I’d been born in a lane off Cheapside, not far from where the Millburns lived, so close to St. Mary-le-Bow that I couldn’t escape being a Cockney. I’d trained myself to speak clearly and properly, but Cockneys could ensure an outsider couldn’t understand a word they said if they so wished. That was the case in South London as well; such things weren’t easily feigned.
Daniel could also take on a cultured accent, that of an educated man. I had taught myself to throw off my lower-class pronunciations, a slow and painful process, but no one would mistake me for a highborn lady. Well-bred and polished young women spoke differently, another cant if you will, that was difficult to fake.
Daniel slid back and forth between sounding like a lordling who’d attended university with his chums to a man who’d never left the gutters of Bermondsey. Whenever Daniel spoke in what I considered his “normal” voice, he was somewhere in between. He’d learned long ago to be a chameleon, but where he’d learned this and why, I had no idea.
Mr. Davis set aside his last cup of tea and declared he’d see the house was secure and then retire. I returned to my kitchen, which was happily deserted, measured out flour and water, yeast, salt, and on a whim, a pinch of dried herbs, and mixed it into a dough, which I left to rise in the larder. I paused on the larder’s doorstep, a frisson of pain and memory touching me, before I resolutely turned away and went upstairs to bed.
The next morning, as I was putting the same dough into the bread pans for its final rise, Daniel’s son, James, came tripping into the kitchen.
James looked much like his father, only younger and lankier. His eyes were brown rather than blue, and his face, when clean, was full of freckles. He was coming up on his sixteenth summer, I believed, and he’d sprung up another five inches, I swore, this spring.
Unlike his father, James had visited me several times since our last adventure, so much so that the footmen and scullery maid greeted him without surprise as he walked tamely in through the back door. James shared Daniel’s friendliness to those of every walk of life, and everyone below stairs perked up whenever James sailed in.
Today he was followed by a cynical-looking young woman who gave the kitchen and all in it a dubious once-over. This lady wore a respectable-looking gray frock, a matching bonnet, and brown leather gloves that were clean and neat.
She was a few years older than James, but not many—I put her at eighteen at the most. She had dark hair and brown eyes, but her skin was very fair, the porcelain white that upper-class ladies hid themselves under shawls and veils to achieve. A turned-up nose and too-wide mouth gave her face a good-humored rather than elegant air, making her pleasant-looking instead of a great beauty. Or would, I thought, if she dropped her sneer and smiled.
James marched her straight up to me and then nudged her with his elbow. The young woman went down in a stiff curtsy, and said, “Morning, missus.”
“This here’s Tess,” James said without preliminary. “Tess Parsons. She heard ye might have need for a kitchen maid, and she’s looking for a place.”
“Oh?” I looked Tess up and down, noting the stubborn light in her eye, one that boded no good. She lifted her chin and stared right back at me, no submissiveness in this one. “It’s not up to me who works in the kitchen, James. Mrs. Bywater and Lady Cynthia hire the staff.”
Tess’s frown deepened while James sent me a pleading look. “You can put in a good word for her though, can’t you Mrs. H.?”
I wondered. James was a few years younger than Tess, but he might be sweet on her. Tess had a sour look, however, and James was not a fool. But then again, the heart does not always let the head lead it, especially when one is very young.
“What can you do, Tess?” I asked. “Have you done kitchen work before?”
Tess shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t know, missus. Haven’t tried, ’ave I?”
I hid a sigh. Inexperienced, untaught—I could not possibly run a kitchen, take the duties of a housekeeper, and train a bad-tempered girl at the same time.
Tess caught on to my disapprobation and swung to James. “See? I knew she wouldn’t want me. Your dad’s gone soft.”
“Your father?” I asked James with a start. “What has he got to do with it?”
James sent me an ingenuous look. “He heard you was shorthanded. So he sent Tess around. Thought she could do well for ye.”
4
I studied Tess more closely, and she returned a defiant stare. Daniel must have had some reason to choose Miss Tess Parsons, ill-humored London girl, to assist me in the kitchen. I’d have been better pleased if Daniel had consulted with me, warned me, at least sent a note along with her, but Daniel did things in his own time for his own purposes.
“I see,” I said coolly, which made Tess’s spark of defiance burn brighter. “You haven’t told me what skills you have, Tess. What sort of work have you done in the past?”
“Scrubbed floors, didn’t I?” Her dark eyes held determination. “But I ain’t doing that no more. You can teach me how to cook, and I’ll get a better place.”
Daniel had gone soft. What he thought I could do with this prickly creature, I did not know.
I gave her a narrow look. “I will have to be clear about one thing, my girl. This is my kitchen. Doesn’t matter that Lord Rankin owns the house or his late wife’s aunt runs it for the moment. In the kitchen, I reign. You will do what I say when I say it, without argument or sullenness. There’s no time or place for those. Do you understand me?”
The scorn flared, a young woman who’d decided she would dare the world to thwart her. I could admire her attitude, as I had much of that in myself, but it would not help when we were rushed to get a meal on the table.
James gave her another poke with his elbow, and Tess sent me a reluctant nod. “I understand, missus.”
“Mrs. Holloway,” I corrected her. “I will let you help me get breakfast, and if all goes well, I’ll ask the mistress if she will consider hiring you. That is all.”
Tess’s brows came together, and I thought she’d turn around and march out, her nose in the air. James cleared his throat, and Tess went down in another awkward curtsy. “Yes, Mrs. Holloway.”
“Good. On the table is a bowl of eggs. You will crack them into another bowl. I don’t want to see any bits of shells among them, or any bad eggs dumped into the good. Bad eggs go into a separate bowl to be discarded into the slop pail. First, hang up your hat and coat, and go into the linen room and find a clean apron. Do not touch anything else. And wash your hands in the scullery before you begin.”
Tess curtsied once more, the movement more like a slap in the face. “Yes, Mrs. Holloway,” she said with all the haughtiness she could muster. She unbuttoned and slid off her coat, stuffing her gloves into its pocket and hanging it on the peg with her bonnet at the scullery’s door. Then she looked about. “What’s a linen room?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “James, show her.”
James shot me a grin, impudent thing, as he guided Tess through the kitchen to the passage that led to the rest of the belowstairs rooms. I pulled him back after he’d pointed Tess the way.
“Is he certain?” I asked in a low voice.
“Dad don’t do nothing without a reason, Mrs. H.”
No, he did not. Yesterday I had mentioned my frustration in the kitchen and Daniel had sent me Tess. I wondered how he’d been able to put his hands on her in such a short time, and whether he had people in reserve all over London for whatever he might need them for. I also wondered whether he considered me one of those people.
Tess strode out of the linen room, shaking out a pinafore. She stopped when she saw James and me in the doorway.
“All right?” she demanded as she draped the pinafore over her shoulders and tied its strings behind her. “I’ll need to get at them eggs.”
James’s smile beamed out, his mission accomplished. He touched h
is hat. “Good luck, Mrs. H.,” he said then rushed through the kitchen to the scullery and out.
“Cheeky bugger, ain’t he?” Tess said, watching him go. “His dad ain’t much better.”
It took all my strength not to ask how she knew Daniel, and I gave her a frown.
“You will have to cease using such language while you are under this roof,” I said. “Mr. Davis—he’s butler here—would sling you right out. This is a respectable household.”
“Ooh, pardon me, I’m sure.” Tess gave me a lofty look. “You really is the Queen of England, ain’t ye?”
“In my kitchen, I am,” I said. “Now see to the eggs. I need breakfast to go upstairs right quick.”
By the time I had the covered dishes sent up via the dumbwaiter to the dining room above us, I had to concede that Tess was a quick study. She had the eggs in the bowl fairly rapidly, no shells with them, and had found only a single bad one that she’d smelled before she cracked it.
I whipped the eggs into a froth and made a large batch of omelets, each flavored slightly differently—some with fresh herbs, a few with crumbled bacon and a bite of cheese, and three with fruit and cream. Those upstairs would have their choice. The Bywaters had hearty appetites, for which I was grateful, and I knew all the omelets would be gone.
To these I added bacon broiled over a hot flame and took from the baking oven a dish of mushrooms with butter and pepper, pouring them onto the platter Tess held out for me. To her credit, she held the plate steadily, even though I splashed her hands with a bit of the hot butter. She did let out a swear word, but I chose to ignore it as a reward for not dropping the plate of mushrooms.
Tess helped me load the dishes onto the dumbwaiter, and I showed her how to work the mechanism to crank it upstairs.
Tess let out her breath and wiped her brow when it was gone. “Whew. Well that’s done. Cookin’s a fair bit of work, ain’t it?”
“We’re not finished, my girl,” I said, unable to keep the smugness from my voice. “Now we make breakfast for the staff and start preparing lunch.”
Tess groaned, but she turned back with me.
I showed her how the stove operated, with its five plates for cooking plus one in the back for warming, and two ovens, one on either side of the firebox. I was rather proud of my stove, though I’d had nothing to do with choosing it; I could bake a loaf of bread and broil a roast at the same time, and sauté several dishes at once.
Tess watched without much interest, but she took it in, then cracked more eggs for the staff’s breakfast. I mixed the eggs with bacon and mushrooms, adding a dice of potatoes to make it a hash. I chopped the potatoes myself—I was not about to give over my good knives to a girl I’d known an hour—but Tess tore apart the mushrooms and whipped up the eggs as I showed her without too much trouble.
Once the hash was finished, I carried a platter of it to the table in the servants’ hall and set a pile of plates next to it. There was always so much to do in the morning, especially these days, that the staff did not always sit down to a breakfast but came in and ate as they could.
I carried another covered dish of the hash and one of toast down the passage to the housekeeper’s parlor, bidding Tess to follow me with plates and flatware. I deposited the dish on the table in the parlor and sat down, ready to get off my feet, and instructed Tess to serve me a portion of the food. She plunked a spoonful of hot eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and potatoes onto a plate and shoved it at me, then served herself without waiting for permission.
I decided not to admonish her, as she’d already done much work without promise of pay or even a position. I could at least allow her a hot breakfast.
Tess scooped a dollop of hash onto a fork and touched it to her lips as though dubious about eating it. Her tongue came out to flick the smallest bit of the eggs and potatoes into her mouth. She played that around a moment, then her face changed, and she plunged the entire forkful inside. She’d hardly swallowed that bite down before she was scraping in another.
I stopped to watch her. Tess lowered her head to the plate, eating rapidly, like a dog who expected the food to be snatched away at any moment.
“Easy, my dear,” I said gently. “You’ll make yourself ill.”
Tess looked up, shoving a bit of potato that had slopped onto her lips back into her mouth. “This is good, missus,” she said around the food. She swallowed and sat upright, a flush spreading across her face as though realizing how desperately she’d been shoveling things in. “I mean, Mrs. Holloway.”
“Thank you,” I said with my usual modesty. “It’s only a bit of plain cooking.”
Tess nodded and went back to eating. Her hand shot out and snatched up the top piece of buttered toast on its platter, that following the last of her eggs down her throat.
I realized the girl must have been starved. She was quite thin, bony even. I could imagine her on the street, stuffing scraps into her mouth as she could get them, head down to fend off those who wanted to take them from her.
Pity moved me. Her defiance came from pride, I realized, and fear. A sharp young woman, I could see, but one who’d been in very bad circumstances. Not an uncommon story for London, I am sad to say. I would have to wring her history from Daniel.
Her rough edges could be smoothed, I decided. I would have a word with Lady Cynthia, and ask her to let me take Tess on as my assistant.
* * *
* * *
Lady Cynthia had said we’d visit her friend Clementina—Lady Godfrey—after breakfast this morning, but as it turned out we did not go until after luncheon. Lady Cynthia had not factored into our plans that while she enjoyed rising at eight and taking a ride after breakfast, most of her friends lay in bed until afternoon. Mrs. Bywater made a habit of joining her husband at the breakfast table instead of having a tray sent to her room, but she was not the usual Mayfair lady.
We at last made ready at two o’clock, but this put me in a bother, because I needed to be home soon to prepare the evening meal. I told Tess what ingredients to assemble and which vegetables to peel and chop—not all of them, because the flavor of certain produce is enhanced by not cutting it until the last minute. Tess frowned in perplexity when I explained this, but I couldn’t linger to make certain she understood.
Sir Evan Godfrey and his wife, Clementina, lived in Park Lane, just past Upper Grosvenor Street and near the bastion of Grosvenor House, one of the most lavish abodes in London. While Sir Evan’s home lacked the grand colonnaded entrance of Grosvenor House, the drive bent around a stand of trees that hid it from the well-trafficked Park Lane, a piece of country estate in the heart of the city.
The house itself stood alone and was more modern than the usual side-by-side townhomes in Mayfair’s squares. It had been built in what I thought of as the Indian style, which meant pointed archways and onionlike domes, I suppose in attempt to make it look like the famous Taj Mahal.
Cynthia gathered her skirts—she’d donned a frock for this outing—and hopped straight out of the carriage when it halted, to the consternation of the Godfrey footman who’d placed a cushioned stool at the carriage’s door and reached to hand Lady Cynthia down.
The footman was even more nonplussed to see me in my gray working gown and plain gray bonnet. I gave the lad a fierce look, which restored his respectfulness in a trice, and let him help me down—I did need the stool and a steady hand. Lady Cynthia, with her slim build and the robustness of a boy, was already striding for the door.
I was not used to entering great houses through the front, but Cynthia sailed inside without hesitation. I came behind her, my hands folded over my reticule, trying not to look as though I was doing anything unusual.
The Indian style continued inside the house. The vestibule had a lofty ceiling tiled in bright blue, red, and orange, from which hung a large slitted lantern that would have been at home in a seraglio. A pointed arch led into the main
hall, which was decorated with tall urns, swaths of silk drapery, peacock feathers pinned to the walls, and an enormous arrangement of flowers. The flowers were tropical, from bright orange blooms that looked like birds to giant scarlet poppylike blossoms, to blue and yellow flowers I did not know. The cost to have that refreshed every few days from a hothouse must be immense. Even if Sir Evan grew his own flowers in the back of his house, he would have to go to much expense to cultivate plants used to the heat of the subcontinent.
The staircase had a balustrade that looked like marble, but I imagined it was only painted plaster, as marble would be much too heavy. A stately and elderly butler waited at the foot of the stairs, greeting Lady Cynthia, commanding the maid who’d appeared to take our wraps.
Lady Cynthia, after handing over her shawl and hat, skimmed up the stairs, knowing the way. I chose to keep my small jacket and my bonnet, not wanting to appear too much at home in a nabob’s house. I did not belong here, and so I would maintain my outdoor garb, to signal I would stay only temporarily.
I gave the butler a dignified nod and thanked him by name—Mr. Brampton. I did not know him, but Mr. Davis did, and I knew the cook of this house. I said nothing more to Mr. Brampton, as that would not be fitting of me as a guest of his mistress. He nodded back, his rheumy eyes holding disapproval but understanding.
Lady Godfrey—Clementina—met us in a parlor that was free of the Indian decor of the rest of the house. A square-backed sofa occupied the carpeted floor, paired with a Morris chair—one of those newer kinds of chairs whose back could be adjusted. It looked well used, as the velvet upholstery was shiny and a slight tear showed in the seat cushion, though an attempt had been made to tuck the torn part behind the spindles. An upright secretary in burnished oak with a stubby, scrolled top was open to reveal nooks and crannies stuffed with papers.
Scandal Above Stairs Page 4
