by Lenora Bell
They’d been moderately well behaved, adhering to the schedule, taking an interest in their studies.
She made their lessons amusing and interesting, playing games to distract them. Today the children were sitting side by side, absorbed in reading Captain Cook’s Voyages Round the World.
She always watched for Banksford outside the nursery, wondering if he’d be back to monitor her progress, but he never came again.
He was avoiding her. Which was for the best.
The one week anniversary of her employment had come and gone without fanfare, which meant she was able to breathe a little more easily, though the duke would surely dismiss her if he knew she hadn’t been sent by Mrs. Trilby. Mari was here under false pretenses. One wrong word, one inquiry from Mrs. Trilby, and she could lose everything.
Sometimes, she took tea with Mrs. Fairfield of an evening.
Always, she researched the clues from her past. Using a copy of Johnstone’s London Commercial Guide that she’d found in the library, she had located Mr. Shadwell. His offices were listed in Cheapside.
Tomorrow was her first off day. She’d already planned her schedule. First to Mr. Shadwell’s office, and then to Lumley’s Toy Shop, since Banksford had said P.L. Rabbit came from there.
It was a vague hope, at best, that a toy shop could trace P.L.’s purchaser, but she must try every avenue.
She would leave no stone unturned.
This was the reason she was in London. To find the truth about her birth.
Not dally with dukes.
“What is that smell?” asked Adele, lifting her head from the book.
There was a warm, homey scent wafting through the open windows from the kitchen ovens.
“It smells like . . .” Michel sniffed the air.
“France!” they cried in unison.
“Someone is making French bread,” Adele said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Amina,” cried Michel. “She received our letter and she’s come to live with us!” He jumped up from the window seat. “May we go to the kitchens, Miss Perkins? May we?”
“I’m sorry, Michel, but the post to and from France will take a fortnight.”
His face fell. “But I still smell French bread.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any keeping you here with the promise of French bread in the air,” said Mari. “Walk with decorum, if you please, children,” she called as they ran out of the room. “We are not lions scenting gazelles.”
In the kitchens, an unfamiliar woman with dark hair and winged black eyebrows was up to her elbows in flour, kneading bread in a large bowl.
Michel walked straight to the hearth and stared inside the oven. “Ç’est le vrais!”
“Oui, mes petites,” said the woman, smiling at the children. “Your bread.”
“Good afternoon,” said Mari. “I’m Miss Perkins, and these are the duke’s children, Adele and Michel. Fall in, look lively.”
The twins fell in line beside her.
“My, such beautiful children! As you can see, I’m covered in flour at the moment, but my name is Miss Martin and I’ve been hired to make you the bread.”
She had a pronounced French accent that made her r’s guttural and her the’s sounded like z’s. Had Banksford hired her because Mari had told him the children missed the bread in France?
Had he actually been listening to her?
“Merci, Miss Martin!” The children launched into a rapid stream of French that quickly left Mari behind.
Miss Martin chuckled. “My goodness,” she said in English. “I didn’t know I would be so very popular.”
“The twins have been pining for the taste of their homeland.”
“Do you know how to make meringue?” asked Adele.
“And tarte aux pommes?” said Michel.
“Oui, bien sûr. I am the best French pastry chef in London.”
The twins pelted Miss Martin with questions on her culinary repertoire, giving Mari a moment to think.
She was surprised by the duke’s gesture. But really, should she be? This was what he knew how to do best: spend money. Hire the most prestigious French cook in London.
Still, it was a very nice thing to do, and it had made the children very happy.
“The bread will bake faster if you’re not watching it, Michel,” she said. The boy was standing with his head practically in the range.
“Why don’t you sit down in the breakfast room?” asked Miss Martin. “I’ve a loaf very nearly finished.”
Mari led them into the breakfast room and soon a tray arrived with a long thin loaf of bread.
The children were silent for a moment, gazing at the bread. Then Michel broke off a piece.
“Don’t you want butter and marmalade?” asked Mari.
“Never!” he said, affronted.
Adele turned to Mari. “Did the duke do this for us?”
Mari nodded. “He did.”
She’d noticed they never called him father. Only “duke” or “sir.”
“I told him you were missing French bread.”
“It was very good of him.” Michel chewed contentedly. “Perhaps he’s beginning to like us.”
“I should think engaging a cook especially to make French bread is a good sign,” said Mari.
“Where does he go all day? Why do we never see him?” asked Adele.
“I expect he goes to his foundry. And his club.”
“Clubs. Pah.” Michel reached for more bread. “When I grow up I’ll never go to a stupid old club because they wouldn’t allow Adele inside the door.”
“I agree that it’s a very silly rule,” said Mari, “but, who knows, perhaps we females wouldn’t want to go to those stuffy clubs. The important gentlemen in their important clubs probably just sit around reading the papers and making bad jokes.”
“Our jokes are hilarious,” said a deep voice from behind them.
The children’s laughter rose like bread in an oven. Edgar realized that he’d never heard them laugh before Miss Perkins arrived.
He’d been on his way out, to fulfill his bargain with Westbury, when he heard voices in the breakfast room. Drawn by the conversation, and the warm, inviting aromas emanating from the kitchens, he’d drifted closer, meaning only to observe and then escape, unnoticed.
Somehow his feet had carried him closer, and then he hadn’t been able to resist joining the conversation.
“Tell us one of your jokes, sir,” said Michel.
“Sir?” Edgar asked. “Won’t you call me father?”
“Tell us a joke . . . Father.” Michel tested the word on his tongue like the bread.
A fissure cracked across Edgar’s hardened heart. “Good morning, Miss Perkins. Would you like to hear a joke?”
She gave him a half smile. “I’m at your pleasure, Your Grace.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and his belly clenched tight.
Don’t. Don’t say that.
There was something different about her today. What was it? Ah, the braids were gone, replaced by a simple swirl of auburn with loose curls on either side of her neck.
The plain black gown was gone as well. But it definitely hadn’t been replaced with a voluminous smock.
She wore something elegant and simple in a blue-and-white-stripe with a white apron over the top. She looked far more delectable than the bread.
“I’m afraid our jokes aren’t suitable for polite company,” Edgar teased.
“Are they about breaking wind?” asked Michel with a devious grin. “Because I know a good one about that.”
Miss Perkins stared at Michel with mock censure. “You know, Michel, he who says the rhyme did the crime.”
Adele giggled. “He who declares it blares it.”
Edgar laughed. Ah . . . flatulence. The age-old subject for merriment. “I’m shocked.” He laid a hand over his chest. “Is this what you discuss during your lessons, Miss Perkins?”
“We were reading Chaucer’s The Miller’s T
ale and the subject may have . . . arisen,” she said primly.
Adele giggled.
“I’ll endeavor to change the subject,” said Edgar, catching Miss Perkins’s eye. “Have you changed the style of your hair?”
She touched one of the soft red spirals at her cheek. “Why yes, Your Grace.”
“It suits you.”
She blushed. She didn’t like compliments, he noticed. Wasn’t comfortable with them.
“Will you have some bread, Father?” Michel gestured toward the loaf of bread on the table. Edgar hadn’t planned to linger. He needed to be on his way to the park, to escort West’s sister, Lady Blanche, on a carriage ride in order to make her suitor jealous. Of all the harebrained schemes. He’d rather poke out his own eye with the butter knife. He could put off the dreaded carriage ride for a while longer.
“I might have a piece of bread at that.” Edgar removed his hat and sat across from Miss Perkins.
“Thank you for hiring Miss Martin to cook for us,” Michel said.
“You’re very welcome. Though I was under the mistaken impression that our bread here in England was perfectly adequate.”
“This is far superior,” said Adele.
“You can’t cut it with a knife. It must be torn.” Michel tore off a piece and held it out.
“So you approve of the bread?” Edgar asked.
Michel nodded, his mouth too full to speak.
Edgar tried to catch Miss Perkins’s eye. Did she approve?
“You were listening to me,” she said, with the barest hint of a smile.
“Of course I was listening. You gave me an assignment, and I completed it.”
“High marks for listening,” she said.
“She gave you an assignment?” asked Michel with a puzzled expression.
“That’s right.”
“Does the bread meet your exacting standards?” he asked the twins.
“The crust is hard.” Michel tapped on the bread with his fingernail. “And inside . . . fluffy like clouds. Melts on the tongue.”
“I can see that now.” He broke off a piece. It was still warm from the oven, fragrant and comforting as only fresh-baked bread could be.
“Next you’ll be saying that our beef isn’t cooked correctly,” he said.
“It’s not!” declared Michel. “It’s too dry.”
“One mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Michel,” said Miss Perkins.
“And how is the infamous P.L. Rabbit doing? Escaped from Drew the Destroyer, I trust?” asked Edgar.
Michel’s jaw dropped. “You know about P.L.?”
“Everyone knows P.L. What adventures has she had lately?”
“Yesterday, she mixed cook’s baking powder with some vinegar and made an awful mess trying to make a volcanic eruption,” said Adele.
“Sounds like old P.L.’s a better pirate than a chemist,” Edgar laughed.
“Today, she’s going to voyage round the world with Captain James Cook and meet some penguins,” said Michel.
“Miss Perkins says penguins waddle like this.” Adele stood up from the table and performed a lurching, sideways walk with her arms glued at her sides.
“Sit down and finish your bread, if you please,” said Miss Perkins, but there was a smile on her lips. “The children can hardly contain their excitement about Lady India’s antiquities exhibition, Your Grace. She sent a note to say that they will have a role in the historical tableaux she’s presenting.”
“We’re going to wave palm fronds,” said Adele.
“Always making a spectacle, my sister,” said Edgar. “She loves to set tongues wagging. When we were children she was forever mounting theatricals but she was never interested in playing a supporting role. It was always Cleopatra or Joan of Arc for her.”
“I like Lady India,” announced Adele, with a nod of her head.
“I’m quite sure you do,” said Miss Perkins. “Will there be many guests, Your Grace?”
“Two dozen, I believe. Everyone has accepted. Antiquarians and nobility. The Duke of Ravenwood will be here. Haven’t seen him in years.”
“Another duke?” asked Miss Perkins.
The way she said it made it sound like another duke would be the worst possible thing to appear.
“He wouldn’t miss it. He’s India’s sworn enemy.” He turned to the children. “Just like P.L. and Drew the Destroyer.”
“Why are they enemies?” asked Michel.
“Well that’s a long story. We grew up in neighboring houses, and they used to be very good friends, but they had a falling out. They both have a passion for antiquities, but extremely different methods of going about it.”
“We’ll be learning about Egyptian antiquities in preparation for the exhibition,” said Miss Perkins.
“Do you think Lady India will battle the Duke of Ravenwood with her dagger?” asked Adele eagerly.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Edgar. “There was an incident several years ago with a vase. He thought it was a priceless Ming Dynasty piece, and she proved it was a fraud. By cracking it over his head.”
Finally, he’d made Miss Perkins laugh.
“I suppose that wouldn’t necessarily endear her to him,” she said.
Adele grinned. “That’s why I like her.”
“Why isn’t Lady India married?” asked Michel. “She’s ever so pretty.”
“That’s a good question, but don’t, I pray you, ever ask Lady India that,” Edgar warned. “Women tend to dislike questions about being unmarried.”
“It’s a very impertinent question, to my way of thinking,” said Miss Perkins primly.
It hit him that her ramrod posture and pursed lips were an overcompensation for what she must view as the indiscreet conversation they’d shared.
He’d certainly had the opportunity to go over their conversation in his mind word by word. It had been extraordinary, by any measure.
Remembering her whispered words, the way she’d risen on tiptoe, was not something he should be thinking about. “I’ll be off then,” he said gruffly. “Please excuse me.” He donned his hat.
“Must you go, Father?” asked Adele.
“Afraid I must. My foundry needs me.”
How he wished he could go to the foundry, but he had a job to do first. A promise was a promise.
West had better keep his end of the bargain though.
Chapter 10
The children had been far too restless and excited after the duke left, so Mari was taking them for a walk in the park.
Despite their loud protests, she’d also insisted that it was high time to return Trix to his natural habitat. Michel carried the snake in a basket.
It was the golden hour in Hyde Park. The trees were cloaked in green and the children’s eyes were bright as they skipped along beside her. As they walked down the path, Mari was careful to keep a watch out for any tall, stern-looking matrons.
It would be disastrous if she were caught by Mrs. Trilby with the children.
“May we show you our talents today, Miss Perkins?” asked Adele.
“We brought our chalks,” said Michel. “For drawing on the paving stones. We used to do that by the seaside and people would put money in my cap.”
“Is that what you did when you ran away from the other governesses?”
“Sometimes. Other times Adele made up verses about people and they paid a pence each for a poem. Or she told their fortunes.”
“Or sometimes we just came here to hide,” said Adele. “There are ever so many hiding places. There’s one.” She pointed to an oak tree with a hollow trunk.
“There’s another.” Michel pointed at a hedgerow.
Mari spread a blanket in a shaded, quiet area and lowered Trix’s basket.
“I know you’re attached to Trix,” she said, “but he’ll be so much happier in the park. And Mrs. Fairfield won’t allow him in the house any longer. She was quite firm on the subject.”
“Let’s not release him
just yet,” said Michel. “Please, we need him a little longer.”
“Very well. But we’re letting him go before we return home.”
“Would you like to see one of my drawings?” Michel drew some chalks out of the bag of supplies he’d brought with them. “There are some nice flat paving stones here.”
“What will you draw?”
“The seaside.”
“That would be lovely.”
Not much potential for clipping constables with chalk.
Mari was watching Michel draw when she noticed two tall, stout ladies in the distance.
Mrs. Trilby and Miss Dunkirk.
Her guilty heart raced. She was seeing things. Or was she? One of their bonnets was very military in silhouette.
Botheration. She had to hide. There was nothing else to be done.
“Carry on with your drawing, Michel,” she said. “I’ll return shortly.”
“Where are you going?” asked Adele.
“I need to . . . visit the hedgerow.”
Adele wrinkled her nose. “Why?”
“Never mind that, I’ll be right back. Quick as a wink.”
Mari fled behind the hedgerow.
Moments later, she heard footsteps. Her heart pounded. “Miss Perkins?” whispered Adele. “Are you hiding?”
“Yes,” Mari whispered.
Adele drew a few branches down and peered at her. “Oh . . .” She nodded sagely. “I understand now. You have to visit the hedgerow.”
“Precisely. Now give me some privacy, if you please.”
Adele ran away. Let her think Mari was answering the call of nature. She had to hide. She just couldn’t take the risk.
She crouched low, praying that Mrs. Trilby wasn’t nearby. That she wouldn’t see the children and stop.
All was quiet. When she felt it was safe, she peered over the hedge.
She couldn’t see Mrs. Trilby or Miss Dunkirk, but the children had gathered a small audience in her absence.
Mari stepped out from behind the hedge, shaking twigs from her skirts.
The twins weren’t drawing anymore.
Michel sat cross-legged on the ground, wearing a white sheet tied over his clothing. He was blowing upon an oboe-like instrument with two reeds, which produced a high, thin melody.