Chris’s smile froze on his lips. “I… well, that is, we… we were just here to….”
Olivia appeared at his side as if by wizardry, wiping her hands on a plaid handkerchief. “Good morning, Mabelle.”
“Morning, Miss Olivia.”
“I take it my assistant was giving you our progress report?” Olivia examined her hands carefully, and, nodding with satisfaction, tucked the hankie back into her waistband.
Mabelle shot Chris a little glare. “Snooping about, more like.”
Olivia tinkled in delighted laughter. “Oh, was he? Well, good! He’s learning a thing or two. Well. I’ve considered what you had to say. About the animals. And I think you may be onto something. No stone should be unturned, and where you must pay from the pocket, I can charge to the Crown. There’s no reason not to have that veterinarian fellow in to take a look at the scene when he’s up tonight.”
Mabelle’s face, which had been brightening with the beginnings of a hopeful smile, fell. She shook her head. “No, that won’t do. Mister Foster’s going to be on the clock, see. Your mother’s paying him to keep an eye on the horsemanship events. He won’t have the time to just take off and come in here on some grim, foul Deathsniffer’s—” She caught herself. Ducked her head. “Sorry, miss. Missus Elouise—she talks about you—that is, about murder investigators like that! It’s—”
“It’s fine,” Olivia said mildly. “I don’t mind being called a Deathsniffer. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
While Mabelle looked confused, and maybe even a little scandalized, Olivia tapped her chin.
“I take it you won’t be satisfied if I just bring him in after?”
“After it’s late in the night and he may have downed some ciders, Miss Olivia?” Miss Greene looked pained. “I… if that’s the best y-you can do, then I… suppose….”
“Ugh, please, I insist, stop.” Olivia shook her head. “I’d had the thought to go into town this afternoon for some…” Her eyes flicked to Chris, and then back “… other business. I’m not sure if… well, we’ll see. Perhaps I can explore the possibility of… making some time for this Mister Foster? No promises.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Olivia, just for—just for even trying! Missus Elouise doesn’t know what she’s talking about where you’re concerned, I swear!” Mabelle leaned forward, arms raising, and for a moment, Chris was absolutely certain she was going to throw her arms up around Olivia’s neck. Time froze. Olivia looked like a startled rabbit.
And then Miss Greene dropped her arms and swallowed hard. She looked down at the toes of her work boots.
“… you’re welcome, Miss Greene,” Olivia said.
“Right,” Mabelle agreed. “Yes, that’s just the thing, I… I’ll… see to the horses!” She sneaked a glance at Olivia before brushing past her and hurrying back to where Hobby and Alouette waited, only half brushed.
Olivia watched her go and then sighed. She offered her arm to Chris, and he took it silently.
Once they were out under the sun again, Chris cleared his throat delicately. Olivia arched a delicate, white-blonde eyebrow up at him.
He coughed. “You… didn’t want her to hug you.”
“Gods. No.” Olivia shuddered. “Please, no.”
He nodded. That seemed about right. “So… why do you seem…” He winced. “Disappointed?”
Olivia sighed bitterly. “I’m not. Stop it.” And then, before he could hurry to apologize, she sighed again, even harder. “Because I know she would have, if not for my mother. The old bat thinks I’m going to change my mind about fulfilling my role as a Faraday, and then she puts out these ghoulish ideas about me to the staff? It’s stupid. Self-defeating. I hate that it bothers me so much.”
“No one likes to be thought poorly of.”
“Oh, come off. I love being thought poorly of.” Olivia scuffed at a clod of moss protruding from between two stones. “As if I should care what a fifteen-year-old stablemaster should think of me! I just… don’t want Mother to win, that’s all.”
It didn’t seem like all, but Chris knew better than to pursue it. He cleared his throat and pushed an errant curl back off his forehead. “Of course,” he agreed, and Olivia relaxed a bit beside him. “Now… just what is this ‘other business’ you wanted to see to in Summergrove?”
“Mnn.” Olivia shot a grin up at him. “The good thing about that pill we Tarls have all been given is that someone looking like Em stands out like a sore thumb.” She mimed clutching at her heart. “What is that brown-skinned savage doing amongst us?” Rolling her eyes, she shrugged. “Ignorant nonsense, but it’ll serve us. If Em went through town on the day she disappeared, we’ll know. And if she didn’t go there to find a coach, and they didn’t see her at the train station….”
Chris nodded slowly. “Then we’ve started to limit her possible routes out.”
“And can be certain that she’s intentionally moving without being seen, as those are the two most obvious routes and there’s little reason not to pursue one.” Olivia shrugged again. “It’s information. All information is valuable at this stage. Now,” and she steered him, not towards the grand oak doors carved with apple blossoms, but to a smaller entrance he hadn’t even seen. “Let’s see to our stomachs, shall we?”
Compared to the comfortable, cozy little domain back at the guest house, this kitchen was palatial. It was pleasantly warm, smelled delicious, and buzzed with energy. Nearly everything seemed aglow with spiritlight in every possible colour: salamanders in the ovens, sylphs in the drying racks, undines in the sinks, alps in the lights, and cloudlings in assorted oddities. Kitchen girls bustled about in stained brown skirts and loose blouses, wiping hands or wielding spoons or juggling trays. Bacon and eggies sizzled on the stovetops, and one girl was pulling a tin of freshly baked rolls out of the oven. They smelled heavenly.
Chris’s stomach growled with a vengeance.
Olivia gave him a look and a laugh and led him to a table in a corner. Set away from the busy swarm, it was cozy and quiet. It was also occupied by three kitchen girls, the oldest of whom was maybe a year his junior and the youngest who couldn’t be much more than Rosie’s age. All of them glanced up and grinned as they came close.
“Miss Olivia!” one girl said, a wildly freckled young lady with a plain face but striking red hair piled atop her head. “Won’t you sit with us?”
“Well,” Olivia said, “if you insist.” It was clear that she’d intended to come here from the start, but the kitchen girls still all laughed happily and cleared space for them on the benches.
Olivia sat on the side with the redhead. Chris coughed, ducked his head, and squeezed in beside the other two, both blondes, one pretty and slender and the other curved like a vase. All three of them had attended them at dinner last night. As he sat, he nodded politely to them, and they tittered. The round one coloured prettily and quickly whispered something in her friend’s ear, who turned red as a fire poker all the way to her fingertips.
Chris was fairly certain he could guess the general thrust of the conversation. He choked down his natural instinct to duck his head between his shoulders, and instead, gave them both his best smile. They collapsed into giggles.
“Christopher, please,” Olivia said. “Try not to break every heart in Summergrove?”
He felt himself flushing right along with the kitchen girls, but her voice was jocular, and her eyes were sparkling, and the redhead she’d seated herself beside was laughing outright.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, you know me, Olivia.”
“Yes, well.” Olivia sighed dramatically. Her hair had mostly dried from her swim and had a bit more curl to it than usual. She twirled a lock around a finger. “Good morning, Sally, Presa, Buffy,” she said, nodding to the redhead, the round one, and the slender one in turn.
“Good morning, Miss Olivia,” the three kitchen girls chorused together.
“You aren’t staying for long?”
“It’s such a shame.”
“At least you’re here for the Harvest Festival! What are you going to wear tonight?”
“Can you tell us anything about Darrington fashion?”
“Are the girls in the city still wearing lace gloves?”
“Miss Olivia, you need to see my gown for the Harvest Festival tonight. Missus Elouise has promised at least one waltz will happen, and I’m going to get Fred to partner with me if it’s the last thing I do!”
“Fred is not going to dance with you. You know he’s sweet on the black lady from the city.”
“Well, Presa, she isn’t here tonight, and besides, everyone knows that Miss Banks was tangled up in Roger Greene. She’s not going to jump right in with another fellow, not so soon after… well. You know.”
Chris started and focused on Olivia. He watched her while her brow furrowed and then, almost immediately, smoothed back again. While the kitchen girls continued to chatter, Olivia’s fingers drummed on the edge of the table. He could see her processing information, drawing links, considering her next move.
“Feathers,” Olivia said suddenly. “Especially on hats.”
All three girls went quiet while they mulled over what she’d said.
“Like Miss Banks likes to wear,” Presa finally said thoughtfully.
“I always told you I thought she looked sharp.” Buffy nodded.
“But the rest of her clothes are so…” Sally wrinkled her nose. “Professorial.”
“I suppose Roger Greene liked a lady who appeared educated and intellectual,” Olivia mused. Her words slithered out of her as if she were just throwing them off the cuff, but Chris knew her well enough to see how carefully each one was planned. He was sure their bevy of companions would see it, too… but they seemed fully oblivious.
“I never bought the rumour that they were involved, myself,” Sally insisted. “Roger’s just a real jolly sort of bloke, and everyone knows he will”—she paused, and her face fell a bit—“that is… would never stop loving his poor, dead wife. And Miss Banks is an odd sort of egg, isn’t she just? I certainly never got the sense that she even noticed how handsome Roger was!”
“But they spent an awful lot of time together,” Buffy mused.
“Maybe they were just friends?” Presa suggested.
Their speculation ended in cries of delight when a stout, tall kitchen matron appeared with a plate of steaming rolls and a bowl of freshly picked gooseberries in cream. Chris’s stomach howled in triumph as he helped himself without even asking. The first bite was absolutely heavenly, and there was a certain subversive charm to eating without silverware or even plates.
Chris could clearly see Olivia thinking, and he couldn’t help but join in. Roger Greene and Emilia Banks, friends? It was an uncomfortable coincidence that the man they’d faked a murder to investigate had been a close confidante of the woman they were actually here looking for. Could there be something to that? But how?
He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the kitchen had gone eerily quiet until a loud, male clearing of the throat came from just beside him. He nearly jumped out of his seat, glancing up to see a dark-haired, sullen looking man in unfamiliar livery. It wasn’t the Miller uniform.
“I’m here on behalf of my master,” the man proclaimed. His voice was ever so slightly nasal. “Mister Dayton Spencer intends to patronize your Harvest Festival this evening, and he has sent me to ensure that his dietary needs are met. Mister Spencer will not be insulted with inferior pork. If he is served meat, he requires that it be beef. In addition, Mister Spencer does not take any sort of vegetable broth. Poultry, fish, or red meat broths for soups only.”
One particularly round woman pushed through the horde and glared up at Spencer’s man with flour-covered hands on her hips. “Now, see here,” she declared. “The menu for this shindig was decided a month ago. If Dayton Spencer wanted specifics, he should have asked before now!”
The servant sniffed derisively, and then looked about as if searching for a superior representative of the kitchen. Finding none, he sighed. “My master has only just decided to attend.” He said it as if it explained everything.
“Well,” the kitchen matron said, voice dripping disdain. “Then he’ll just have to settle for what’s already at our tables, now won’t he? Scurry back home and tell him that, won’t you?”
The servant took a deep breath. His chest puffed up. “My master says—” he began.
That was as far as he got.
All the kitchen staff, including the three girls in their nook, began booing and throwing objects at the man. He lasted about ten total seconds before an overripe grape hit him in the head and, squeaking, he turned and bolted for the door. The staff all cheered as he went.
“Tosser!” Buffy jeered.
“Wanker!” Sally added. “Go play politics down south!”
“Aye, slink on back to the city where we all know you’d rather be!” Presa declared, pounding her fists on the table, and the other two girls joined in until it sounded like rolling thunder.
“Gods!” Chris exclaimed over the racket. “Aren’t you all going to be sacked when Spencer buys the holdings?”
The girls stopped beating the table and gave him long-suffering looks.
Buffy was the one who shook her head proudly and spoke for them all. “Miss Olivia is never going to let it happen. Isn’t that right, Miss Olivia?” She turned a gaze of such confidence upon Olivia that Chris had to look away, knowing that there was absolutely no way his employer was going to leave her work in Darrington to come manage her ancestral holdings. Not after the story she’d just told him.
Olivia was silent for a long moment, and then she was saved by a grease-covered kitchen boy who appeared at her elbow. “Miss Olivia,” he said, with that same fond, worshipful tone that all the Miller staff seemed to have for his employer when her mother wasn’t present, “there’s a lady in trousers at the kitchen entrance for you. She’s got a Northern accent!” He delivered the last in the same tone he might have used for She’s singing down seven sylphs at once!
“Maris,” Olivia said and vaulted up from the bench. “So nice to see you, girls, but I need to address this!” She bustled away. The kitchen boy’s jaw fell open when he saw that Miss Olivia was also wearing trousers. The kitchen girls all craned their necks to watch her go.
They fell into hushed, excited whispers around him, darting glances in his direction and then giggling. He was painfully aware of their interest, of their bright eyes and flushed skin, and he wondered if Olivia would be angry if he slipped out. Without her at his side, he ironically felt like quite the country cousin.
“Oh, Miss Rachel!” one of the girls burst out. “Miss Rachel, over here!” She half-stood to wave excitedly.
And somehow, Chris had just… expected the name to belong to another kitchen worker. It was altogether quite common, after all. So when a slender body slid across from him, and he raised his head expecting to be introduced to another flour-dusted labourer, he was completely unprepared to be looking into the warm brown eyes of Rachel Albany.
Once again, her long, rich brown hair was rolled under, making it appear that it was cut in a thick, luxurious bob. Her natural waves were in evidence in a way that they never were when she wore her hair all the way up in that terrible, skin-pulling bun. She wore a simple day dress, rose in colour, with a high collar and close waist. The sleeves gathered in delicate lace at her elbows. She looked country-provincial, but also comfortable and at ease and… real.
“Christopher,” she said softly, inclining her head.
“Ah.” He scrambled for words. “Rachel. What are you doing here?”
She smiled. “What are you doing here?” she asked archly.
“I…” He cleared his throat. Rubbed the back of his neck. He felt quite sweaty. “Ah, Olivia. That is. Olivia brought me here, for…” He indicated the berries, cream, and rolls on the table, now mostly gone. “For food.” And, when Rachel raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to speak, he
blurted: “She’s outside.”
“Oh,” Rachel said. There was colour high in her cheeks. Chris couldn’t tell if it was a coy blush, or an effect of the brisk morning, or the warm kitchen, or if she was just absorbing his own flustered state with heartreading. He did know that it made her look very animated and pretty and….
The kitchen girls at the table all giggled. Chris coughed and ducked his head.
“I tend to take my breakfast here,” Rachel said, reaching for a roll and tearing it in two. “Missus Elouise rarely holds a real dining experience for the meal, and I like a strong start to my day.”
“And Rosie?” Chris asked.
Rachel smiled. “Rosie likes to lay abed,” she said, with a little laugh. “It’s an abominable habit if you ask me, but Missus Elouise is a late sleeper herself, and always seems to defend the practice.”
Chris made a face. “I should be appalled, but really, I just envy them. Olivia dragged me from bed at the crack of dawn this morning. She put me up on a horse and had me all the way down to the guesthouse before I was fully awake.”
“Oh. The guest house? So early? To… visit Francis? He’s not an early-riser, either.” Rachel blinked guilelessly, and Chris realized that he’d misstepped. They weren’t supposed to be at the guest house. They were supposed to be investigating the death of Roger Greene. He cursed his clumsiness internally and tried to control the flow of his emotions.
“He—he ah, he looks incredibly well!” he said, diverting the conversation.
“Then you were there to visit him? Goodness, what is he doing up so early?”
“No, I—I mean, yes, we wanted to see him, that is—his photos! We thought they might contain some clues. I—” Rachel and the doctor frequently intimated at a shared past and a great deal of affection. Rachel was, in fact, the one who’d brought the good doctor into Chris’s life in the first place. He cast in that direction. “You must be glad to see him so much.”
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