The strength went out of her, her face growing pale, her pupils narrowing to pinpricks. Her breath came in gasps, full-blown hysteria on its way.
Mrs. Watkins sank down beside her sister, crying as well, the two of them becoming a wailing mess. The maid looked on in shock.
I put down the silver pieces, opened my bag, removed my smelling salts, and went to the two ladies, waving the little bottle under their noses.
Mrs. Watkins sat up abruptly, but Mrs. Herbert remained slumped against the sofa’s back, breathing hard. I could see the innocent beauty she’d been before she’d been trapped by Sir Lionel. Sir Lionel had been an odious man, and I couldn’t help believe he’d been justly punished.
On the other hand, there was nothing to say Mrs. Herbert wouldn’t simply become a crazed poisoner. She’d not worried a bit about the rest of us being sickened as well, from the Fullers—people she’d never met—to her own sister. In addition, I’d almost been tried for the crime, my fate, certain hanging.
I took from my bag the vial of laudanum I’d brought for the purpose of subduing Mrs. Watkins—because I’d thought it she who’d poisoned Sir Lionel and the Fullers. While Mrs. Herbert lay gasping like a fish, I held her nose and poured the laudanum into her mouth, forcing her to swallow.
Mrs. Watkins was still crying, but she made no move to stop me. Perhaps she too worried that her sister had gone a bit mad.
After that, I strode out of the room and out of the house, in search of a constable. I nearly ran into James, who was hovering near the railings that separated the house from the street.
“Gracious, what are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Following you,” James said. “Dad told me to. You all right?”
“No. Fetch a constable, will you? I’ve found the poisoner of Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury.”
I had the satisfaction of seeing young James gape at me before his face cleared, and he beamed.
“I knew you could do it!” he shouted, then was away in a flash, running to find the nearest constable.
Chapter 11
I was never certain what happened to Mrs. Herbert. She was arrested, likely shut in to the same kind of cell I had been, her trial scheduled.
I walked away from Mrs. Watkins, her house, Sir Lionel’s, and all the rest of it. I visited my daughter again, holding her close until I could breathe once more.
I knew, though, that I’d never be free of it in my heart. I’d lived in a house where a man had been poisoned and died, and I’d condemned a woman to death for it. She’d go to the crowded cell in Newgate where I had waited in fear, only she would not be set free.
I’d met Daniel, half fallen in love with him and had been sorely deceived by him. After Grace’s father deserted me, I’d vowed I’d never let a man trick me again, and yet the first fine pair of eyes I saw, I was off. I badly needed to curb these tendencies.
My agency did at last find me a post a few weeks later, in a large house in Richmond. The lady of the house had heard of my cooking from my previous employer, Mrs. Pauling, and was happy to have me.
Richmond was a bit far from my daughter for my taste, but the pay was good, I had an ample number of days out, and it was only a short train ride to the heart of London. Perhaps I could bring Grace out to Richmond to visit me, and we could walk along the river and see the sights. She’d like that.
The house was a good place, with the kitchen run efficiently—even more so once I’d taken command.
One cold winter day, as I went over a list of what I needed to prepare supper, a gentleman walked, unannounced, into the kitchen.
This house had a large servants’ hall across the passage from the big kitchen, its own laundry rooms, housekeeper’s parlor, a butler’s pantry far larger than the closet-sized one at Sir Lionel’s, and a fairly cozy bedroom down the corridor for me. The corridor and rooms were always teeming with the servants needed to tend a large household.
The gentleman could only have entered the servants’ area by coming down the stairs that led to the main house, or in through the scullery door from outside. Either way, he’d have been noticed and politely questioned by the three strapping footman, the butler—who was a proper butler and not a wastrel like Copley—and the housekeeper, long before he reached the kitchen.
However, no one seemed to have stopped him, and the entire staff, when I looked around, was startlingly absent.
The gentleman was Daniel. He was dressed in what I would say were middle-class clothes—not so posh as the ones I’d seen him wear in Oxford Street, but not so scruffy as his work trousers and boots. His hair was tamed but not pomaded, a bit rumpled, but combed flat. He set a hat and pair of leather gloves on my kitchen table and rested one hip on the tabletop as though perfectly at home.
“It is good to see you, Kat.”
I waited a few heartbeats until I was certain my voice would not crack. “Good day, Mr. McAdam. How is James?”
“He is well. Working.” A wry look entered his eyes. “That is, when he’s not off doing what he bloody well pleases.”
“Ah.” I knew Daniel wanted me to smile, so I did not. “What brings you to Richmond?”
“Hope.” Daniel’s gaze fixed on me. “I want us to be friends again, Kat. Like before.”
“Oh, do you now?” I laid down the list of foodstuffs and clicked the pencil next to it. “Well, I’m certain you would feel much better if I agreed. If I forgive you, you will be much relieved.”
Daniel lost his forced, polite look. “Damn it, Kat.”
He came to me and pulled me around to face him, holding my arms with his hard hands. I felt the solid lip of the table behind me as I looked up into his angry face. Daniel’s eyes had a dangerous glint in them. I had no idea what he was about to do, but I lifted my chin.
“Threatening me will not help your cause,” I said crisply. “Remember, I’m a dab hand with a knife.”
Rage turned to frustrated amusement. Daniel cupped my face with a firm hand, leaned down, and kissed my mouth. “I could fall in love with you, Kat Holloway,” he said, his voice low.
My heart fluttered like a dove’s wings. However, I refused to let him know that I could fall stupidly in love with him in return.
“The lady in Oxford Street might be a bit put out,” I said. “Mr. McAdam dallying with a cook? Not the done thing.”
Daniel made an impatient noise. “The lady in Oxford Street is—was—an assignment. Like Sir Lionel. Both of those are finished.”
“Are they?” My heart beat thickly, and I could barely think. The kiss had been a rather fine one, Daniel stood close, and my coherence was running away. “You should be on to the next thing then.”
“I am. Unfortunately. But I had to ...” Daniel trailed off, his fingers on my face softening. “I wanted to make sure you were well, Kat.”
“I am,” I said, surprised my voice was so steady. “As you can see. This is a fine kitchen.”
“It is.” Daniel drew a breath, lowered his hand, and deliberately stepped away from me. “What is it you prepare tonight, Mrs. Holloway?”
I had to consult my list, because my menu had just gone clean out of my head. “Beef bourguignon. Sorrel soup, fish in white wine, and lemon tart to finish.”
“Ah, Kat, you make my mouth water.” Daniel kissed his fingers to me, slanting me his wicked look. “If I happen to be passing in my delivery wagon after supper, might I beg a scrap or two to sustain me?”
He wanted to transform back to the Daniel I knew best, did he? “What about this?” I asked, waving my hand at his suit. “This … banker’s clerk, or whatever you are? Where will he be?”
“Gone after this evening, I’m afraid.”
“I see. Will I ever, perchance, meet the real Daniel McAdam?”
Daniel lost his smile. “Perhaps one day. Yes, definitely one day, I’ll bare my soul to you, Kat. I promise.”
My voice went quiet. “Will I like what I see when you do?”
“I don’t know.” The wor
ds rang true. “But I believe I am willing to risk it.”
I had no idea what to say to that, or what I ought to do. Forgive him? Turn my back on him forever? Do neither, and go on with him as though nothing had happened?
One thing was certain—there was far more to Daniel than met the eye. I was curious enough, blast it, to want to learn everything I could about the man.
“In that case,” I said, taking up my pencil again. “If you are not too late, I might save back a bit of lemon tart for you.”
Daniel’s smile returned. “I would enjoy that very much.”
We shared a look. Daniel took up his hat and gloves, giving me a bow.
“You have more skills than cooking,” he said. “Perhaps you will help me on another hunt someday.”
I shivered. “Indeed no. Once was enough for me.”
“Was it?” Daniel carefully pulled on his gloves. “We’ll see. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holloway. I look forward to speaking with you again.”
And I, you, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. “Good afternoon, Mr. McAdam.”
He shot me a grin, came back to me, kissed me on the lips, and strode out, whistling.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading! A Soupçon of Poison was one of the first historical mysteries I wrote—or at least started to write. I found the opening chapter for this novella stuck in a file in a box when cleaning out my flooded house. I enjoyed the chapters and remembered my plans for the characters of Kat and Daniel, so I dusted off the story (literally), wrote the rest of it, and published it.
Because of the great response from readers to Kat Holloway and Daniel McAdam, I decided to continue her series as I’d planned to do before my writing career went in a different direction.
While Soupçon of Poison is a novella, the remaining books in the series will be full-length novels, published under my Jennifer Ashley name.
Kat’s adventures continue in Death Below Stairs, Book 1 of the Kat Holloway Below Stairs mysteries. An excerpt follows—plus see the Also by Ashley Gardner and Jennifer Ashley page at the end of this anthology for links to more information. Kat has her own website as well:
www.katholloway.com.
I hope you enjoy this heroine and series!
All my best,
Jennifer Ashley
(aka Ashley Gardner)
Excerpt: Death Below Stairs
Kat Holloway Below-Stairs Mysteries, Book 1
Chapter One
London, March 1881
I had not been long at my post in Mayfair, on Mount Street, when my employer’s sister came to some calamity.
I must say I was not shocked that such a thing happened, because when a woman takes on the dress and bad habits of a man, she cannot be surprised at the disapprobation of others when she is found out. Lady Cynthia’s problems, however, turned out to be only the beginning of a vast tangle and a long, dangerous business.
But I am ahead of myself. I am a cook, one of the finest in London if I do say it, and also one of the youngest to be made head cook in a lavish household. I’d worked some time in the winter at a house in Richmond, and it was a good position, but the family desired to sell up and move to the Lake District, and I was loath to leave the environs of London for my own, rather private, reasons.
Back went my name on the books, and the agency at last wrote to my new lodgings at Tottenham Court Road to say they had found a place that might suit. Taking their letter with me, I went along to the house of one Lord Rankin in Mount Street, descending from the omnibus at South Audley Street and walking the rest of the way on foot.
I expected to speak to the housekeeper, but upon arrival, the butler, a tall, handsome specimen who rather preened himself, took me up the stairs to meet the lady of the house in her small study.
She was Lady Rankin, wife of the prodigiously wealthy baron who owned this abode. The baron’s wealth came not from the fact that he was an aristocrat, the butler, Mr. Davis, had already confided in me—the estate had been nearly bankrupt when Lord Rankin had inherited it. Rather, Lord Rankin was a deft dabbler in the City and had earned money by wise investment long before the cousin who’d held the title had died, conveniently childless.
When I first beheld Lady Rankin, I was surprised she’d asked for me, because she seemed too frail to hold up her head, let alone conduct an interview with a new cook.
“Mrs. Holloway, ma’am,” Davis said. He ushered me in, bowed, and withdrew.
The study in which I found myself was small and overtly feminine. The walls were covered in yellow moiré, the curtains at the windows, white lace. Framed mirrors along with paintings of gardens and picturesque country lanes adorned the walls. A delicate, gilt-legged table from the last century reposed in the middle of the room, with an equally graceful chair behind it. A scroll-backed chaise, covered with shawls, sat near the desk.
Lady Rankin was in the act of rising from the chaise as we entered, as though she had grown weary waiting for me and retired to it. She moved listlessly to the chair behind her desk, sat upon it, and pulled a paper in front of her with a languid hand.
“Mrs. Holloway?” she asked.
Davis had just announced me, so there was no doubt who I was, but I nodded. Lady Rankin looked me over. I remained standing in the exact center of the carpet in my second-best frock, a brown wool jacket buttoned to my throat, and my second-best hat of light brown straw perching on my thick coil of dark hair.
Lady Rankin’s garment was white, filmy, and high necked, its bodice lined with pearls. Her hair was pale gold, her cheeks thin and bloodless. She could hardly be thirty summers, but rather than being childlike, she was ethereal, as though a gust of wind could puff her away.
She glanced at whatever paper was in front of her—presumably a letter from my agency—and then over the desk at me. Her eyes were a very light blue and, in contrast to her angel-like appearance, were rather hard.
“You are very young,” she observed. Her voice was light, as thin as her bones.
“I am nearly thirty,” I answered stiffly.
When a person thought of a cook, they pictured an older woman who was either a shrew in the kitchen or kindhearted and a bit slow. The truth was that cooks came in all ages, shapes, and temperaments. I happened to be nine and twenty, plump and brown haired, and kind enough, I hoped, but I brooked no nonsense.
“I meant for a cook,” Lady Rankin said. “Our last cook was nearly eighty. She is . . . gone. Living with her daughter.” She added the last quickly, as though fearing I’d take gone to mean to heaven.
I had no idea how Lady Rankin wished me to answer this information, so I only said, “I assure you, my lady, I have been quite well trained.”
“Yes.” Lady Rankin lifted the letter. The single page seemed too heavy for her, so she let it fall. “The agency sings your praises, as do your references. Well, you will find this an easy place. Charles—Lord Rankin—wishes his supper on the table when he arrives home from the City at eight. Davis will tell you his lordship’s favorite dishes. There will be three at table this evening, Lord Rankin, myself, and my . . . sister.”
Her thin lip curled the slightest bit as she pronounced this last. I thought nothing of it at the time and only gave her another nod.
Lady Rankin slumped back into her chair as though the speech had taken the last of her strength. She waved a limp hand at me. “Go on, then. Davis and Mrs. Bowen will explain things to you.”
I curtsied politely and took my leave. I wondered if I shouldn’t summon Lady Rankin’s maid to assist her to bed but left the room before I did anything so presumptuous.
The kitchen below was to my liking. It was nowhere near as modern and large as the one I’d left in Richmond, but I found it what I was used to and comfortable.
This house was what I called a double town house—that is, instead of having a staircase hall on one side and all the rooms on the other, it had rooms on both sides of a middle hall. Possibly two houses had been purchased and knocked in
to one at some time and the second staircase walled off for use by the staff.
Below stairs, we had a large servants’ hall across a passage from the kitchen. Past the kitchen on the same passage was a scullery—which also connected to the kitchen and had a door that led out and up the outside stairs. On the other side of the kitchen was a larder, and beyond that a laundry room, a room for folding clean linens, the housekeeper’s parlor, and the butler’s pantry, which included the wine cellar. Mr. Davis showed me over each, as proud as though he owned the house himself.
The kitchen was a wide, square room with windows that gave onto the street above. Two dressers full of dishes lined the white-painted walls, and a hanging rack of gleaming copper pans dangled above the stove. A thick-legged table squatted in the middle of the floor, one long enough on which to prepare several dishes at once, with space at the end for someone to sit and shell peas or whatever I needed them to do.
The kitchen’s range had been neatly fitted into what had been a fireplace, and this fireplace was large, the stove high enough that I wouldn’t have to stoop or kneel to cook. I’d had to kneel down on hard stones at one house—where I hadn’t stayed long—and it had taken some time for my knees and back to recover.
Here I could stand and use the hot plates that were able to accommodate five pots at once, with the fire below behind a thick metal door. The fire could be stoked without disturbing the ovens to either side of it—one oven had racks that could be moved so several things could be baked at the same time, and the other spacious oven could have air pumped though it to aid roasting.
I was pleased with the stove, which was quite new, likely requested by the wealthy lordship who liked his meal served precisely when he arrived home. I could bake bread in one oven while roasting a large joint of meat in the other, with all my pots going above at once. The greatest challenge to a cook is to have every dish ready and hot at the same time so none come to the table colder than any other. To aid this, a shelf above the stove that ran the length of it could keep finished food in warmth while the rest of the meal was finished.
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