Lady Cynthia might have worn the clothes of a man, but she hesitated in the fluttery way young ladies are taught to adopt these days. Cooks, I am pleased to say, are expected to be a bit more formidable. While the boy raced away at my command to summon a physician, I had no compunction about climbing into the phaeton and looking the fellow over myself.
He was an ordinary person, the sort one would find driving a cart and making deliveries to Mayfair households, though I saw no van nearby, nothing to say who his employer was. He wore a plain but thick coat and a linen shirt, working trousers, and stout boots. The lack of rents or stains in his clothing told me he was well looked after, maybe by a wife, or perhaps he could afford to hire out his mending. Or perhaps he even took up a needle himself. But the point was he had enough self-respect to present a clean and neat appearance. That meant he had work and was no ruffian of the street.
I touched his hand, finding it warm, and he groaned piteously.
Lady Cynthia, hearing him, looked much relieved and regained some of her vigor. “Yes, inside. Excellent idea, Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . .”
“Holloway,” I reminded her.
“Holloway. You.” She pointed a long, aristocratic finger at a sturdy youth who’d paused to take in the drama. “Help us carry him into the house. Where have you been?” She snapped at a gangly man in knee breeches and heavy boots who came running around the corner. “Take the rig to the mews. Wait until we heave this man out of it.”
The thin man, who appeared to be a groom—indeed, he would prove to be the head groomsman for Lord Rankin’s town stables—climbed onto the box and took the reins, sending Lady Cynthia a dark look. His back quivered as he waited for the youth and the burly man to help me pry the hurt man out of the phaeton.
I looked into the youth’s face and nearly hit my head on the phaeton’s leather top. “Good heavens,” I said. “James!”
James, a lad of about fifteen or so years, with dark eyes, a round, rather handsome freckled face, and red-brown hair sticking out from under his cap, shot a grin at me. I hadn’t seen him for weeks, and only a few times since I’d taken the post in Richmond. James didn’t move much beyond the middle of London, as he made his living doing odd jobs here and there around the metropolis. I’d seen him only when I’d had cause to come into London and our path crossed.
James, with his father, Daniel, had helped me avoid much trouble at the place I’d been before Richmond, and I’d come to count the lad as a friend.
As for his father . . .
I could not decide these days how I regarded his father. Daniel McAdam, a jack-of-all-trades if ever there was one, had been my friend since the day he’d begun deliveries in a household I’d worked in a year or so before. He was charming, flirtatious, and ever ready with a joke or an encouraging word. He’d helped me in a time of great need last autumn, but then I’d learned more about Daniel than perhaps I’d wanted to. I was still hurt about it, and uncertain.
After James and the burly man worked the injured man from the carriage, I pulled myself upright on the phaeton’s step and scanned the street. I have sharp eyes and I did not have to look far before I saw Daniel.
He was just ducking around a corner up Park Street, glancing behind him as though expecting me to be seeking him. He wore the brown homespun suit he donned when making deliveries to kitchens all over Mayfair and north of Oxford Street and the shapeless gloves that hid his strong hands. I recognized his sharp face, the blue eyes over a well-formed nose, the dark hair he never could tame under his cloth cap.
He saw me. Did he look abashed? No, indeed. Mr. McAdam only sent me a merry look, touched his cap in salute, and disappeared.
I did not know all Daniel McAdam’s secrets, and I knew he had many. He’d helped me when no other would, it was true, but at the same time, he’d angered and confused me. I was grateful and could admire his resolve, but I refused to let myself fall under his spell. I had even allowed him to kiss me on the lips once or twice, but that had been as far as that went.
“Drat the man,” I said.
“Ma’am?” the groom asked over his shoulder.
“Never mind.” I hopped to the ground, the cobbles hard under my shoes. “When you’re done in the stables, come round to the kitchen for a strong cup of tea. I have the inkling we will all need one.”
* * *
A doctor came and looked over the man Lady Cynthia had run down. He’d been put into one of the rooms in the large attic and pronounced to have a broken arm and many bruises. The doctor, who was not at all happy to be called out to look at a mere laborer, sent for a surgeon to set the arm. The surgeon departed when he was finished, after dosing the man with laudanum and giving Mrs. Bowen instructions not to let him move for at least a day.
The man, now able to speak, or at least to mumble, said his name was Timmons and begged us to send word to his wife in their rooms near Euston Station.
At least this is what Mr. Davis related to me. I had scrubbed my hands and returned to my brioche when the hurt man had been carried upstairs, needing to carry on with my duties if I was to have a meal on the table when the master came home. Lady Rankin had said he returned on the dot of eight and expected to dine right away, and it was after six now. Ellen/Sinead, though curious, obediently resumed her kitchen duties.
As Sinead and I worked, Mr. Davis told us all about the doctor’s arrival and his sour expression when he’d learned he’d come to see to a working-class man; the surgeon, who was much more cheerful; and the fact that this Timmons would have to spend the night. One of the footmen had gone in search of his wife.
By that time, I had shaped my rich bread and was letting it rise in its round fluted pan while I turned to sorting out the vegetables I’d chosen from the larder—plump mushrooms that were fresh-smelling, asparagus that was a nice green color, a firm onion, and bright tomatoes.
“Lady Cynthia is beside herself,” Mr. Davis said. He sat down at the kitchen table, propping his elbows on it, doing nothing useful. My chopping board was near him, and I thumped the blade menacingly as I cut through the onions Sinead had peeled for me. Mr. Davis took notice. “She’s a flibbertigibbet but has a kind heart, does our Lady Cynthia,” he went on. “She promised Timmons a sum of money for his trouble—which Lord Rankin will have to furnish, of course. She hasn’t got any money. That’s why she lives here. Sort of a poor relation, but never say so.”
“I would not dream of it, Mr. Davis.” I held a hothouse tomato to my nose, rewarded by a bright scent, the tomato an excellent color. I longed to bite into it and taste its juices, but I returned it to the board with its fellows and picked over the asparagus. Whoever had chosen the produce had a good eye.
Mr. Davis chuckled. I’d already seen, when he’d led me through the house, that he could be as haughty as anything above stairs, but down here in the kitchens, he loosened his coat and his tongue. Mr. Davis’s hair was dark though gray at the temples, parted severely in the middle, and held in place with pomade. He had a pleasant sort of face, blue eyes, and a thin line of a mouth that was usually moving in speech.
“Lady Cynthia and Lady Emily are the Earl of Clifford’s daughters,” Mr. Davis said, sending me a significant look.
Interesting. I left the vegetables and uncovered the fowl I was to roast. I’d cook potatoes and onions in its juices and throw in the mushrooms at the end, along with the tomatoes for tang. For fish, I had skate waiting to be poached in milk, which I’d finish with parsley and walnuts. Early March could be a difficult time—the winter fruits and vegetables were fading, and spring’s bounty barely beginning. I enjoyed cooking in spring the most, when everything was fresh and new. Biting into early greens tasted of bright skies and the end of winter’s grip.
I had heard of the Earl of Clifford, who was famous for being a bankrupt. The title was an old one, from what I understood, one of those that kings had been bestowed for centuries—reverting
to the crown when the particular family line died out but given to another family when that family pleased royalty enough to be so rewarded.
I did not have my finger on every title in Britain, but I had heard that Clifford was the eighth of this earldom, given to a family called Shires. The present Lord Clifford had, in his youth, been renowned for bravery—deeds done in Crimea and that sort of thing. He’d come home to England to race horses, tangle himself in scandals, and have notorious affairs with famous beauties. He’d finally married one of these beauties, proceeded to sire two daughters and a son, and then gambled himself into ruinous debt.
His son and heir, as wild as the father, had died tragically at the young age of twenty, going slightly mad and shooting himself. Lady Clifford, devastated by the death of her favorite child, had gone into a decline. She was still alive, I believe, but living in poor health, having shut herself away on her husband’s estate in Hertfordshire.
The daughters, ladies Cynthia and Emily, had debuted and caught the eyes of many gentlemen, but they’d not fared well, as their father’s debts were common knowledge, as were their mother’s nerves and their brother’s suicide. Lady Emily, the younger, had married Lord Rankin before he was Lord Rankin, when he was but a wealthy gentleman who’d made much in the City. Lord and Lady Clifford must have breathed a sigh of relief when he’d put the ring on her finger.
I had known some of the Clifford story from gossip and newspapers. Now Mr. Davis kindly filled in the gaps as I plunged a tomato into hot water, showing Sinead how this loosened the skin so it could be easily peeled.
“Lady Cynthia was not so fortunate.” Mr. Davis stretched out his long legs, making himself as comfortable as possible in the hard wooden chair. “She is the older sister, and so it is a scandal that the younger married and she did not. And, of course, Lady Cynthia has no fortune. She is agreeable enough, but when she found herself in danger of being on the shelf, she chose to become an eccentric.”
While I left Sinead to finish peeling, seeding, and chopping the tomatoes, I warmed butter and basted the hen, which was a plump, well-juiced specimen. Lord Rankin, it seemed, spared no expense on his victuals. Happily for me, as a cook’s job is made ten times easier with decent ingredients.
“Poor thing,” I said, shoving the fowl into the roasting oven and licking melted butter from my thumb. I closed the door and fastened it, and snapped my fingers at the lad whose task it was to keep the stove stoked. He leapt from playing with pebbles in the corner and grabbed a few pieces of wood from the box under the window. He opened the grate and tossed in the wood quickly, but I was alarmed how close his little hands came to the flames. I’d have to make up the balm I liked of chamomile, lavender, and goose fat for burned fingers.
The boy returned to his game, and I wiped my hands and looked over Ellen’s shoulder as she moved on to tearing lettuce for the salads. I liked to have my greens washed, dried, and kept chilled well before serving the meal.
“Lady Cynthia took at first to riding horses in breakneck races,” Mr. Davis continued. “Amateur ones, of course, on the estates, racing young men fool enough to take her on. She has a light touch with a horse, does Lady Cynthia. She rode in breeches and won most of her gallops, along with the wagers. When our master married Lady Emily, he put a stop to Lady Cynthia’s riding, but I suppose she enjoyed wearing the breeches so much she didn’t want to give them up. Our lordship don’t like it, but he’s said that as long as Lady Cynthia stays quiet and behaves herself, she can wear trousers if she likes.”
Mrs. Bowen chose that moment to walk into the kitchen. She sniffed. “Speaking of your betters again, Mr. Davis?” She studied me getting on with the meal, then, with head held high, departed for the servants’ hall, disapproval oozing from her.
Mr. Davis chuckled. “Mrs. Bowen puts on airs, but most of what I know about the family I learned from her. She worked for Lady Clifford before she came here.”
I pretended to absorb myself in my cooking, but I was curious. I have a healthy interest in my fellow beings, unfortunately.
As Davis went momentarily silent, my thoughts strayed again to Daniel. He popped up here and there throughout London, always where something interesting was happening, and I wondered why he’d chosen the moment when Lady Cynthia had run down a cart driver.
“If Lady Cynthia hurt this man for life with her recklessness,” I observed, “it could go badly for her.”
Davis shook his head. “Not for the daughter of an earl decorated for bravery and the sister-in-law of one of the wealthiest men in London. Lord Rankin will pay to keep our Lady Cynthia out of the newspapers and out of the courts—you mark my words.”
I believed him. Wealthy men could hide an embarrassment to the family, and Lady Cynthia viewed herself as an embarrassment—I had noted that in her eyes. I myself saw no shame in her running about in gentlemen’s attire—didn’t we enjoy the courageous heroines who dress as men in plays of the Bard? Cheer for them in the Christmas pantomimes?
I saw no more of Lady Cynthia that evening, or indeed of anyone, as I turned to the business of getting the supper done. Once I gave my attention solely to cooking, ’ware any who stepped in my way.
Sinead proved to be capable if not as well trained as I would have liked, but we got on, and she burst into tears only once. She ceased her sobbing after she cleaned up the salt she had spilled all over the lettuce and helped me pull the roasted fowl out of the oven, bubbling and sizzling, the aroma splendid. I cut off a tiny piece of meat and a speared a square of potato and shared them with her.
Sinead’s face changed to rapture. “Oh, ma’am, it’s the best I ever tasted.”
She exaggerated, I knew, although I suppose her comment was a testament to the previous cook’s abilities. I thought the fowl’s taste could have been richer, but I would not be ashamed to serve this dish.
Mr. Davis and the footmen were already in the dining room above. I rounded up the maids to help me load a tureen of steaming asparagus soup into the lift, followed by the lightly poached skate, and then, when it was time, the covered plate of the carved fowl with roasted vegetables and the greens. I hadn’t had time to fix more than the brioche for pudding, and so I sent up fruit with a bite of cheese alongside the rich bread.
It was my habit never to rest until I heard from the dining room that all was well. Tonight, I heard nothing, not a word of praise—but not a word of complaint either. The majority of the plates returned scraped clean, although one of the three in each course was always only lightly touched.
Such a shame to waste good food. I shook my head over it and told the kitchen maids to pack away the uneaten portions to distribute to beggars.
I’d learned long ago that not every person on earth appreciates good food—some don’t even know how to taste it. Instead of growing incensed as I had done when I’d begun, I now felt sorry for that person and distributed the food to the cold and hungry, who better deserved it.
“Who is the faint appetite?” I asked Mr. Davis when he, Mrs. Bowen, and I at last took our supper in the housekeeper’s parlor, with Sinead to wait on us.
“Tonight, Lady Cynthia,” Mr. Davis said between shoveling in bites of the pieces of roasted hen and potatoes I’d held back for us. “She is still most upset about the accident. She even wore a frock to dinner.”
Apparently, this was significant. Mrs. Bowen and Sinead gave Mr. Davis amazed looks.
One of the footmen—I thought his name was Paul—tapped hesitantly on the door of Mrs. Bowen’s parlor and entered when invited.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said nervously. “But his lordship is asking for his evening cup of coffee.” He swallowed, his young face rather spotty, his Adam’s apple prominent. He darted Mrs. Bowen a worried look. “He’s asking for Sinead—I mean Ellen—to deliver it.”
An awful hush descended over the room. I was struck by the paling faces of Mrs. Bowen and Mr. Da
vis and the unhappiness in the footman’s eyes, but mostly by the look of dread that came over Sinead.
She set down the teapot she’d lifted to refill Mrs. Bowen’s cup and turned to that lady pleadingly, distress in every line of her body.
Mrs. Bowen gave her a sorrowful nod. “You’d best be going on up, girl.”
Sinead’s eyes filled with tears, every bit of cheerfulness dying. She wiped her hands on her apron, curtsied, and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before she made for the door.
She found me in the doorway, blocking her way out. “Why?” I asked the room, not excluding the footman. “What is the matter with Ellen taking the master his coffee? Mrs. Bowen, Mr. Davis, you tell me this minute.”
Mr. Davis and Mrs. Bowen exchanged a long glance. Sinead would not look at me, her cheeks stark white and blotched with red.
It was Mrs. Bowen who answered. “I am afraid that his lordship occasionally believes in the idea of . . . I suppose we could call it droit de seigneur. Not often, fortunately.”
“Fortunately?” The word snapped out of me, my anger, which had touched me when I’d seen Daniel in the street, finally finding a vent.
I was well aware that a hazard for young women in service, no matter how grand the household, was that the master, and sometimes his guests, saw no reason not to help themselves to a maid, or a cook’s assistant, or, indeed, even a cook, when they fancied her. The young woman in question was powerless—all she could do was either give in or find herself another place. If she fled the house without reference, gaining new employment could be difficult. If she gave in to the master’s lusts, she risked being cast out with a stain on her character. If her own family would not let her come home or if she had no family, she had no choice but to take to the streets.
I had learned as a very young cook’s assistant to keep myself buried in the kitchen and rarely cross paths with the gentlemen of the household. As cooks seldom went above stairs, this had worked well for me. My ruin had been entirely my own fault and nothing to do with any house in which I’d worked.
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