line of men with buckets were attempting to douse the fire, but from the rise of their voices, they were having little success. They were shouting at one another to bring the water faster, but the task was impossible. The buckets were coming as quickly as they could.
“Amelia?” Kitty’s position in the carriage did not afford her the advantage of a view of the street.
“It’s the Plate & Bottle. It’s on fire.” She looked at Kitty’s wide blue eyes. “It appears the arsonist has been successful.”
“No!”
They waited only for the driver to put down the steps before descending. The driver had stopped away from the busy thoroughfare, and they had to walk several blocks before they could survey the damage for themselves.
It was catastrophic. As they grew nearer, smoke infiltrating their nostrils, Amelia saw the kitchen was no more. The windows had been shattered, perhaps by an explosion, and a hole stood in the pub where she and Simon had danced not that long ago. She covered her mouth, not sure if she was going to cry or be sick to her stomach.
Nearest the pub was Mr. Rothschild, who continued to demand water despite the futility of the effort. He had serious gray side whiskers and a prominent brow. If not for the emotion in his voice when he spoke, Amelia would have thought him brutish. He glared at the fire brigade even as they started to put out the fire.
“You got your way, didn’t you, old Cross?” He opened his arms above his head. “The pub is no more. A present sent down from heaven.”
“Mr. Rothschild!” Mrs. Rothschild exclaimed. “You must not blaspheme.”
“Pray for me. Pray for me as you did our daughter. I would rather be dead than living.” He looked at his wife, whose face was stricken with disbelief. Her shoulders drooped, and her stature seemed to shorten before Amelia’s eyes. She stumbledbackward, visibly shaken by his words. It was only then that he reached out and grabbed her arm to prevent her from falling. Her chest began to heave as the tears she’d held back began to roll down her cheeks.
The worst being said, Mr. Rothschild took pity on her, drawing her closer to him. She sobbed into his shoulder, and Amelia saw that his eyes were moist, too. His life’s work had gone up in smoke. The fire would be put out (Amelia could see hints of it already), but the damage was done. Amelia didn’t know if they’d ever be able to recover from it.
“The poor Rothschilds,” whispered Kitty next to her. “Haven’t they been through enough? Why must they continue to suffer?”
Amelia couldn’t answer her question, nor could she confront Mrs. Rothschild about the recipe her daughter sold to Mr. Baker. Not now, perhaps not ever. The woman had no idea what her daughter had done. If she had, she would have known where the money came from for the gifts. “Come along, Kitty. Let us examine the recipe ourselves. We never had the chance last night, and there is nothing more to be done here.”
Kitty nodded, but the look of consternation didn’t leave her face. She was angry with the situation, and so was Amelia. She wished to help, but she didn’t know how. There was one thing they could do, however, and that was examine the solid evidence they did have: the biscuit recipe.
THIRTY
Dear Lady Agony,
It is time to retire to my parents’ country house, where I will be with my family until next spring. I cannot say I’m looking forward to it. There will be no escape from their company. What suggestions do you have for keeping sane? I will take any and all recommendations.
Devotedly,
Time for Torment
Dear Time for Torment,
Time with family might seem like torment, but there will come a day when you would walk through muddy fields without shoes to find that kind of torment. It seems impossible now, but trust me. It will come sooner than you think. Until then, bring plenty of books and take plenty of walks. They have saved me from despair many times.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
Amelia had hidden the copied biscuit recipe in her library’s secret compartment, where she stored readers’ letters, and she and Kitty went there immediately upon returning to her house. Upstairs, the drawing room was buzzing with rankling relatives, and Amelia paused only long enough to hear Aunt Gertrude insist on a joint of mutton for Henrietta’s arrival this evening. She would hear of nothing less for her and her four boys after traveling from Frome.
With a shudder, Amelia replaced her parasol in the stand. She couldn’t imagine what the evening held for her, and by the sympathetic look in Kitty’s eye, she, too, was imagining the worst.
