Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  “And Sinead he requested to bring the refreshment.” I sat back and rested my fingers on my glass in contemplation. “Why would he want no one but Sinead to know you were there? He was certainly enraged when I arrived with the coffee instead.”

  A ghost of Daniel’s smile flitted across his face. “I was surprised to see you march in there myself. Though I should not have been, I suppose.” He lifted his glass. “It was a masterful performance. Thank you for your discretion.”

  “Humph. Did you expect me to throw open my arms and shout, Daniel, whatever are you doing here? I knew you were up to some intrigue. Of course, I expect you to tell me all about it now.”

  “I would like to.” Daniel reached out and covered my hand where it rested on the table, his bare fingers warm on my gloved ones. “But I can’t. Not everything. It is for your own well-being, Kat.”

  I gave him a narrow look. “You let me worry about my well-being. I’ve grown quite good at taking care of myself.” Had ever since I’d learned that the man I thought I’d married had never been my husband at all, and I was left alone in the world, ruined and needing to make my own living. A lady learns what she is made of then. Fortunately for me, it turned out to be stern stuff.

  Daniel squeezed my hand, his rough and work worn. “No doubt you have. But this concerns bad people, and I don’t want them to have any idea you exist. I can tell you that I was there to speak to your master on grave matters, and I will warn you he is not the paragon he pretends to be. Me visiting him and my present employment in the house were my idea, not his. He dislikes the thought of me being there at all, in either guise, but he will not fight me.”

  I listened in some surprise. Lord Rankin was as a god in his own home, the very picture of a lord and master. The ladies of the house were quite under his thumb from what Mr. Davis had said, despite Lady Cynthia’s rousing defense of me this morning. But then, she hadn’t had much to lose telling Rankin to keep me on, and Rankin had seemed loath to upset his wife. Perhaps he was not as much a god as he would like to be.

  “I already know he is no paragon,” I said. “He likes to have his way with the maids. That is why I came up—I feared he meant to do so with Sinead.”

  “Does he?” Daniel didn’t look very astonished. “Well, that will stop.”

  “Indeed, it will. I’ll not have such goings-on in a house I’m in.”

  Daniel’s grin returned. “I’m sure you won’t, Mrs. H. I beg your pardon—Mrs. Holloway.”

  I gave him a severe look. Daniel never left off teasing me.

  His hand rested comfortably on mine, very warm it was. I gently withdrew, lifting my glass of ale as an excuse. I took a quick sip, made a face, and set it down. “I don’t suppose they do a nice cup of tea here?”

  Daniel—my Daniel—laughed. “I’m certain they would if you showed them how it was done, Kat.”

  “Do cease,” I said sternly. “Sinead has been killed, and I am very upset.”

  His smile vanished. “I know. I know, and I’m so sorry. She did not deserve that. But don’t you see—I don’t want such a thing to happen to you. I didn’t think Rankin’s house would be dangerous, but I was wrong, and I will have to live with that mistake.” His gaze dropped to his ale but not before I glimpsed a dark flash of guilt in his eyes. Sinead’s death distressed Daniel greatly, I saw, a fact he was striving to hide.

  “You are not to blame,” I said in surprise.

  Daniel drew a breath as he looked at me again. “You are kind, but I might be. Which is another reason I wish you would give Rankin your notice.”

  I drew myself up. “I refuse to flee because a madman struck down an innocent young woman. I’d rather stay and run him to ground. He deserves to be caught, tried, and hanged.”

  Daniel studied me for a time, looking for I knew not what. Finally, he gave a satisfied nod. “Very well. Truth to be told, I will welcome your help.”

  “Would you?” I started to lift my glass again then thought better of it. “I did plan to help whether you welcomed it or not. But you have taken a position in the household, which means you will be on the spot if anything happens. I’ll hardly need to make a report.”

  “Not necessarily,” Daniel said. “You are in the middle of things, ensconced in your kitchen like a goddess on her throne. You see all, hear all, speak to everyone. People bring their troubles to you. I will have to come and go—I must make a show of doing some labor or your butler will complain that I am slacking.”

  I gave him a long look. Goddess on her throne indeed. He had a silver tongue, this one.

  “Very well,” I said. “I will tell you if whoever committed this dreadful deed rushes to me and confesses. That is, if I do not thump him soundly first.”

  “Best you don’t.” Daniel grew serious again. “Dangerous men fill London, Kat. I don’t like the fact that one penetrated a house in which you are living. That is one reason I will be living there too.”

  “Living there?” I asked abruptly. I’d come to accept that he’d be underfoot, but I hadn’t thought Lord Rankin would provide his room and board.

  “Not in the house. I’m not a refined servant, so I’ll be in the mews with the groom and other stable lads—I’m a dab hand at looking after horses. And I can do a bit of carpentry or plumbing if need be.”

  I nodded, pretending I was unworried that Daniel and I would be essentially under the same roof. “Very capable. I must wonder where you discovered all these skills.”

  “On the streets, my dear friend.” His cheeky look returned. “One learns so much by simply surviving.”

  “Oh, of course.” Men trained for years to be carpenters or understand drains, just as a cook took a long time to master her craft. Daniel was adept at evading questions. I cleared my throat. “I will tell you right now, Mr. McAdam, that if you are late to meals, you will have to find for yourself. I am too busy to prepare special plates for you.”

  Daniel gave me a smile, amusement in his blue eyes. “Kat, you break my heart. But I will endeavor to remember.”

  “And for heaven’s sake, don’t slip and call me Kat. As the cook I will far outrank you.” Why did that thought make me feel just a little smug?

  Daniel lifted his pint to me. “I will accord you all respect,” he said, and grinned. “Mrs. H.”

  • • •

  I went home on my own, not wishing for those at the house to see me arriving chummily with the new man-of-all-work.

  The March night had turned blustery by the time I left the pub, whipping my coat about as I moved down the street in search of an omnibus. One clattered toward me, but it was overly full, and I preferred to walk rather than be squashed too heavily against fellow members of humanity. As a girl, I’d heard about Mr. Darwin and his scandalous suggestion that men and women were in fact descended from the apes, but I tonight could not help but see a resemblance to our hairy cousins as the human beings in the crowded omnibus grappled to hang on to straps or one another.

  I followed in the omnibus’s wake to Oxford Street, where the crush of traffic, both foot and wheeled, threatened to swallow me. I kept my hands firmly on my pockets, as I knew cutpurses and thieves would take advantage of the crowd and try to steal my coins, my handkerchief, even the gloves off my hands if they could. They’d get a clout about the ears if I caught them, but often these thieves were slippery and silent, robbing a person blind without the victim even realizing.

  I would have thought the citizens of London happy to remain comfortably at home on such a cold night, wind barreling down the streets like a gale through caverns, but no. They hurried to and fro, rushing to their amusements no matter what the weather.

  They sought lower forms of entertainment on the streets themselves, ladies of the evening now even more obvious on the corners at Oxford Street. Disgraceful, though I couldn’t help feeling somewhat sorry for the ladies. Once a woman was ruined, th
ere was little she could do, no one she could turn to. But for luck and the grace of God, it might be me sashaying to the coach that slowed to a stop ahead of me, smiling hopefully at the gentlemen inside.

  The lady I watched in her wind-tossed finery—velvet gown and fur stole, if you please—peered into the coach, and then abruptly lost her smile and swung away, hurrying back into the shadows.

  As I passed the conveyance I glanced inside to see the silhouettes of two gentlemen in high hats, their garb no different from what Lord Rankin might wear. I wondered what had caused the lady to turn away so hastily.

  “Evening, Mrs. H.”

  A voice, one I knew, sang out from the carriage window. I halted, peering more closely, and then I understood the courtesan’s abrupt departure. I dropped a brief curtsy. “Good evening, your ladyship.”

  The door swung open, assisted by a foot in a well-made man’s boot under striped cashmere trousers. “Climb in, Mrs. H.,” Lady Cynthia said. “We’ll take you home.”

  8

  The booted foot belonged not to Lady Cynthia but to another young woman, who regarded me languidly from where she lounged next to her. The coach was dimly lighted by a lamp on the floor, illuminating dark gold velvet cushions, shadowed luxury.

  I hesitated. “You are kind, my lady, but it is hardly proper for me to ride in his lordship’s coach.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Lady Cynthia said cheerfully. “This hack ain’t Rankin’s; it’s hired. I don’t mind a cook in my carriage. Give her your hand, Bobby.”

  Bobby’s fingers stretching toward me, covered by fine kid leather, were as slender and well formed as her foot.

  I wasn’t certain I wanted to be shut up in a coach with Lady Cynthia and this Bobby, whoever she was, but nor did I relish walking home in wind growing colder and damper by the moment. A deluge would soon follow, I was certain.

  I relented, took Bobby’s hand, which turned out to be surprisingly strong, and let her pull me up into the coach.

  Much better than the omnibus, I decided when I dropped onto the seat opposite the two ladies. The cushions were soft, the bench well sprung, the walls of the coach upholstered in the same gold velvet as the seats. Once the door was shut, the lantern glowed on the lush fabrics, suffusing the interior with warmth.

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely. “It is a hideous night for a walk.”

  “Just so,” Lady Cynthia returned. “No reason for you to trudge about in the chill. Bobby, this is Mrs. Holloway, our cook.”

  I nodded my head at Bobby, noting Lady Cynthia had given me no other name for her. I wondered if her Christian name was Roberta—I’d known a girl in my youth with that name who’d been nicknamed Bobby—or if the lady only took the moniker while she wore the clothes of a man.

  Both Lady Cynthia and Bobby were dressed so, from the hats I’d seen through the glass to well-tied cravats, to waistcoats—Bobby’s dark green, Lady Cynthia’s ivory this evening—with watch chains and fobs, trousers, and polished boots of supple leather.

  “Are your underclothes gentlemen’s too?” I asked before I could control my tongue. Then I flushed. My curiosity causes me no end of trouble.

  Bobby dissolved into peals of laughter. She was a little older than Cynthia, though not by much, and had cut her hair short rather than wear it pinned it up as Cynthia did. I wondered if she wore switches when she dressed as a woman—if she ever did, that is. Bobby seemed quite comfortable in her male attire. She had brown eyes under thick brows and a narrow mouth in a squarish face. She resembled a gentleman more than Cynthia did, whose blond hair was coiled into a feminine braid at the back of her neck.

  “The answer is, yes, they are,” Lady Cynthia said as my face heated. “Quite comfortable things are gentlemen’s undergarments. You ought to try them, Mrs. H. You’d not go back to a corset soon, I’ll wager.”

  “Thank you, no.” How silly I should look cooking in my kitchen in a gentleman’s frock coat and trousers. Without a corset I should certainly come to some disgrace, as I was rather ample in the chest. The ladies before me were both slim in the torso, so likely they could tuck themselves into their straight shirts without difficulty. “Gentlemen wear corsets,” I remarked. “Those who wish to tame their unruly stomachs anyway, though less port and Yorkshire pudding would achieve a better result, I think.”

  Bobby was off in laughter again. She apparently found me quite entertaining.

  “Why were you wandering the streets, Mrs. Holloway?” Lady Cynthia asked. “After a choice bit of beef for tomorrow?”

  “An errand,” I said, trying to sound offhand. “Nothing important.”

  Bobby, recovering from her fit of laughter, leaned into Lady Cynthia and put her feet up on the seat beside me, her boots an inch from my skirt. “Are you a good cook?” she asked me.

  “She is indeed,” Cynthia replied before I could. “Wise of my sister to hire her. Best food I’ve eaten in an age. Mrs. H. is an artist.”

  Hardly. I used recipes I’d tested time and again, and I had enough experience to know which ingredients work best with what, that was all. However, I did not want to seem churlish, so I nodded. “Thank you, your ladyship. You are kind.”

  “Old Rankin tried to throw her out this morning,” Cynthia said. “All because the cook’s assistant managed to get herself killed. Rankin’s a fool—always has been. I tried to warn Em about marrying him, but he is disgustingly rich and rather bullied her into it. As long as you listen to my sister, Mrs. Holloway, and not the old bore, you’ll do well.”

  I scarcely had an answer for this, so I said nothing and tried to look unruffled.

  Bobby continued to lean into Cynthia, removing her hat to rest her head on Cynthia’s shoulder. Bobby pulled out a cheroot, and Cynthia obligingly lit it with a match she struck against the sole of her boot.

  Bobby puffed the cheroot gently, the tip glowing orange in the dim light. The coach began to fill with acrid smoke, and I suppressed a cough.

  Most gentlemen were polite about smoking in close quarters with ladies, even ladies who were servants, but I had the feeling these two young women played hard at being gentlemen, copying what they perceived to be their mannerisms without knowing the reasoning behind them. I was not certain what appeal their charade held—they might dress as men and try to behave like them, but when all was said and done, they were still women, with the same restrictions as the rest of the female sex.

  “Did you enjoy your outing?” I asked, endeavoring to be polite. In truth, I was avidly curious about what they’d been getting up to.

  “It was splendid,” Bobby said. “We went to a very illegal casino and lost our little all. Then we went to a club for gentlemen only and it was dark enough that we sailed right in.”

  “Not a club like White’s, you understand,” Lady Cynthia said. “We’d have to be members to darken that door, and our clothes only do so much for us.”

  Bobby went off in laughter again, finding everything hilarious tonight. I recognized that she was drunk, though she didn’t slur her words or fumble with her cigar. But she’d imbibed something to make her merry.

  Cynthia smelled of brandy, and now we all stank of cheroot. Lady Cynthia sent me a sympathetic look, as though knowing Bobby took a bit of getting used to.

  “It was a dank place in the Haymarket,” Cynthia explained. “This club, that is. Quite disreputable.”

  She seemed to want a reaction from me, so I nodded, and Cynthia looked pleased. Bobby continued to lounge against her, blowing smoke at the ceiling.

  We passed out of Grosvenor Square and south down Park Street. When we reached the corner of Mount Street, I said, “I think you ought to let me out here. It would never do for me to arrive at Lord Rankin’s house in your coach.”

  Cynthia chuckled, and Bobby continued her laughter, nearly lying in Cynthia’s lap now. “Why not give old Rankin a turn?” Cynthia suggested. �
��Be good for him.”

  “Because,” I said, “if I may speak frankly, my lady, I need this post.”

  “Good Lord, Cyns,” Bobby said, opening her eyes wide. “Don’t make the poor thing risk her job. She’s a respectable, hardworking woman, not the idle rich, like us.”

  This gave rise to more paroxysms of mirth, this time from both of them. Cynthia studied my disapproving face and said, “We’re laughing because neither of us have bean, Mrs. H. We’ll be touching you for money soon.”

  I could scarce imagine what she meant by that—and perhaps I did not want to know—but the next moment, Cynthia rapped on the coach’s roof and bellowed for the coachman to stop.

  Bobby bestirred herself to open the door for me, pushing down the latch and then kicking the door until it banged against the side of the coach. The horses moved restlessly in their traces, and I had to descend without assistance. I went carefully, trying to hold my skirts so they would not fly up and give Park Street a glimpse of my legs in their sensible black worsted stockings.

  The coachman scowled down at me, no doubt incensed that a mere cook should ride inside his carriage, but he at least waited until I was safely on my feet before he started the horses. I seized the door and slammed it shut, and the coach headed down Mount Street, lamplight gleaming on its now-wet roof.

  Rain was indeed falling, though in gentle droplets for now. I hurried along to Lord Rankin’s, slipping and sliding on the wet cobbles. When I reached the house, I plunged down the outside stairs and in through the scullery, stripping off my gloves and coat as I entered the kitchen.

  “Stepping out, are you, Mrs. H.?” Mr. Davis crossed into the kitchen from the servants’ hall, a bottle of wine dangling from each hand. “Have a bloke, do you? Or is it Mr. Holloway?” He gave me a curious look, as though hoping I’d tell him all about my inglorious past.

  “Indeed no, Mr. Davis,” I said, pretending I hadn’t suppressed a guilty start. “An errand.”