Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  There—I saw it. The look Daniel sometimes had. Determination, anger, the dedication to putting things right.

  Mr. Thanos’s attention moved back to the papers and became fixed. He drifted toward the desk, sitting down without another word. He bent his head over a page as though the figures on it pulled him toward them and blotted out the rest of the world.

  I removed a handkerchief from my reticule and dabbed at my eyes, still shaky. I waited a moment, but Mr. Thanos’s back did not move—he’d become so wholly absorbed in the task that I wagered he had no idea I was still in the room.

  The shadows had grown long. I must return to Mount Street and become the cook again, to grub for my living, working for the day my daughter and I could be together at last.

  Swallowing a sob that jumped to my throat, I gathered up my reticule and stuffed the handkerchief back inside.

  “Good day, Mr. Thanos,” I said.

  He never heard me. He lowered his head, trying to read the papers in the fading light. I set my reticule down again, lit a lamp on the table with matches from the match safe on the wall, and carried the small light to the desk.

  Mr. Thanos glanced up, said, “Oh, thank you,” and went back to it, his finger marking where he’d left off.

  I didn’t bother saying good day again, or good-bye—he’d never have heard me. I let myself out of the flat and went down the stairs, steadying myself on the railing.

  My encounter with Mr. Thanos had at least cleared my head somewhat. As I made my way along Southampton Street to Covent Garden, I had the presence of mind to seek an omnibus that wasn’t overfull, and had a corner to myself as we bumped from Covent Garden to Long Acre through Leicester Square and so to Piccadilly. I decided to descend near Berkeley Street and walk the rest of the way, as I’d already grown restless, and wanted time to regain my equilibrium before I entered the kitchen, where the staff would be.

  My thoughts were troubled, however, and would not leave me alone. Mr. Thanos had provided a brief diversion, but the ride in the omnibus and the suffocating London air had done little to relieve me.

  The Millburns were good, kind people. Why should I be so reluctant to let them do as they proposed?

  It made me feel mean and small. Hurt and confused. And terrified. What did I have to live for if not Grace? She’d changed my life the moment she’d been put into my arms.

  I knew London well enough to walk up Berkeley Street without paying attention to it, and to go around the park in the middle of Berkeley Square toward the corner of Mount Street. It was strange, I reflected in the very back of my mind, how well I knew the roads of Mayfair, a place a person like me could never hope to live in my own right. I’d dwelled most of my adult life in this corner of London and nearby it, even though I’d never truly belong there.

  A wagon rattled past me as I started down Mount Street. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw its sturdy wheels slow and then halt next to me.

  “All right, Mrs. H.?” Daniel’s voice rang down at me. “You look all in. Climb up—I’ll take you home.”

  Home. It wasn’t my home. Never would be.

  I studied the seat on the wagon—two hard boards, which would entail me being squashed next to him, my backside bruised on the uncomfortable seat. Would set tongues to wagging all over Mayfair.

  I was tired, however, and a ride would rest my feet. I walked to the back of the wagon, its bed piled with sacks of whatever Daniel was delivering, and prepared to scramble on. A youth darted out of nowhere, grabbed a box from the bed of the wagon, set it down for me to use as a step, and held out a hand to steady me aboard.

  “Thank you, James,” I told him graciously. James nodded at me, the warmhearted courtesy of his father shining through.

  I settled myself, if awkwardly, on the sacks. James lifted the box into the bed and waved at me as Daniel clucked to the horse to drive on.

  As we rolled along Mount Street we passed the bulk of a building that had long been the workhouse for the parish of St. George’s, Hanover Square. The workhouse had been shut down a few years ago when the parish became reorganized with several others, but the brick building remained, windows empty, some broken, a reminder of the sad souls who’d existed there. A churchyard had surrounded it as well, but that was also no longer used, the bones of the dead lying undisturbed.

  The edifice both haunted me and made me feel better at the same time. Had I not worked as hard as I had, hiding my daughter with my friends and pouring my entire life into my craft of cooking, I would have lived in that workhouse or a similar one, my child perhaps taken from me long ago, or perhaps living there alongside me.

  Instead, Grace had grown up in a house of love, well-fed, clothed, cared for, never knowing the misery of the workhouse. I had done that. If nothing else, I could comfort myself with that knowledge.

  Daniel halted the wagon precisely at the stairs that led down to the kitchen at the Rankin house. He set the brake, leapt from the seat, and came to help me alight. The horse, used to the routine, simply stood, using the excuse to cant a hind leg and take a rest.

  As Daniel’s firm hand came under my arm to assist me to the ground, he looked into my face, his ready smile departing. “Kat, what is it?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  I shook my head. My trouble was too new, too raw, and too private to share with Daniel in the middle of the street.

  He released me, watching me, but let me go.

  I scurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mary was bustling about preparing things for dinner, the scullery maid had her arms up to her elbows in soapy water in the deep sink, and Davis chivied the footmen with both good-natured banter and rather cutting remarks—“Wipe them smudges off that silver—I could have a fishmonger do what you’re doing with your greasy fingers and pay him half.”

  Daniel did not follow me in. He began unloading the wagon, with the help of James, who’d jogged behind us with his usual energy.

  I pretended to sharply look over what Mary had done while I took off my hat, but my mind was not in the present. Mary could have made a sweet pudding with offal and sugar, and I’d never have noticed.

  I gave her a nod and unbuttoned my coat as I made for the housekeeper’s parlor to hang up both coat and hat.

  “Oh, I say, Mrs. H.—” Mr. Davis called behind me.

  I opened the door to the parlor, and stopped. Inside, Mrs. Bowen was just rising from the Belter chair, while Lady Cynthia, in her man’s dress, lounged in a chair at the table, her booted feet propped on its polished surface. Lady Cynthia brought her boots down with a thump as I walked in, and both women regarded me with expressions of furtive guilt.

  14

  “Mrs. Bowen,” I said in stunned surprise.

  “Mrs. Holloway,” Mrs. Bowen said in return, her voice stiff.

  Lady Cynthia remained seated, though her feet were on the floor now, and smoothed her sleek hair with shaking fingers.

  “I thought you’d given notice,” I went on to Mrs. Bowen, as she, standing with her hands clasped over her black bombazine gown, remained in rigid silence.

  As I stared at her, she at last gave me a slow nod. “I changed my mind. I need to stay.”

  “I see.” I didn’t really. Lady Rankin must be very understanding of servants who came and went as they pleased to not sack Mrs. Bowen for her vacillations. Or perhaps Lady Rankin had simply been glad she did not have to bother searching for another housekeeper and had welcomed Mrs. Bowen back.

  I looked past Mrs. Bowen at Lady Cynthia, wondering why she was lounging in the housekeeper’s parlor. She seemed to realize my curiosity, because she rose with a sniff.

  “I came looking for a Bradshaw,” she said. “Blasted Sara was supposed to bring me one, but I suppose she has forgotten. I wager my sister needed her hair crimped again, or some such.”

  A reasonable explanation, but I noticed Mrs. Bowen and Lad
y Cynthia exchange a conspiratorial glance as I stepped into the room and draped my coat over the hook on the stand.

  “Are you traveling, my lady?” I asked Lady Cynthia as I turned away from the coatrack. A Bradshaw, as Bradshaw’s Railway Handbook was fondly called, was a paper-covered book that listed the timetables for every line in Britain. Bradshaws also contained a plethora of advertisements and information on hotels, sights to see, towns to stroll through, and so forth on the railway lines, for Britain, the Continent, and even India. Though I’d leafed through them from time to time, I’d never perused a Bradshaw completely, as my travels rarely took me far from London.

  Lady Cynthia gave another sniff then jerked a large handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her nose with it. “I’m off to Brighton in a few days. With Bobby. London’s dull as a post.” Her face lit. “I say, come with us, Mrs. H.”

  I regarded her in astonishment. “You mean to cook for you?”

  “Of course. What do you say? Cook for two women in a seaside cottage who don’t eat much? You’d have plenty of time to walk about on the shingle.”

  I had a vision of myself hurrying down the rocky seashore in my cap and apron after the two young women in frock coats and suits, and wanted to sink into hysterical laughter. My imagination put my daughter there, running barefoot in the waves, and then I wanted to burst into tears.

  I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Lady Cynthia, but no. I have a position here.”

  “For that stick, Rankin, and my sister who can’t be bothered to lift her head from her pillow?”

  Her disgust was clear. I said gently, “Perhaps her ladyship is unwell.”

  “Her ladyship is a lazy cow,” Cynthia declared. “Rankin married her because he knew she’d never bother to contradict him. He knew I wouldn’t bow to him, so he jumped over me and lighted on Emily. Lucky dodge for me, I’d say.”

  Her words were robust, but I saw a flash of pain in her eyes, one so brief it wouldn’t have been noticed had I not been looking in particular.

  Had Cynthia fallen in love with Rankin when he’d come calling on her sister? Or was Cynthia simply chagrined at having been dismissed in favor of the far more feminine and pliable Lady Emily?

  Cynthia looked away and strode out of the room, and any insight to her was lost. “Bring up that Bradshaw when you find one, Mrs. B.,” she called behind her.

  “Of course, my lady,” Mrs. Bowen answered.

  Cynthia began to whistle, the sound dying as she clumped up the back stairs to the main house.

  I stood looking down the passage until Mrs. Bowen gave a little cough. “I am sure you have cooking to do, Mrs. Holloway.”

  I certainly did. I departed for the kitchen, knowing my curiosity about the true reason Mrs. Bowen returned would have to wait until later.

  • • •

  I’d learned long ago the benefit of good preparation, and before I’d gone this morning I’d measured out and set aside ingredients that wouldn’t spoil for the night’s dishes, showing Mary so she could ready things for me in future. I thanked heaven I had done all this, because tonight I could barely remember what was what. But because I had my mise en place, I easily put together turbot in a butter sauce and an almond soup made from mutton I’d left to boil with spices, pulverized almonds, and leftover chopped boiled eggs from breakfast. No food need be wasted when it can be turned into a tasty soup.

  For meat I gave the family pork cutlets that had been boiled then fried quickly with breadcrumbs and butter and a little onion Mary had chopped. Then greens—dandelion, chervil, and lettuce—served warm with butter and a sprinkling of new cheese, peas with a bit of ham, all accompanied by my crusty bread that Mary had baked at the correct time. She was learning quickly, I was happy to see.

  For pudding I sent up fruit and cheese as I’d had no time to prepare a tart or cake. I could only do so much.

  A bell went off as I finished putting together the staff’s meal—the bell was for Simms, the valet. He cursed, grabbed a roll from the platter, and stuffed it into his mouth as he ran out.

  The servants drifted in as their duties above stairs let them come down for their supper. I served everything in the servants’ hall, too unsure of Mrs. Bowen’s temperament tonight to presume to set up a meal for the senior staff in her parlor. Mary and I carried serving platters to the servants’ hall and I also readied a tray for the coachman and his lads in the mews.

  Mary sent me a sly smile as we piled dishes on the tray. She’d been darting me such smiles all evening, and now I had time to ask what was the matter with her.

  “Coachman says they want you to carry the supper out to the stables, Mrs. Holloway,” Mary said, her lips curving as though she found this funny.

  I took in her pleased look, and her blue eyes, freckled face, and light brown curls massed above her forehead that made her look a bit like a sheep. “Coachman says that, does he?” I asked tartly. “I’ve cooked the food; why should I tote it about?”

  Mary’s smile deepened to show two fetching dimples. “It’s not so much him, but that Daniel McAdam. He thinks it would be nice to have you bring it.”

  A chuckle behind me startled me, but it was only Mr. Davis, strolling into the servants’ hall and seating himself to open his newspaper. “Have a care, Mrs. H. I think he’s sweet on you.”

  “Nonsense.” I carried the last bowl, the greens, into the servants’ hall and plunked it on the table. “He likes to tease.”

  “Be careful he don’t convince you to marry him,” Mr. Davis went on. “He’s a long way beneath you. Best to keep to your class.”

  “Which is what, a butler?” I asked, more sharply than I intended. I had no idea what class Daniel was, drat him.

  “You could do worse than a butler,” Mr. Davis said without offense as he spread his newspaper wide and began to scan the columns. “I see the Queen is off to hide herself in the country again. She ought to stay put and do some ruling, I think. Calls herself Countess of Balmoral when she wants to go incognito—and then takes her own special train. I ask you.”

  “She lost her husband,” I said. “Have some sympathy.” Queen Victoria had had a decent husband at least, as much as many aristocrats had never liked poor Albert. Or so I’d heard. I’d been a girl of about Grace’s age when the Prince Consort had died.

  “Twenty years ago.” Davis flapped the newspaper. “Now she’s devoted to that Scotsman, Mr. Brown. Another case of a woman marrying beneath herself—although she hasn’t actually married him. Though rumor pops up now and again that she has.”

  “Mr. Davis!” Mrs. Bowen’s freezing tones cut through his genial ones as she marched into the servants’ hall and took her place at the head of the table. “Do keep your remarks respectful. Her Majesty has had a difficult time, as any woman does in the world of men.” She bent a glare on Mr. Davis, who only looked amused, but he folded up the paper and set it aside to dig into his meal.

  “Heed my warning, Mrs. H.,” Mr. Davis said as I turned to leave for the kitchen.

  “I have no intention of marrying anyone,” I told him firmly from the doorway. “And neither does the Queen.”

  I did not mention my errand to the stables, knowing Mrs. Bowen would not approve, so I said nothing more. To Mr. Davis’s continued laughter, I hung up my cap and apron in the kitchen, swung a shawl around my shoulders to keep off the damp, covered the tray, and headed for the mews.

  • • •

  The stables for Lord Rankin’s house lay in a passage called Reeves Mews, a narrow lane that cut behind the gardens of the large homes on Mount Street. Each carriage house had room for horses and a town coach on its ground floor, with small chambers above for the coachman, head groom, stable hands, and any other servant who didn’t have a place to sleep in the main house.

  When I reached Lord Rankin’s stable, a lad of about twelve summers opened the door to admit me into a
large space of warmth and horsey scents. He led me up the stairs in the back of the carriage house to the common room above, where four men, including Daniel, and a half dozen young lads waited to eat.

  Daniel, ever gallant, met me before I’d taken more than two steps up, took the tray from my hands, and carried it the rest of the way upstairs.

  By the time I’d made it to the common room—to make sure all was well with the food—Daniel had already begun placing the platters on the table. Hands shot out and grabbed things in genial chaos.

  I knew precisely why Daniel had told the groom to ask for me to bring over the tray. It had nothing to do with courtship, as much as Mr. Davis wished to make it seem so, and everything to do with finding out what had upset me today.

  My guess was confirmed when Daniel lifted the now empty tray and carried it back downstairs for me, as though worried the thing would be too heavy for me. The stablemen, busy raking in food, didn’t notice us go.

  On the ground floor, with only the horses to hear us, Daniel set the tray on the bottom step, tugged me from the stairs, and stood me near the high wheel of Lord Rankin’s landau.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said, his eyes holding quiet concern.

  I knew he meant me to explain why I had looked so desolate when he’d stopped his wagon for me on the street. I didn’t much want to speak about it, fearing I’d break down and become a sobbing wretch, not good for anything.

  “Nothing at all,” I said, trying to keep to my usual crisp tones. “Nothing to do with Sinead, or Lord Rankin, or people blowing things up.” My nose itched, and I thrust my hand into my pocket for a handkerchief. I envied Lady Cynthia and her large man’s hankie. Mine was sturdy linen but small and dainty, meant to dab away delicate female tears.