Lord Chalminster’s was not my destination, however, but Cynthia’s friend Clemmie’s home. I made my way around the white house with its Indian-like domes and pointed arches—Tess staring openmouthed at the bizarre architecture—to the kitchen door. Mrs. Martin, the cook, had known I was coming, but when we entered, she was rushing about, her heavy tread loud on the flagstones, her assistant and several maids trying to help her and stay out of her way at the same time.
Pots boiled over on the stove, the oven had heated the large room to scorching, and the kitchen table was a disaster of flour, chopped vegetables, oil, cream, and spilled peppercorns. Even when my roasted pig had come to grief, my kitchen had not been this chaotic.
“Mrs. Holloway!” Mrs. Martin paused in mid-stride, her eyes round with panic. “Please, if you ever called me friend—save me!”
19
“Good heavens, Mrs. Martin.” I threw off my shawl and snapped my fingers at one of the hurrying maids, instructing her to find me an apron. “What has happened?”
“The mistress has decided to have a supper for forty, that’s what.” Mrs. Martin’s white hair had escaped its bun to straggle down her face. “Decided not an hour ago. Came down here herself to tell us, if you please, saying she was enjoying being whimsical. Then she hurried off to send notes to all her friends.” Mrs. Martin lowered her voice. “She’s doing it to bother her husband, and we all know it. But it’s mostly a bother to us, isn’t it, Mrs. Holloway?”
“It is indeed, Mrs. Martin.”
A wise woman had the foresight to see that upsetting her cook could have dire consequences on the tranquility of her life, but Clemmie must have decided she no longer cared for such things. I wondered if this sudden supper party was a volley at her husband for trying to push the blame for his underhandedness on her, a sign of her defiance. If so, I admired her audacity, but what Mrs. Martin said was true—the servants would pay for her pique more than her husband would.
“Come along, Tess,” I said as she stood agape, clutching her empty basket. “Fetch an apron and help me clear off this table.”
Tess thumped the basket onto a chair and shrugged off her coat. “What about our supper, Mrs. H.? And the master’s?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Bywater are going out to a subscription dinner tonight, for one of their charities. If I am right, Lady Cynthia will be coming here, as Lady Godfrey’s guest. We won’t be needed except for the staff, and we can prepare something quickly for them. It’s much easier on me now, since you’ve come.”
I hoped to please Tess with this compliment, but her face darkened, and she looked unhappy. Mrs. Martin began to wail, and I hurried away to help her inventory her larder and determine what we needed.
“Did the mistress not give you a menu?” I asked as I went through the shelves as well as the boxes of produce stacked on the floor. “Mrs. Bywater lets me have a free hand, but when she wants a particular dish for a supper gathering, she informs me.”
Mrs. Martin shot me scowl. “Not that one. She’s sweet as sugar, is the mistress, but no idea what it is to create a meal for so many on short notice. Comes from a family what waves its hand and all is done for them. At least the master is a wee bit more sensible. Hires extra men right and left for little jobs.”
I noted that the fish course would be tricky. A good lobster sauce covered numerous sins of fish that were not the best. But there were no lobsters in the larder and no time to procure fresh ones—however, I found a bucket of shrimp in ice that could do for making a faux lobster sauce.
“What little jobs?” I asked. “This is a large house, but you have quite a number of servants, don’t you?” At least twenty people worked here, I’d counted, inside and out, and there might be more in the stables.
Mrs. Martin pulled a pathetic dead fowl down from where it hung and gave it a look of despair. “Mary, pluck this!” she shouted at a maid and tossed it at the poor girl when she came running. “Moving furniture, repairing windows, knocking out a wall in one of the attic rooms, rebuilding a garden shed.” She trailed off as she snatched up bunches of asparagus, one in each hand, and trundled herself back to the kitchen.
I wondered, as I worked, whether these extra workmen had been the ones helping Sir Evan smuggle his artwork out of the house to sell.
Tess and I worked like demons helping Mrs. Martin and her staff ready the supper. I always liked a challenge, but I did not let on to Mrs. Martin that I relished throwing together dishes that would please a king on a moment’s notice.
The soups—a light asparagus with a touch of cream; oxtail in rich broth; and a cold cucumber with white wine—came out well. Heavenly, in fact. I tasted each, as did Mrs. Martin, and we sent them up without a qualm.
Next the fish—turbot with shrimp sauce, which was shrimp chopped up and simmered in butter with a bit of cayenne, poured over the poached turbot. We sent salmon up as well, a huge specimen sliced into filets in hopes there would be enough. This we dressed with a sauce of dill, butter, and mushrooms.
For the meats, I showed both Mrs. Martin and Tess a spice mixture that could be kept for a long time and used to season meats or rub fowl—a mixture of cloves, mace, cayenne, dried ginger, cinnamon, black and white peppercorns, and nutmeg. I had Tess grind all these with mortar and pestle until they were a fine powder. I sprinkled this over the beef chops as they came out of the frying pan, readying them to be sent up after the fish.
The crowning glory of the meal was the rib roast, a huge cut of beef, seasoned with my spice mixture, which came out of the oven as the fish was being removed and the chops served. This would be carried upstairs by the footmen and lovingly carved by the butler.
The butler himself was currently running up and down, bottles under his arms, cursing as roundly as Mr. Davis ever did at having to find so many choice wines on so short a notice. I would have to explain to Lady Cynthia what a strain Clemmie Godfrey had put on her staff for this supper.
With the roast, which mercifully stayed on its platter, went ham and a pie of veal, and then vegetables—more asparagus; early cabbage sprinkled with lemon juice; a salad of parsley dressed with lemon and oil, salt and pepper; and a dish of stewed mushrooms.
At last we sent up the puddings—rhubarb tart, a few cheesecakes, iced cream, and simple bread and butter pudding. After all this went cheese and sliced fruit, and then we were finished.
Mrs. Martin collapsed into a chair as the dumbwaiter creaked upward for the last time. “This has ended me,” she said. “I’ll be off to live with me sister in the Lake District, you mark my words. I’m much too old for this sort of nonsense. Mrs. Holloway, you aren’t looking for a new place, are you?”
Mrs. Martin gave me a hopeful look, but I shook my head. “I am happy where I am for now.” Mrs. Bywater might be a bit tightfisted but she was not unreasonable. Cynthia was there to mitigate for me, and I had my days out. I didn’t mind a quiet household.
It was nine o’clock, dark now. Whenever the door at the top of the stairs opened to the main house, we heard waves of merriment from the guests. At least they were enjoying themselves.
Lady Cynthia had indeed come—I knew because I asked one of the footmen who was running back and forth from dining room to kitchen to tell me if she was there. Mr. Thanos had been invited too, a fact that I found quite interesting.
Tess was elated by our success. “We did it!” she cried. She embraced me, and I did not stop her. I rather enjoyed her youthful enthusiasm, her warm body crashing into mine as Grace’s did. Tess, like Grace, didn’t do anything by halves.
We left Mrs. Martin recovering and the rest of the staff busily eating anything leftover. As we walked from the house, Tess’s basket now full of rhubarb pie, asparagus, parsley salad, and a small jar of my spice mixture, she breathed a sigh.
“It’s for nothing though, ain’t it?” she asked. “We did all that work, and we won’t get paid for any of it. A few
comestibles to take home ain’t much—we made all this ourselves anyway.”
“Not for nothing,” I told her. “We helped a fellow body in need, and Mrs. Martin won’t forget it. When the guests praise the cooking, and all learn that Mrs. Holloway and her assistant, Tess, were there to lend a hand, our reputations will gain a boost. And Mrs. Martin will be grateful and help us in return whenever we might need it—whether that is with her hands in our kitchen or recommending you when you’re ready to venture out as a cook in your own right. Sharing skills and time is never a waste. It’s putting the Golden Rule to practical use.”
“Golden Rule . . . Which one is that?”
I hid a sigh. Reformers and temperance women roved up and down London admonishing girls like Tess, but did they pause to give them the simplest of lessons? And these ladies called themselves religious—they ought to be ashamed.
“The Golden Rule is, more or less, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’” I said. “It is a good saying to live by, no matter if you never go to church.”
Tess considered my words. “You mean if I want people to be kind to me, I have to be kind to them first?”
“Of course. We must help one another in this world, because it is a difficult place. Too difficult for us all to be selfish. It is also fine to ask for help—we should not be too proud to admit when we need it.”
I emphasized my last words, hoping Tess would break down and tell me for whom she was stealing food from my larder. If Tess were indeed stealing it, I reminded myself. Charlie, for instance, was always the first one down in the mornings, would have time alone in the larder, and he was a bright little chap. He’d likely be able to hide his misdeeds.
There was also the possibility that the open door and the food gone from the larder had nothing to do with each other. I tamped down my impatience. I so hated not knowing the answer to a puzzlement.
Thinking of puzzlements, I also wished I’d been able to speak to Lady Cynthia about what she, Mr. Thanos, and Daniel had discussed at the Bedford Square pub last night, but our busy day and evening had precluded it. I’d have to corner her discreetly tomorrow and ask, making sure Mrs. Bywater did not spy us speaking too familiarly, of course.
Tess didn’t seem to notice my hint that she tell me all. She only looked up at the dark sky as though she could see stars, a rare occurrence in cloudy, foggy, smoky London. She said nothing at all as she followed me along Park Lane to Mount Street, and so home.
* * *
* * *
I was awakened a few hours later from a sound sleep in pitch darkness by a thumping on my bedchamber door. I blinked a moment, coming out of a dream in which Daniel, James, and my daughter were laughing about something. The vision was sweet, and I did not want to let it go.
The dream died to chill darkness and more pounding. Without bothering to fumble for a candle, I rolled out of bed, snatched my flannel dressing gown from the chair, thrust my feet into slippers, and shuffled to the door.
I expected Tess or one of the maids, but I found Lady Cynthia, clad in an evening dress of gray silk with a black beaded shawl over her bare arms. The beautiful gown was a sharp contrast to her face, lit by the candle she held, which was drawn and almost green, her eyes full of fear.
When I opened the door, Cynthia pushed me into the room. I caught myself before I stumbled, and shut the door behind her.
“What is it?” I asked in a whisper. “What’s happened?”
Cynthia’s eyes were wide, their light blue nearly swallowed by the black of her pupils.
“Oh, Mrs. H., it’s awful,” she said, her voice a croak. “A man is dead, Clemmie is ill, and so is Mr. Thanos. At Sir Evan’s. The police have come, and Mrs. Martin might face the noose for it.”
20
“What on earth are you talking about?” I took the chamber stick from Lady Cynthia’s shaking hand and set it on my bedside table. “Sit down. Tell me.”
“We can’t linger,” Cynthia argued, even as she collapsed into my chair as though her legs would no longer support her. “It might take Mr. Thanos off too. And Clemmie.”
“What might? A fever?” I touched my hand to Lady Cynthia’s forehead. Fevers could come on suddenly, and people died, and no one quite knew why. Cynthia felt normal, but contagion did not obey neat patterns.
Cynthia brushed my hand aside. “No, not a fever,” she said impatiently. “The mushrooms.”
I drew back, confusion replacing my fears. “Mushrooms? What mushrooms?”
“The ones Mrs. Martin served for Clemmie’s supper. We all ate them—well, I didn’t . . . I don’t much care for them. Clemmie enjoyed a jolly good helping, as did Mr. Thanos, and no one ate more than Mr. Harmon. And now he’s dead.”
“Harmon?” I asked. “Who is Mr.—?” I vaguely remembered Clemmie mentioning him on our visit to her. “Sir Evan’s man of business?”
“Yes, yes,” Cynthia said. “That’s the chap. Sir Evan confessed to Clemmie that he sold the paintings at Mr. Harmon’s request, she told me tonight. Apparently, he owed Harmon a powerful lot of money for business transactions Harmon conducted in his name.”
“And now Mr. Harmon is dead.” Very convenient. My indignation at Sir Evan grew, along with my fears.
“I’m so very worried about Mr. Thanos,” Cynthia said, clenching her hands. “You must know about poisonous food—can you help him?”
“There was nothing at all wrong with those mushrooms,” I declared. “I prepared them myself.”
Cynthia regarded me with confusion in her red-rimmed eyes. “Yourself? You cooked for Clemmie’s supper party?”
“I was downstairs in her kitchen, helping Mrs. Martin, because your friend Lady Godfrey expected the poor woman to throw together a meal for two score of people in a few hours. I made the stewed mushrooms, and I know there wasn’t a wrong one in the pan. Good heavens, they want to arrest Mrs. Martin for it?”
I flung open the chest at the foot of the bed and rummaged for clean combinations, stockings, and my corset. I thrust my legs into the lower half of the combinations, turning my back to throw off my nightgown and slide the top of the combinations on over my shoulders. My corset went over this.
“Will you lace me? Or shall I call Tess?”
“I’m no prude.” Cynthia was on her feet with her usual restlessness, grabbing my laces and threading them through the holes with skill. “I have to lace my fellow ladies when they are done being gentlemen and before they toddle home to their husbands or fathers or brothers. Some daren’t even tell their maids, and so Bobby and I have learned to be quite the abigails.” She jerked the laces tight, and I gasped a breath, but Cynthia finished and let me go.
Cynthia paced as I tied on my petticoat and then my skirt, finally buttoning my bodice overall. My hair was a mess, but I wound my braid around my head and pinned it the best I could.
Lady Cynthia snatched up the candle and was flying out of the room so rapidly once I had my shoes on and fastened that she nearly caught her clothes on fire with the flame. I firmly took the candle away from her and herded her before me.
We climbed down the back stairs the many flights to the main hall, then through the green baize door and on down to a dark and silent kitchen. I fetched my coat and bonnet, and then we were outside in the cool spring night. I worried for Cynthia, who had no wraps but the thin shawl suited for a heated parlor, but she only hurried down the street on foot, heading for Park Lane.
She must have run all the way home, I realized. No hansom cab was in sight, nor was the town coach. Cynthia planned to run all the way back, it seemed. I jogged to keep up with her.
The roads were quieter than in daytime but people still roamed—beggars looking for kitchen scraps, pickpockets watching for the unwary, ladies bold enough to walk through respectable neighborhoods. I’m certain other villains lurked in the shadows as well. We moved so swiftly that
I doubted any villain would be able to catch us.
Sir Evan’s house was lit from top to bottom. Carriages lined the drive, and constables were trying to shepherd the ladies and gentlemen milling about the grounds back into the house. Those ladies and gentlemen wanted to leave, and protested loudly.
Cynthia ignored them all, ducking past the constables and through the house’s front door.
Inside was pandemonium. More constables swarmed in and out of the dining room, and a maid sat on a side chair there, weeping. The door to the back stairs slammed open to disgorge a harried footman, and I heard raised voices below, querulous and panicked.
I knew I needed to go down to Mrs. Martin, but I was more worried about Mr. Thanos. Lady Cynthia rushed up the main stairs ahead of me, her skirts bunched in her hands to show an unladylike amount of calf.
I followed Cynthia to the second floor and then along a gallery that wrapped around the lower floors. Halfway around this she opened the door to a bedroom with a lofty ceiling and windows that looked out to the front drive.
Mr. Thanos lay in a bed the size of a small barge. The head- and footboards were heavily carved, matching the night tables on either side of the bed and the clothes cupboard against the wall. Mr. Thanos was propped up on pillows and covered in quilts, his face as pale as the sheets. From his white face, his dark eyes burned, and his unshaved whiskers stood out in black shadow.
“I’ve brought Mrs. Holloway,” Lady Cynthia said in a tone of forced cheer.
Mr. Thanos struggled to sit up, but I went straight to him and prevented him with an admonishing hand. “You stay right where you are, Mr. Thanos. What have they given you as an antidote?”
Elgin blinked, his eyes unfocused without his spectacles. “A doctor fellow fed me ipecac. It was disgusting.” He sank back with a groan. “But possibly saved my life.”
“Well, they must decide what noxious substance you ingested before they give you anything else,” I said. “They are blaming the mushrooms, but I assure you . . .”