Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Not a bit of it. Miss Townsend’s respectable enough. And bloody rich.”

  “Oh dear. Your language.” Lady Clifford’s voice held distress. “You are already a hopeless bluestocking, Cynthia. If you become any more mannish, no gentleman will want you.”

  “Excellent. I’ll keep it up, then.”

  “I do despair of you. Your sister married, and see what she gained?”

  “A husband who chased his maids before she . . .” Cynthia trailed off with a cough. Her sister had died not long after I’d come to work here. She’s been mistress of this house. Lord Rankin, the husband in question, had moved to Surrey in his grief but allowed Cynthia and her aunt and uncle to stay here and run his London home for him.

  Lord Clifford cleared his throat. “What your mother means is that Emily married well, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. Be in charge of your own household—wouldn’t that be better than gadding about London as an eccentric?”

  “You were plenty eccentric when you were my age, Papa,” Cynthia observed. “Is being lord of the manor better than that? Or has life grown deadly dull?”

  Another chuckle. “My dear, you do have a sharp tongue.”

  “Only when I speak the truth. I don’t want to leave London. I am happy here. I have friends—respectable ones—though I can’t imagine why either of you have begun worrying about that. Auntie has been going on to you, hasn’t she?”

  “Your aunt has your best wishes at heart,” Lady Clifford said. “However, nothing needs to be decided today. We will stay in London for some time, enough for you to have some summer gowns made.”

  “Gowns, eh?” Cynthia huffed. “Where will we find the money for that?”

  “Now, daughter.” Lord Clifford lost his amusement. “Do not twit me about funds. I have plenty.”

  “Do you? Who did you swindle them from?”

  “Cynthia,” Lord Clifford said, aghast. “Really.”

  “Do apologize to your father.” The steel in Lady Clifford’s voice increased.

  “You know Papa is not much more than a confidence trickster, Mummy. Why have you truly come to London?”

  “Your mother told you.” Lord Clifford’s voice hardened. “To fetch you home. Your aunt has given us many stories about you, including you swanning about in gentleman’s attire and associating with a cook, of all people.”

  The cook in question was me. I hoped Lady Cynthia would deny our friendship and maintain the peace, but when Cynthia lost her temper, she did not guard her words.

  “The cook you dismiss is a fine human being and far kinder to me than you two have ever been. I’ve watched you drinking with stevedores, Papa, so do not admonish me about speaking to a cook. A damned good cook, as it so happens.”

  I warmed to Cynthia’s praise even as her words alarmed me. Defending a friendship with me was not the way to prevent her parents from shunting her home.

  “If this cook has taught you the appalling manners I am now observing, I am not surprised Isobel is unhappy you trot down to the kitchen at every chance,” Lady Clifford said. “The woman is probably a harpy from the backstreets.”

  “Honestly, listen to you both. Mrs. Holloway is worth ten of you. Do not bleat to me about the backstreets, Mummy. You know you lived in them before Papa managed to finagle his way into his lofty title and empty house.”

  “Cynthia, darling . . .”

  Lady Clifford’s words trailed off as thumping footsteps headed for the hall—Lady Cynthia stamping out in anger.

  I quickly rounded the corner to the servants’ staircase and started up the four flights to the attic floor, where I had my chamber. I did not pause to catch my breath until I was in my small bedchamber and had shut the door behind me. I leaned against it and inhaled heavily.

  My chest was hollow with worry that Cynthia’s parents would prevail. Not only would I miss Cynthia, but sequestering her in the country would only break her. She needed independence, a direction, not a foolish husband to stifle her spirit. Nor did she need to molder away in her parents’ rather dank household until her youth and looks were gone.

  While I’d told those in the kitchen that it was not our place to interfere with an earl’s and countess’s wishes for their daughter, I had no intention of doing nothing. I would have to be covert and discreet, but I would act. My show of acceptance had been for those, like the footman Mr. Davis had been admonishing, who might carry the tale above stairs.

  I unfastened and carefully removed my best gown, fluffed out my petticoats, and donned my gray work dress. I had recently sewn on new cuffs and collar, white and starched.

  Back down the stairs I went. When I reached the ground floor, I peered about cautiously, but saw no one. I heard voices murmuring in the drawing room, but the double doors were now closed. Of Cynthia, there was no sign. I hoped she would do nothing drastic. A few months ago, she’d packed a bag and walked out of the house, and would have run away entirely if Miss Townsend hadn’t talked sense into her.

  By the time I reached the kitchen, Tess had returned to the sauce, and Mr. Davis was holding forth about his dislike for people who considered themselves quality but behaved like spoiled children. Mrs. Redfern regarded him in disapproval, but Elsie and Charlie, the bootboy, listened with interest.

  “There isn’t time for all that, Mr. Davis,” I told him on my way to the stove. “We have work to do. Tess, the sauce is not thickening because you did not cook the roux enough. A little arrowroot will help, but next time, make certain the butter is bubbling but not browning, nor is the roux dry.”

  “Yes, Mrs. H.” Tess scattered in a spoonful of arrowroot from the jar on the shelf near the stove and continued to stir. Charlie ducked into his corner, and Elsie returned to the sink.

  “We must convince the Bywaters to allow Lady Cynthia to remain here,” Mr. Davis said, not budging from the center of the room.

  “How will we do that?” Tess asked over her shoulder.

  Mrs. Redfern sniffed. “It is none of our affair, Mr. Davis. I would be sorry to see her go, but—”

  “It is our affair,” Mr. Davis snapped. “They will marry off Lady Cynthia to some insipid sprig to strengthen their family’s standing, and I’m certain they’ll make sure he’s a rich sprig. Lady Cynthia needs to be here, where we can look after her.”

  “You warm my heart, Mr. Davis,” I told him.

  I tied on my apron and looked over the recipes Tess had chosen. Salmon with capers, hens in béchamel sauce, artichokes, salad, carrots in dill sauce, and a rhubarb tart. Good choices, if a tad ambitious.

  “You said there was nothing we could do,” Tess reminded me as she whisked the béchamel. “That you weren’t even going to try.”

  “I said I doubted Mrs. Bywater or Lord and Lady Clifford would listen to me. I did not say I would not give the matter vigorous thought.” I began to separate strands of fresh dill. “I wonder why Lord Clifford truly has come to London.”

  “They said,” Tess answered at once. “To fetch Lady Cynthia home.”

  “Lady Cynthia has been living here for a while now, well before I arrived,” I pointed out. “Mrs. Bywater has been complaining about the friendship between Cynthia and me for nearly a year. Why have Cynthia’s parents now decided a trip to London is in order? They could have simply sent for Cynthia—Mrs. Bywater would have put her into a coach or on a train without hesitation.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Davis brightened. “I see what you’re on about. Perhaps they’ll mention the true reason at supper.”

  “You are there to serve, Mr. Davis, not listen,” Mrs. Redfern said, but I could see she spoke the words only because she considered it her duty. “Sara is in charge of unpacking Lady Clifford’s things. Her ladyship did not bring her own maid.” Her lips puckered with disapprobation. “I will assist her.” She rustled out of the kitchen.

  “Hoorah!” Tess cheered.
“Good for Mrs. R. We’ll show ’em.”

  “We will do nothing of the sort.” I set the dill on the cutting board and hefted my knife. “Mr. Davis, I’m certain wine needs decanting.”

  “Right you are, Mrs. Holloway.” Mr. Davis glided out, whistling.

  “Did ya have a nice outing, Mrs. H.?” Tess asked, her cheerfulness returning. “The Crystal Palace, eh? My brother and I sneaked off there once when we was tykes. Couldn’t pay the fee to go in, but we wandered about the grounds and climbed on the ancient beasts. Fancy those huge things used to walk the earth, and right here in England. Too bad the Flood wiped ’em out, innit? Or maybe a good thing for us.” She chortled. “We’d be food for ’em, wouldn’t we?”

  “Not so much chatter until you’ve finished that sauce.” My knife flashed through the dill, the herb’s fresh fragrance soothing. “But yes, it was a pleasant outing. I will take you there one day, once you master the mother sauces.”

  “Ooh, I’d like that.” Tess stared down into her pot, as though determined to master all the sauces on the moment.

  Her question about the Crystal Palace reminded me of Lady Covington and her certainty that she was being poisoned. I ceased my chopping and made a note in my book that I must create a lemon cake. I hadn’t made one in some time, so I’d have to think about a recipe. I could not give one to Lady Covington’s cook that was less than my best. I had a reputation to maintain.

  Lady Covington’s story concerned me. If she was mad or simply had a lively imagination, she’d be all right, but if she spoke the truth, then she was in danger. I disliked to think of her unprotected in her big house, with those four rather odd children, her ironhanded lady’s maid who might be deranged, and who knew who else.

  I was certain that Jepson had overheard Lady Covington speaking to me. If Jepson was in league with the poisoner, or was the poisoner herself, Lady Covington might not make it through the night.

  I realized I was being dramatic, but at the same time, I fretted. I could not rush around and pound on Lady Covington’s back door on the moment, which meant I would have to recruit help.

  “Charlie,” I called into the corner. Charlie ceased playing with the dice he was rolling and jumped to his feet. “Will you see if you can find James McAdam?” I asked him. “He’s bound to be about somewhere.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Charlie, glad of the excuse to rush outdoors, charged through the scullery. His small legs flashed through the high window as he ran up the outside stairs, then he was gone.

  I calmed myself by realizing there was plenty I could do even while tied to the kitchen. James was a resourceful lad. I would bid him hunt up his father, Daniel, and ask the two to invent an excuse to get themselves inside Lady Covington’s house and make certain the lady was safe. Daniel, a man of innate charm, had the ability to transform himself into any person he liked. That he’d be able to gain entry into Lady Covington’s household, I had no doubt.

  He’d certainly gained entry to mine, from the time I’d first met him delivering to a kitchen a few years ago, to the current evenings he stopped by after the rest of the staff went to bed. I knew I should not let Daniel linger while we chatted about our days, his son, my daughter, and anything we could think of, but my heart was always lighter after his visits. The kiss or two we shared before he went could make the drudgery of the next day fly by.

  I carried the dill to the stove, scooped out a hunk of butter from a bowl, and began to teach Tess to make yet another sauce.

  * * *

  * * *

  Late that night, after the staff had gone to bed, I stood at my kitchen table surrounded by broken eggshells and lemon rinds. I’d separated eggs and beat whites until my arm was stiff, but by the time I’d reached the third cake, I thought I’d perfected the batter.

  I was folding in the last spoonful of flour on this third attempt when Daniel arrived. I poured the batter into a pan and set the pan carefully in the oven before I went to unlatch the door he’d rapped upon.

  A light rain was falling, darkening the gaslights on the street above. Daniel, clad in a rain-spotted jacket, removed his dripping cap and left it on the corner of the sink in the scullery before he followed me into the kitchen.

  “Mmm.” He closed his eyes and inhaled. “Makes my stomach rumble, that does.”

  Indeed, I heard the stomach in question growling. Daniel’s dark hair glistened with rain, but his blue eyes danced as he slid off his drenched coat. He hung that on the rack near the door, water quickly puddling beneath it.

  “Come and eat the failures.” I scooped up the eggshells and put them into my slop pail, reserving the lemon rinds to make into candied peel. I cut a slice of lemon cake from a loaf I hadn’t considered excellent and thunked it to a plate.

  I slid Daniel a fork and a napkin, and he wiped his hands, took up the fork, and plunged in. A very large hunk of golden cake disappeared into his mouth, and he chewed, a smile lighting his face.

  “This is a failure?” he said after he’d swallowed. “Your failures are splendid.”

  “Too flat,” I said. “It didn’t rise properly. For the one I just put into the oven, I beat butter into the sugar before I added the eggs. It will be lighter, and I’ll send it upstairs for luncheon tomorrow.”

  “I will happily consume anything you consider less than perfect.” Daniel took a few more rapid bites, his usual garrulousness quenched by cake.

  “Have you eaten today?” I asked.

  “Not much. No time.” The rest of the slice disappeared.

  “Well, you cannot survive on cake.” I rose and made for the larder, returning with a plate bearing a large piece of meat pie. “This was left over from the staff’s supper. Shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

  “You are too good to me, Kat.” Daniel pulled the plate to him and unashamedly dug into the pie. “More than I deserve.”

  “I know that,” I said lightly. “In your very busy day, did you have time to look in on Lady Covington?”

  “Indeed I did.” Daniel scooped up a particularly large bite of meat pie, the gravy dribbling to the plate. He took a full minute to chew and swallow then wiped his mouth on the napkin I passed him. “I waylaid their usual deliveryman and convinced him to take me on as an assistant for an hour. Timing it to arrive at Baron Covington’s household not long after that, of course.”

  “Clever.” I imagined Daniel giving the deliveryman a long and touching story of needing work, possibly to feed his son. Daniel stayed close to the truth in his rigmaroles, though he embellished without apology.

  “The deliveryman and I coaxed a cup of tea out of the cook. It had started to rain and was dark—she’s not as sympathetic as you are, but she did not begrudge us the tea.”

  “You are skilled at convincing overtasked cooks to give you food and drink,” I said, reaching for the teapot. “I am surprised you ever need to purchase a meal.”

  Even as I spoke, I poured him a cup—myself one too—and slid it to him.

  “Perhaps I never do.” Daniel winked at me as he lifted the tea.

  “What did you discover?” I prompted. “Is the house a hotbed of intrigue? Or is the lady dreaming things?”

  Daniel lost his smile. “I am glad you sent me.” He slurped tea and clattered the cup into its saucer. “You have reason to be worried, Kat. I believe Lady Covington is in true danger.”

  3

  I had lifted my own cup but quickly set it down, my fingers shaking. “Oh dear. I’d hoped the lady was being fanciful.”

  “I can tell you only what the cook and one of the housemaids told me.” Daniel warmed his fingers around the teacup. “The cook was concerned about her mistress, described her ladyship’s digestion as ‘delicate.’ She said that Lady Covington often took sick in the night, or had stomach cramps early in the morning and was unable to eat breakfast.”

  “That could be nothing more than
a weak constitution,” I ventured. Lady Covington’s color had been good, however; everything about her robust. “Or overindulgence.”

  “I suggested this, which brought an indignant reply from both cook and housemaid. Mrs. Gamble—she’s the cook—said that usually Lady Covington is quite fit, and only sometimes takes ill. The housemaid says she has powders for her indigestion, which help. Lady Covington never overindulges in anything, according to these two ladies. She takes one glass of sherry before dinner and one cup of coffee each morning. She considers these her treats for the day. Otherwise she drinks tea, flavored only with a little lemon and no sugar. She eats little more than bread, vegetables, and fish, with meat or fowl for supper every once in a while. Mrs. Gamble assured me she prepares an entire feast for the rest of the family but that Lady Covington partakes of only a few dishes.”

  “Sounds a perfectly sensible regimen. It should keep anyone quite healthy.”

  “Exactly. So why does she take sick? They could not tell me.”

  “Continuing the argument, sometimes there is a hidden disease,” I said. “One doesn’t like to think of it, but some illnesses can render a healthy person sickly quite rapidly. Or, a less bleak situation, a patent medicine that is supposed to clear the skin or aid digestion does exactly the opposite.”

  “I will remember that.” Daniel touched his face as though worried he’d find it breaking out in spots. “The housemaid claims her ladyship takes no medicines except the digestive powders, but who knows whether she has something tucked away she lets no one see?” He lifted a finger. “Before you make a counterpoint, let me tell you what settled the matter for me. The cook said that she sometimes prepares meals specially for Lady Covington, particularly after a bad bout of sickness. Mrs. Gamble makes dishes for Lady Covington alone and carries them up on a tray herself. These meals Lady Covington takes in her chambers, none of the family present. Mrs. Gamble also prepares the tea and brings it with her on those occasions. After these meals, Lady Covington is never ill.”