Death at the Crystal Palace Page 7

  “To Mr. Fielding,” I said as I handed it to him. “At All Saints Church in Shadwell.”

  James’s mouth popped open. “Uncle Errol?”

  He referred to Mr. Fielding as “Uncle,” but Errol Fielding and Daniel were not blood-related brothers. They’d been raised by the same man, a Mr. Carter, who’d been a criminal of some sort but apparently kindhearted enough to take care of two homeless boys.

  “Indeed. I know it is a long way, but do not rush. Take this for fortification.” I gave him the wrapped piece of seedcake I’d taken from the larder.

  James flushed with pleasure. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. H. He’ll get the letter, no worrying.”

  “I am not worried. If you do see your father, please greet him for me.”

  “Right you are, Mrs. H.”

  James was a good six feet tall now, almost a man at seventeen years old. His voice had deepened in the few years since I’d met him, and he’d sprung up like a weed. His clothes, a secondhand suit I hadn’t seen before, fit him a bit better than his last set—his rapid growth seemed to have slowed somewhat this year. I had become quite fond of James, and I gave his strong shoulder a pat as I said good-bye.

  “Why are you sending for the vicar?” Tess asked me as soon as James had gone. “He’s a handsome man, I’ll say, though nothing as fine as Mr. McAdam.”

  Mr. Fielding was indeed handsome, far more so than a man of God ought to be, but like Tess, I preferred Daniel.

  “Mr. Fielding is clever at finding things out,” I said. “Now to the mayonnaise, which should be in every cook’s repertoire. If you master it, you have a dozen sauces at your beck and call. You never know when the mistress will demand a rémoulade for the meat or a creamy dressing for the salad.”

  Tess subsided, knowing I expected her to concentrate on the task at hand. I showed her how to stir the eggs with a bit of mustard and vinegar, and then to whisk, whisk, whisk while I poured in the oil, bit by bit, never letting it be more than a thin stream.

  “Ow!” The bowl rang as Tess whipped the concoction. “Me arm is going to fall off.”

  “Constant whisking is key,” I said. “I’ve had many a day of aches from this sauce, but it is worth it. Mrs. Beeton says that patience and practice are essential.”

  “Well, let her come here and do all this stirring, then.”

  “The poor lady died young,” I said. “Very sad.”

  “Yeah, that is sad.” Tess had a tender heart. “But look, it’s all creamy now.” She pulled out the whisk, showing me globs of true mayonnaise.

  “Excellent. The trick is to add the oil as slowly as you can.”

  “I thought it were constant whisking,” she said cheekily as she rubbed her arm. “And patience and practice.”

  “All of those things. Now we’ll beat in the herbs and have a nice green sauce.”

  I added the dill and parsley I’d chopped, and then we fetched clean spoons and had a taste. “Oh.” Tess’s face lit. “This is wonderful. Can we have some with our supper?”

  “We have made so much, a few spoonfuls won’t be missed.” I separated them into a smaller bowl. “Now this goes into the larder to keep chilled, and it will go up with the fish. Don’t forget.”

  “How can I?” Tess rubbed her right arm again. “Me poor muscles will remind me.”

  “You did well, Tess.”

  Tess said nothing, but her cheeks were pink, eyes shining as she turned to her next tasks. I carried the mayonnaise to the larder to set over the bowl of ice I kept in the coolest corner. Ice was an expense Mrs. Bywater agreed to, mostly because Mr. Bywater was happier when his salads and sorbets were cool and not unpleasantly warm.

  As I exited the larder, I halted in surprise when a gentleman emerged from the door next to the butler’s pantry. That room was the wine cellar, which was nothing more than a niche used to store bottles from Lord Rankin’s collection. Mr. Davis guarded them like a watchdog, but Mr. Davis was nowhere in sight, and this gentleman had a bottle under each arm.

  He jumped guiltily when he spied me, then took on a look of false hauteur. “You there. Cook, is it?”

  When Jonathan Morris had called me Cookie, I’d been annoyed, but he’d said it as a jest, trying to rile me. This man said Cook with condescending sniff.

  He was Lord Clifford. I had never seen him, but I recognized the voice that had argued with Cynthia upstairs.

  I curtsied politely. “I am Mrs. Holloway.” I was growing weary of reminding people I had a name.

  Lord Clifford was in his fifties, with receding light brown hair just touched by gray. Pencil-thin sideburns met an equally thin mustache under his nose, and he wore no beard. His eyes were hazel—Cynthia’s clear blue eyes came from her mother.

  Lord Clifford looked me up and down. “You don’t seem a decadent chit who’s leading my Cynthia astray. You look respectable.”

  “I hope so, sir,” I said stiffly.

  “Hmm. Perhaps Old Biddy Bywater reads you wrong. She believes Cynthia would straighten up and be a sweet gel if not for you. But I rather think Cynthia is simply high-strung. Like her mother. And me.” Lord Clifford sent me a crooked grin, meant to disarm me.

  I could see why this man would be a successful swindler. He appeared as a harmless twig of the aristocracy, happy to read his racing news and sip whatever beverage his valet set in front of him. A gentleman who’d never mislead others into giving him an inheritance he didn’t deserve.

  I imagined him blinking his eyes as he did at me now, declaring that he of course was the second cousin of the deceased, and so sorry for the old chap, and all that, but only too chuffed to realize he was now a peer.

  “You’ll do,” Lord Clifford said. He observed my glance at the bottles he clutched and sent me an impudent wink. “Saving old Davis the bother of tottering down here for me. These wines belong to Rankin, my son-in-law, you know. Rankin won’t mind.”

  With a tip of his head, Lord Clifford turned and leapt up the back stairs, his well-made leather shoes ringing on the rough boards. He so easily balanced on the steep staircase that I imagined he’d more than once run down to grab whatever bottle he liked.

  Lord Rankin, who’d never approved of Lord Clifford, probably would not be happy that Lord Clifford helped himself, but it was not for me to interfere. Mr. Davis would be incensed—he kept the wine cellar in pristine order and would be blamed for any missing bottles.

  I hid my misgivings and returned to the kitchen to continue preparing dishes with Tess.

  Mrs. Redfern entered a few hours later, her back stiff and her lips quivering.

  “Mrs. Holloway, whatever you have decided to create for supper, you must cease. Mrs. Bywater has declared that her ladyship will take over deciding the menus.”

  Mrs. Bywater had been leaving the cooking decisions to me, once she’d realized this was best. I was to serve simple meals and keep to a budget, but otherwise, I was free to cook as I pleased. I liked basing each day’s menu on what I could find at the markets—much better to see what was available and fresh than to fixate on a certain dish and then not be able to locate the ingredients.

  “What sort of menus does she have in mind?” I asked, hiding my trepidation.

  “She will send down a list when she is ready. I tried to explain that the household already runs smoothly, particularly the meals, but her ladyship decided she must have the food to her taste. Lady Clifford’s digestion is delicate, apparently.”

  I had the sudden fear that some mad person was out to poison aristocratic ladies in general, but I told myself this was nonsense. Perhaps Lady Clifford did need a specific diet for her health.

  I surveyed the beans, carrots, and potatoes I’d already chopped and the lemon tart Tess was finishing up for the oven. If Lady Clifford suddenly wanted a meal of only bone broth and watercress salad, the rest of this would go to waste.

&nb
sp; “I will do my best, Mrs. Redfern.” I kept myself from heaving an exasperated sigh. Venting my frustration in front of Mrs. Redfern and Tess would do no good.

  Mrs. Redfern turned and stalked out. Her rigid anger told me that Lady Clifford was busy making difficult requests upstairs as well.

  Tess, who’d been listening in apprehension, burst out, “What we going to do?”

  Holding my anger was becoming more difficult by the minute. “We will do what we are told. It is what we are paid to do.”

  “But—”

  “You will have to learn, Tess, that whatever the mistress of a house wants for her meals, you prepare it. It is her house, her food, her wishes.”

  “But Lady Clifford ain’t the mistress, is she?” Tess slopped lemon custard onto the table as she filled the tart shell. She hastily wiped up the drops with one finger, which she popped into her mouth.

  “She is a guest of the mistress. Besides, this house belongs to Lord and Lady Clifford’s son-in-law, as his lordship reminded me when he came down to purloin the best burgundy.”

  I snatched up the cut potatoes and dumped them into a bowl. They’d keep if I filled the bowl with cold water—I could use them for a shepherd’s pie or perhaps a bubble and squeak for the staff if Lady Clifford did not want them. The rest of the vegetables would make a salad or soup, and I knew the servants would make short work of a lemon tart. I saw no benefit in throwing away perfectly good food.

  “Well, it ain’t right.” Tess carried the tart carefully to the oven and set it inside. She closed the door without banging it, as I’d taught her, but made her annoyance known by slamming down the towel she’d used to shield her hand from the heat of the oven. “We work hard and then it’s not wanted.”

  I shared Tess’s frustration, but it was part of my task to keep her calm. “We don’t yet know what she wants.” I filled the bowl of potatoes with water from a pitcher, then sat down, suddenly tired. “We have to wait and see.”

  “And then prepare the entire meal at the last minute.”

  “Too true, my girl. So we might as well pause a moment and refresh ourselves.”

  Tess plopped herself onto a stool and snatched up a bit of carrot, chomping on it. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Is Caleb well?” I asked her.

  Tess had been walking out with Caleb Greene, a young constable whose beat included Mount Street, since last autumn.

  Her cheeks went pink. “He is perfectly well. A good soul, Mrs. H. But don’t worry. I won’t be rushing off and marrying him. I’m not daft.”

  “Marriage is not always a bad thing, Tess. With a kind man, you’d be happy and have no worries.” Though my marriage had been awful, I’d observed good ones, like that of Joanna and Samuel Millburn, and knew they were possible.

  “Rot that. I’d be cooking and cleaning, like I do here. But here I get paid.” Tess crunched another carrot. “I prefer working with you, Mrs. H., to looking after a man. Why can’t men look after themselves, anyway?”

  “Because it’s put into their heads from the time they are born that only women can make their lives comfortable. Or so I believe. I never had a brother, so I really don’t know how they are raised.”

  “I’d say you’re right. My brother’s not right in the head, so he’s a different case. I need my wages to take care of him. A husband might not be so understanding.”

  “Caleb might.” I’d met the lad, and he seemed to have a sensible head on his shoulders.

  However, I did not trust myself to be the best judge of male persons. Daniel, for instance. I’d first met him when he’d delivered goods to a house I worked in several years ago. I’d thought him only a deliveryman who did odd jobs for whatever he could earn, a personable, winsome fellow with a good heart.

  Later I learned that not only did Daniel have a son, but that he could change his persona at will. He might become a City gent, or a dandy who frequented the ballrooms of Paris, or a scruffy tramp. He did this on jobs for the police—he was not part of the police, he’d tried to explain, but I was not supposed to know that, or anything about this part of his life, in fact.

  I did know Daniel’s job was perilous, and I’d been pulled into the danger with him from time to time. I had lately been thinking it would never do to put my daughter in the same sort of danger.

  “Speaking of marriage,” Tess said, as though reading my thoughts. “Mr. McAdam ought to marry you. Take you away to that house of his in Kensington. You could look after him and James, and I could come cook for you.”

  She’d suggested this before. In fact, it had become a favorite topic, Tess’s dream of a better life.

  “Mr. McAdam is too busy for a wife.” I rose. Idleness did not suit me. I’d make a start on the shepherd’s pie, which would take time to bake.

  “You could help him,” Tess said. “You could find out things, as you do. Be a detective or some such, like those Pinkertons, or in the stories Caleb reads.”

  “Nonsense.” I bustled to the larder for butter and cream so I could start mashing the potatoes. “I am a cook,” I said when I returned, “and this is all I’ll likely ever do. I am fortunate that I do it well, so that I can be hired in good houses.”

  “Just wait.” Tess watched me with a smile. “When Mr. McAdam goes down on one knee, you’ll change your mind.”

  I doubted very much that Daniel had marriage in his thoughts. He liked my company, and that was all. I kissed him far more often than I should, but we were not young innocents. We knew exactly how far any spooning could go before it became shameful and scandalous. Both of us had raised children out of wedlock, and neither of us was in a hurry to be in such a situation again.

  “That will be enough of that,” I told Tess severely. I pushed a bowl heaped with fresh green peas at her. “Shell that lot. I’ll need them for the shepherd’s pie.”

  Tess good-naturedly pulled the bowl to her and reached in for a handful of pods. “I do love a good shepherd’s pie. Put in lots of juices, Mrs. H.”

  “I intend to.”

  I heard a bang of the outside door, and Elsie scuttled into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed. “It’s that handsome vicar, Mrs. Holloway. Upstairs in the street. He’s asking for ya.”

  7

  I quickly rinsed and wiped my hands, snatched up my coat, and charged up the stairs.

  I found Mr. Fielding, resplendent in his vicar’s suit and dog collar, waiting patiently a few houses down, in the direction of Hyde Park. The day had turned fine, blue breaking through the hovering clouds.

  “Mrs. Holloway,” Mr. Fielding greeted me. “How lovely to see you. Shall we stroll? Have a chat about charity and good works?”

  Blue eyes twinkled in a face with a neatly trimmed beard, Mr. Fielding’s dark brown hair equally as neat beneath his understated hat. He wore gloves and carried a walking stick, his ensemble perfectly depicting a middle-class gentleman who watched over a parish in an East End slum. He’d recently been granted the post of suffragan bishop, which was a sort of an assistant to a higher bishop, with other parish vicars answering to him.

  I hoped whoever had given him this position did not regret it. Mr. Fielding had begun life as a confidence trickster and, according to Daniel, had not much changed since.

  “I have a kitchen to run,” I told him.

  “Your mistress would be pleased for you to be seen with a vicar. She’s a sanctimonious prude, and she likes me. Shall we?”

  He held out his arm. I did not take it, but I fell into step with him as we walked toward the park.

  “How are the children?” I asked abruptly.

  The smug grin left Mr. Fielding’s face. “They are ungrateful brats, and I have you to thank for saddling me with them. At least Michael has ceased trying to climb the chimney. He’s taken to being underfoot in Mrs. Hodder’s kitchen. She’ll give notice, mark my words.”

&nb
sp; Mr. Fielding, earlier this year, had taken in a half-dozen children varying in age from six to sixteen, rescued from an unspeakable life.

  It spoke much of him that the children were still with him. He’d promised he wouldn’t send them to a workhouse or turn them out, and he’d kept his word.

  “Your housekeeper is a good woman,” I said with confidence. “All will be well.”

  “My dear, you have no idea what it is to look after six children from the streets. Like wild dogs, they are. Ah well. My sins have come home to roost, and I am paying penance.”

  Mr. Fielding looked so morose I couldn’t help laughing. “Mr. Fielding, if you were so miserable, you’d have sent them away long ago.”

  “I’d never do that.” Mr. Fielding glanced about as though afraid of being overheard by the few on the street. “Tell no one. I’ll be labeled a soft touch and be the target of every fraudster in the metropolis.”

  “I am certain it won’t come to that.”

  “Perhaps not. But do keep my secret, I beg you. Now, dear lady, I was delighted to receive your missive. Pleased that you requested help only I could give. What can I do for you?”

  Now that he’d asked me bluntly, I hesitated. Mr. Fielding, as Daniel frequently pointed out, was not the most trustworthy of men, his collar notwithstanding. He’d become a member of the clergy, Mr. Fielding had admitted to me, first to remove himself from a foster father, a marquess’s son, he loathed, and second, for ambition’s sake.

  However, I did not know many others I could take into my confidence. Mr. Fielding could at least keep things to himself.

  “Do you know anything about the Earl of Clifford?” I asked. “Lady Cynthia’s father?”

  “Never met the man. I have heard he’s a reprobate. Or was. Has been living quietly in the country for a number of years, I gather.”