Page 15 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

“Hmph.” Mrs. Provost clearly did not approve. “Well, you’d better show me the recipes. The mistress believes we will magic the master back to health and rid him of her imagined poisons.”

“Perhaps not imagined,” I said. “Bad substances can enter food without our knowledge.”

“Not in this kitchen,” Mrs. Provost snapped. “I allowed you down here, Mrs. Holloway, only because Mrs. Cullen next door spoke highly of you.”

“That was kind of her,” I murmured.

“She’s a gossipy busybody.” Mrs. Provost took up a chef’s knife and brought it down on a clump of unsuspecting parsley resting on the table. Green bits flew everywhere. “I took her at her word, but not to have you come into my kitchen and accuse me of all sorts.”

“Not accusing,” I said, my tone firm. “But we do not always know what is in our ingredients. Mr. Whitaker has been ill for some time, I hear.”

“Yes, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

Mrs. Provost continued to slice savagely, thrusting aside the parsley to start in on spring onions. Parsley should be chopped at the last minute, not left sitting about to lose its flavor, but I did not remark upon it.

“How long has he been poorly?” I asked.

The assistant, Agnes, answered. “A few years now, missus. Ever since he came back from Cheltenham, where he stayed with his nephew one summer. His friend Mr. Hardy was there too. Mrs. Whitaker thinks he over— over— over-something. Too much walking and riding, she meant. He’s been sickly ever since.”

Over-exerted himself possibly. If a man was not used to hearty country walks and riding breakneck across meadows, it might strain his already weak constitution.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Provost declared. “He was all right when he came home. But soon after, he started staying out much more than he used to. Spending nights at his club and such things. The doctor suspects he’s keeping another woman, and she has made him so ill. You know what tarts are like.”

The woman in question was not a tart, but his daughter, though it was clear Mrs. Provost did not know that. I supposed the shock of finding the daughter might have weakened Mr. Whitaker, but surely, he’d have recovered of that by now. Of the walking and riding as well. Mrs. Whitaker probably had the right of it.

I showed Mrs. Provost the recipes I’d brought—clear soups, bland custards, and a blancmange flavored with almonds. All slipped down easily and sat lightly on the stomach.

It turned out that Mrs. Provost could indeed read. She peered at my words, her lips moving as she made them out.

“Nothing remarkable in these recipes,” she pronounced when she finished. “I suppose we’d better make them, though, or the mistress will be displeased.”

Agnes gathered the ingredients, and we began. Mrs. Provost, for her ill temper, proved to be a competent cook. After an hour or so, we had a repast that should appeal to any invalid.

The house had no dumbwaiter, and the footmen, Mrs. Provost told me, were too proud to run errands for her. Possibly they didn’t wish to venture into the kitchen and fall under the lash of Mrs. Provost’s tongue.

I volunteered to carry the heavy tray upstairs, and neither Mrs. Provost nor Agnes argued with me. Neither of them helped me, either. They both obviously believed my errand was pointless.

I struggled with the door at the top of the stairs, which was wrenched open for me so suddenly that I nearly dropped the tray.

“Whoops.” A tall young man with a shock of light-brown hair in a tailored suit steadied the tray and bathed me in a winsome smile. “Have a care. I heard you scrabbling at the door—lucky I did, isn’t it? Who are you? A new maid?”

“I am Mrs. Holloway,” I explained. “Your aunt asked me to prepare some dishes for your uncle.”

“Ah, yes, the cook who made us such a wonderful meal the other night. I ate until I was stuffed and wished there was more.”

“You are too kind,” I said, inclining my head.

My guess that he was Mr. Herbert Whitaker, the wastrel nephew and heir, proved correct.

“My aunt dotes on my uncle, she does,” Herbert said good-naturedly. “I’ll show you to the sickroom, shall I?”

“That would be most welcome.”

Herbert didn’t relieve me of my burden but scampered up the stairs as though I could follow at his rapid pace. He waited for me with some patience in the hall two flights up and ushered me into a dark bedroom.

The chamber would have been a fine one were it not so gloomy. The curtains were pulled tightly shut, with only one gas lamp to light the winter day. A large bed with a heavily carved head and footboard dominated the room, flanked by matching night tables. Ponderous but comfortable-looking chairs and a chaise had been placed around the large room, with a full bookcase against one wall. Knitted throws waited on each chair so a person could bundle up cozily while he or she read.

Mr. Whitaker was not in the bed but on the chaise, wrapped in blankets, with a square table pulled next to him. On this lay a sheaf of newspapers as well as a pot of tea and a glass of what looked like cordial.

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