Scandal Above Stairs_A Below Stairs Mystery

by Jennifer Ashley

  13

  Tess’s brown eyes were wide with anguish, her hands going to my sleeves to clutch at me.

  “Do what, child?” I asked in astonishment and no little trepidation.

  “Whatever it is you say I did. I don’t want Mr. Davis to give notice. Not because of the likes of me. I’ll scrub out the privy, wear the butler’s kit at table, anything ye want, only don’t send me away.”

  Her fingers clamped down, her eyes wide and filled with terror. Whatever she feared going back to if she was turned out frightened her immeasurably.

  Mr. Davis rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl.” He turned his back on us and stalked away into his butler’s pantry, slamming the door behind him.

  I took Tess by the hand and led her into the kitchen. “Stop your crying at once,” I said sternly. A firm tone was best for cutting through hysterics, I’ve always found. “I need you to help me get breakfast ready. No one is sending you away. I won’t let them. In fact, I need you more than ever now.”

  Tess gulped on a sob, her red-rimmed eyes overflowing tears to stain her too-white cheeks. “Truly?”

  “Truly. Now rinse off your face and get water boiling. I must have the eggs ready, and I’m behindhand.”

  Tess dragged in a breath, her chest rising sharply. “Right you are,” she said with a croak and tore from me into the scullery. A moment later, I heard the banging of a kettle and water crash into the sink.

  As I brought out bacon from the larder and sliced it up to lay in an iron skillet, I wondered why Tess had been so afraid we thought she’d been up to mischief. Or perhaps she simply knew she had nothing in her life outside this house and dreaded returning to the streets. She’d been dubious when she’d arrived, but now she was adamant about staying. I would have to mull this over and also discuss her history with Daniel.

  Meanwhile, I filled the pot of water Tess had brought to boil with a dozen eggs. I told her how to watch the eggs and time them to be boiled to perfection. If the yolk got too hard, it was dry and tasteless. Too soft, and it was a mess of raw egg when opened.

  I let her brood over the eggs while I sautéed potatoes I’d parboiled the evening before, and thought about what Mrs. Bywater had said to me about Lady Cynthia.

  Mrs. Bywater had implied that Cynthia and I had struck up a friendship, one that might curtail Cynthia’s chances . . . On the marriage mart, I knew she meant. A lady who was more at home lounging about with her cook in the kitchen than receiving visitors in the parlor likely would not attract a gentleman who wanted a wife, Mrs. Bywater might as well have shouted. Also, a cook who thought the lady of the house would indulge her because of that friendship might get above herself and stop working as hard as she ought.

  All very convenient for Mrs. Bywater to say that keeping to our place in life brought happiness. Indeed, if that place had money, a large house, plenty of leisure time, and the respect of society, I had no doubt it was true. The rest of us had to grub for everything we got.

  I decided to take no notice of Mrs. Bywater’s warning. If Lady Cynthia counted me as a friend, I was honored. If she was happier sitting at my kitchen table watching me cook than arranging flowers in the drawing room, that was her family’s fault for not making her feel more accepted and wanted above stairs.

  My mind settled on this matter, I returned to musing on the open back door.

  I’d first feared, upon Charlie pointing it out, that Lady Cynthia had left it open in her haste upon her return, but her bewilderment when she’d arrived told me she’d had nothing to do with it. She’d not known about the door until she’d entered the scullery and asked me what had happened.

  My next thought was that Daniel had come inside through the unbolted door for his own reasons. But I knew Daniel would never have made his entrance obvious. He might have picked the lock to let himself in, but when he left, he’d be certain to pick it closed again.

  Also, I would not be surprised if Daniel had his own keys to this house. When he’d worked here in March, he might have seized the opportunity either to purloin a key or have one copied. The more I came to know Daniel, the more I believed him capable of.

  But I believed one thing—if Daniel had come through that door, we would never know about it.

  That left me with no ideas. Either someone had come in from the outside and left in a hurry, without making certain the door was properly closed, or someone from inside the house had gone out, again not fastening the door completely.

  Charlie had seen no one and had been genuinely alarmed. But anyone could have come downstairs in the night and left through the scullery. One of the maids might have been slipping off to meet a man, or one of the footmen, a paramour.

  Or, we had been robbed, but the thief had been very subtle. But why make a secret of what had been stolen and then leave the back door open?

  I knew I fretted about the question because I’d been the one to leave the bolt undone. If I hadn’t, I’d be quizzing the staff right and left until I found out who’d been so daft as to not shoot the bolt home. My guilt must be shouting itself in my silence.

  Tess and I finished the breakfast. Once she’d ceased her panic, she’d worked hard and helped me have everything done and sent upstairs for the footmen to lay out on the sideboards exactly on time. Mr. Davis stepped into the kitchen to report that none of the staff had found anything missing or out of place upstairs, and every piece of silver and bottle of wine were accounted for. We hadn’t, it seemed, been burgled at all.

  I saw nothing of Lady Cynthia that morning and heard of no sort of row above stairs, so I assumed that she’d been able to slip into her room, don a frock, and go down for breakfast as usual.

  Daniel likewise did not reappear. I found no sign of him when I went out the scullery door, and checked the area behind the stairs. No Daniel, not even any crumbs from the supper I’d given him the night before. If anything, the area was a little neater than usual.

  As this was Monday, my half day, I quickly swept aside the remains of breakfast and prepared a midday dinner of beef cutlets in a sauce of mushrooms, onions, and deep red wine along with new potatoes and the last of the asparagus I’d bought with Tess at the greengrocers. The asparagus stalks were starting to shrivel, so I chopped them and sautéed the pieces in butter and pepper. I’d made a batch of buns after breakfast and sent half of them upstairs as well.

  Once dinner was sent up I began the tarts that would finish supper, then I fetched my hat and my spring coat. The weather had turned, warming a bit.

  Tess looked absolutely terrified that I was going.

  “I’ll return by six,” I said, rather impatient with her histrionics. “Put the bread into the oven once it has risen an inch over the top of the pan. Chop some onions into a fine dice and then some carrots. Keep them in separate bowls, covered, and store them in the larder. Wash the lettuce and dry it, then put it into the larder as well. Make a show of working all afternoon, because if you do not, I’m certain Mr. Davis will find something for you to do. If he tries to coerce you into polishing silver, tell him absolutely not. I do not want silver polish working its way into my food. Have a bun if you get hungry. Leave the plate of them on the table for the others, but I advise you to pick the choice ones first, or they’ll be gone.”

  So speaking, I pinned on my hat and checked in the mirror that my hair was unruffled. Tess nodded at all my instructions, her face wan.

  “I’ll try, Mrs. H.”

  “You will do more than try,” I said briskly. “You will be fine, Tess. If I had no confidence in you, I’d not go.”

  That wasn’t strictly true—I’d never miss a chance to be with Grace. But if I’d worried about Tess, I’d set someone else in charge of her. Tess was bright, however, and she’d caught on very quickly to any task I’d set her to thus far.

  I never felt happier than when I walked away from the kitchen on my days out.
Today I had hours of freedom before me, and at the end of my ride across London was my daughter.

  For our outing, Grace and I walked down Cannon Street to the hotel at Cannon Street Station to take tea like grand ladies. We pretended to be very rich without a care in the world, while we watched ladies and gentlemen come and go. We admired gowns or whispered our disparagement of them, smiled at married couples who were obviously in love, laughed at young gentlemen who were trying too eagerly to please ladies they wanted to woo.

  The tea was not all it could have been—the seedcakes were too dry, for instance, the lemon curd heavy and too runny—but sharing all with Grace made everything ambrosia.

  We walked back as slowly as we could, so we might savor every second together. A day and a half out for a cook was generous, but to me, it was far too little time to spend with the girl I loved with all my heart.

  I held Grace tightly when we hugged good-bye, and she kissed my cheek.

  “Don’t cry, Mum,” she said, ever cheerful. “It will be Thursday before we know it. Only two days away.”

  Two long days and three nights, in which I would work my fingers to the bone to feed a family more than they could eat while beggar children roamed the streets happy for the crumbs I gave them. Those children were reminders of why I stayed in service, hid my shameful past, and collected my pay. Grace would never be one of those children, never know poverty and want.

  I decided to travel back to Mayfair after I left her, by way of Fleet Street and the Strand. I left the omnibus at Charing Cross and strolled nonchalantly to the pawnbrokers where Daniel had waited for stolen antiquities to come his way.

  All was dark within the shop, and a blind had been pulled halfway down the door’s long window. Pretending curiosity, I bent and peered through the lower half of the dusty window at the same time I tried the door handle.

  “It’s shut,” said a gravelly voice at my elbow.

  I straightened up with a gasp. The man standing next to me was the one called Varley, who’d come into the shop the afternoon I’d cornered Daniel there. I hadn’t had a clear view of Mr. Varley, try as I might, but I remembered his voice.

  “I see that,” I said, taking on the tone of an annoyed customer. “Any notion why?”

  “No,” he snarled.

  I pretended his large size and suspicious stare didn’t unnerve me. I was simply a passerby, a woman wondering why she could not enter a shop and purchase what she wished.

  “Ah well,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll pop back another day.”

  Varley stepped in front of me as I turned away. I understood Daniel’s concern about the man as he loomed over me. He was quite tall and very broad of body, his hands not as large as the ones of the man who’d lain in the morgue, but not far off. He had blue eyes that regarded me with more intelligence than I’d thought he’d possess, and a shock of black hair that was greasy under his flat cap.

  Varley studied me, trying to decide whether I was a fellow criminal, a person who would run to the police, or simply a curious woman vexed she could not enter a pawnbrokers.

  I assumed a virtuous stance and gave him an irritated frown, as would a lady who had no idea who this man was and why he was standing before her.

  “The shop’ll be shut for a long while, missus.”

  “Oh?” I lifted my brows. “You work here, do you?”

  “No.” The word was abrupt. “You’d best be getting on, woman.”

  “I intend to if you will move out of my way, sir,” I said, my haughty best. “And do not call me woman. It is quite rude.”

  His eyes sparkled as he took me in again. “Well, pardon me, I’m sure.”

  Varley stepped aside with a sweep of his arm, gesturing me onward. As I passed him, he called me a name far ruder than woman, but I chose to walk on, my back straight, marching toward Charing Cross as though only irked by a boorish man.

  In truth, my knees were quivering—I knew he was dangerous. Daniel had told me so, and Daniel did not fear many. I felt Varley’s gaze on my back, scrutinizing me, and I did not cease shaking until I’d passed through the corner of Trafalgar Square.

  I paused under Nelson’s monument, pondering. Charing Cross railway station was steps away. From there I could take one of the underground trains straight north, disembarking in Bloomsbury near Bedford Square, and find the pub Daniel and Mr. Thanos had mentioned. I told myself I was only curious to see a pub where scholars met, and I had a little time before I was expected home.

  I found myself walking toward the station, feeling in my reticule for a coin to purchase a ticket. Perhaps I simply wanted to know where the place was in case I had to run Daniel or Mr. Thanos to ground in future.

  But the idea that Daniel might be there, out of his beggar’s clothing and enjoying a decent meal, took hold of me, and there was nothing for it but that I had to look.

  I did not like underground trains, though some of London’s did travel aboveground part of the time. How a train managed to get through the long tunnels without us all suffocating from the smoke, or the sparks from the engines setting the beams that held up the tunnels on fire, I did not know. Best not to think about it.

  I emerged from the train in Tottenham Court Road and walked to Bedford Square. How I supposed I’d find the correct pub in the side streets without poking my head into each one, I could not say. I had to hope that there were not many taverns in the vicinity, but this was London and perilously near St. Giles. In spite of the vigorous temperance movement and the Salvation Army, Londoners could find a drink on every corner of the metropolis.

  A respectable public house wasn’t the same thing as a gin hall, I frequently argued with the temperance women who attempted to hand me pamphlets. While I did not much like ale, finding it too sour for my taste, there was no harm in it, provided one did not drink it to excess. Wine, likewise, was produced to delight the palate, not dull the senses. I also enjoyed a drop of brandy in my tea for medicinal purposes from time to time. The hard drinks like gin, which ruined all who touched them, I agreed ought to be purged.

  I chose a lane and prepared to dive down it. Before I could, a coach halted behind me, and I was hailed by a voice I knew.

  “I thought I spied you, Mrs. H.,” Lady Cynthia called out. “I see you were curious too. Excellent. I believe Providence sent you to keep me respectable.”

  14

  Lady Cynthia leaned out the window of a carriage halted on the east side of Bedford Square. The line of fine houses behind her hid the bulk of the British Museum.

  I recognized the landau Lord Rankin left to be the Bywaters’ town coach. As I approached it, Paul the footman leapt from a perch on the back and opened the door so Lady Cynthia could step out.

  She wore a gown of dove gray trimmed with black, her pillbox hat a creation of light and dark grays adorned with feathers that swirled elegantly around the hat’s crown. A net that covered her forehead and eyes, and her coil of blond hair neatly offset the millinery concoction. Lady Cynthia looked this afternoon like the aristocratic daughter she was.

  “Ladies can’t stir a step out of doors without their maid, aunty, or a male relative to guard their reputations,” she said as she let Paul help her down—no leaping out on her own today. “Thought I’d be contrite this morning and dress to Aunt Isobel’s taste and agree to take the town coach instead of striding about on my own. But as you’re here, you can be my chaperone.”

  So speaking, Cynthia landed beside me, shaking out her skirts and brushing soot from the sleeves of her short-waisted jacket. She noticed me staring at her head and frowned. “What is it? Is my hair falling down?”

  “I am admiring your hat. It’s quite lovely.” I owned only two hats that I kept as well as I could, but they were aging and soon would be too far out of fashion to wear. I always admired a good hat and wished I could indulge in buying them when I pleased.

  Cyn
thia yanked up the veil. “It’s ridiculous. Makes me see spots in front of my eyes. But mourning bonnets are even more ridiculous. Don’t know how the Queen, God save her, can stick them. Your hat is plenty nice,” she finished generously.

  “Thank you,” I said, flattered. I always wore my best black straw while visiting Grace or going to church. “Shall we see if we can locate this pub for scholars? I suppose they will let two ladies into its snug?”

  “I know exactly where it is.” Cynthia pointed down Gower Street in the direction opposite the one I’d chosen. “Mr. Thanos told me. He should be there, by the way. That’s why I need a chaperone. Paul.” Cynthia pulled a coin from her pocket and flipped it to the footman. “Find yourself some grub. Don’t wander too far or get into any trouble.”

  Paul snatched the coin from midair, flashed a smile, and said, “Yes, my lady,” before sprinting away.

  “You might as well have some dinner too,” Cynthia called up to the coachman, who was new, as Lord Rankin had taken the last coachman to the country with him. “No drink, mind.”

  “He can hardly leave the coach and horses,” I pointed out.

  “’S’all right,” the coachman said affably. “Paul will see me well. I’ll wait here, my lady.” He nodded down at me. “Mrs. Holloway.”

  I returned the nod. The coachman had a florid face, red hair, and blue eyes under a broad forehead. He looked Scots, but his name was Henry and his speech told me he’d lived in London all his life. His eyes warmed as he gave me another nod, which worried me a bit.

  Fortunately, Cynthia had already marched away and Paul had run off, neither noticing the exchange.

  Turning my back, I hurried after Cynthia, catching up to her as she strode down the street. She halted after a time at the door of what looked to be a very old inn. The narrow building rose straight from the street for five stories, the facade only wide enough for a large door on the ground floor and a single window glinting on each floor above that. The glass in these windows was thick, as though surviving from the last century.