Page 14 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

While my broths and blancmanges were likely the reason ailing staff recovered, in spite of Mrs. Bywater’s patent medicines, I could not guarantee to cure a bad illness or a poisoning.

“Nonsense. Your cooking will do him a world of good,” Cynthia said resolutely. “And it would get you into the house, where you can do some sleuthing. I’ll go with you, if you’d like.”

Cynthia whirled, ready to rush to the Whitaker house on the moment, but I forestalled her.

“Better that I go on my own,” I said quickly. “Besides, Mr. Thanos is counting on you.”

Cynthia came to a stop, her skirt swinging. “That is a point. I say, I am sorry, Mrs. H. I thought you’d welcome an entrée into the lion’s den.”

“I do welcome it.” I softened. “I had been looking for a way in. You startled me, is all. I can at least ease the man’s suffering a little and perhaps his wife’s anxiousness too.”

“Excellent. Well, I’m off.” Cynthia managed to sneak a scone off a plate before she strode out the door.

Today was Friday, and I had no business leaving the kitchen, but I would have to contrive some excuse. My next afternoon out was not until Monday, which this year was also Christmas Day.

Mrs. Bywater had hinted I should stay home to ensure that Christmas dinner went off without trouble, but I had stood firm. If I gave way in this one instance, Mrs. Bywater would try her best to deprive me of more days out. One must stick to one’s principles. Besides, I’d be mad to give up the chance to spend Christmas afternoon with Grace.

I went through the recipes I’d created to aid with digestion and wrote out a few neatly in my notebook. The Whitakers’ cook might not be able to read, which meant I’d have to tell her the recipes, or demonstrate them. Many cooks couldn’t read at all but had prodigious memories for ingredients and their measurements. But if she could read, I’d leave the pages with her.

Mrs. Bywater found my excuse for me. She didn’t come to the kitchen herself, but sent Mrs. Redfern down after luncheon with a message for me.

“The mistress received a note from Mrs. Whitaker.” Mrs. Redfern was a haughty woman but shared my impatience with Mrs. Bywater, who had clearly not been raised to deal with a household of servants. “Lady Cynthia sang your praises, and Mrs. Whitaker asked if you could be spared for a few hours.”

“Yes, Lady Cynthia mentioned it,” I said quickly.

Tess hid a snort as she sauteed chops at the stove. She’d heard my conversation with Cynthia, and she found my ingenuousness amusing.

“Mrs. Whitaker has a bee in her bonnet about her husband being poisoned,” Mrs. Redfern said. “The mistress did not say that, but it is obvious she believes it.”

At least Mrs. Bywater wasn’t continuing to declare that a noxious substance had come from my kitchen. Dare I hope she’d forgotten the matter and ceased blaming me? The lady could so often do an about-turn in her notions, much to our exasperation.

“I will go to Brook Street straightaway.” I untied my apron and took up my basket, where I’d already set the recipes as well as a few fresh herbs the Whitakers’ cook might not have. “I will return as soon as I am able.”

“Before the master is home, anyway,” Mrs. Redfern said. “He is weary of Mr. Whitaker, he says. I heard Mr. Bywater remark that the man has been ailing for years but probably will outlive us all.”

It was true that some frail people managed to hang on while those who seemed hardy could pop off at a moment’s notice.

I kept this observation to myself, donned coat and hat, and left for Brook Street.

Today I did not hesitate when I reached the stairs that led to the Whitakers’ kitchen but climbed down them at a swift pace. I rapped on the door at the bottom, which was opened by a red-faced and sweating young woman.

“What yer want?” she asked in breathless apprehension.

A stronger voice boomed behind her. “Who is it, Agnes?”

“I dunno, Mrs. Provost. Some woman.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Footsteps sounded, and an older woman with iron-gray hair under a cook’s cap glared around Agnes at me. “Well? Who are you?”

I met the woman’s gaze without flinching. “I am Mrs. Holloway, Lady Cynthia Shires’s cook. Mrs. Whitaker wished me to bring you some recipes.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Provost looked me up and down, obviously not pleased with what she saw. “So she told me. Well, you’d better come in.”

Not the most gracious welcome, but I slid inside and shrugged off my coat, hanging it up along with my hat. Mrs. Provost watched me sourly as I approached the kitchen table, which was strewn with vegetables and greens. All looked fresh and of good quality, which was a relief.

“You’re young for a cook,” Mrs. Provost said as I set my basket on a chair and removed the sheaf of recipes.

“I trained thoroughly and advanced quickly.” I was proud of how I’d risen from cook’s assistant to head cook at a rapid pace, due to both my skills and excellent instruction. My mother had found talented women to take me under their wing.

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