Page 17 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

Herbert squeezed his uncle’s thin shoulder once more then gave him a good-natured farewell and turned to depart. As he passed me, he swallowed, his eyes red-rimmed and moist.

Was Herbert truly that worried his uncle would die? Or was he simply a fine actor?

I silently dished out soup and added a soft piece of bread to it as the doctor laid a hand on Mr. Whitaker’s forehead and felt his pulse.

“And how are we today?” Dr. Burnley asked.

“We are three different people in this room,” Mr. Whitaker answered. “Mrs. Holloway seems in good health. As do you. I am doing poorly. But the custard is helping.” He reached for another spoonful.

“It was kind of you to bring up the food,” the doctor said to me.

He did not continue the sentiment, but I heard in his tone the wish that I would leave.

“He is to eat all of it,” I said sternly as I set out the soup and bread along with a helping of the blancmange. “His lady wife’s orders.”

Both men softened. “Her will is to be obeyed,” Mr. Whitaker said. “Bless her.”

“Yes, Mrs. Whitaker is likely why you are still alive,” the doctor told him.

“I know you think she doesn’t deserve me, Burnley, but I assure you, I adore her.” Mr. Whitaker took an eager slurp of the soup. “Thank you, Mrs. Holloway. If ever you consider changing houses, please speak to my wife.”

Mrs. Provost would not be happy to hear this, but I took it as the compliment he meant. I curtsied politely to both men, thanked Mr. Whitaker for his praise, and left the room.

Mr. Whitaker’s household had given me much to ponder. As I descended with the empty soup tureen and custard dishes, I thought about the way Dr. Burnley and Mr. Whitaker had spoken to each other. Friends who’d known each other a long time, I decided. The doctor’s manner, however, was disapproving, as though Mr. Whitaker’s illness personally displeased him.

The nephew, likewise, hadn’t been what I’d expected. Herbert had exuded fondness for his uncle and concern for his health. He’d inherit the lot, Cynthia had said, but it was true that not every young man relished such responsibility.

I returned to the kitchen and reported that the master had eaten heartily of the custard and was starting on the soup and blancmange.

Mrs. Provost sniffed. “It’s nothing I’d have given him to eat. We’ll see if it settles him, shall we?”

I could not linger to find out. I bade Agnes and Mrs. Provost a good afternoon and departed to walk home.

I let out a long breath once I was out in the street. Carts and carriages rattled past me, streams of horses’ breaths fogging in the cold air. The icy winter afternoon, as gloomy as it was, was preferable to the warm hush of the sickroom, where a brave man faced the knowledge that he wasn’t long for this world.

Something wet trickled to my cheek, and I wiped it away impatiently. This was no time to become maudlin.

Perhaps my food would make Mr. Whitaker better. A person could recover from poisoning if it was caught in time, and he was given good care. Depending on the poison, of course.

I wondered if Daniel could infiltrate the Oriental Club and find out more about Mr. Hardy—particularly whether he’d had opportunity to pour a something foul into Mr. Whitaker’s tea or whiskey on Tuesday afternoon. The fact that Mr. Whitaker was still alive was perhaps due to the fact that Mr. Hardy hadn’t given him a deadly enough dose but hadn’t had the chance to administer another.

I had to push aside my worries for the personable Mr. Whitaker once I reached home, and return to my duties. Tess eagerly asked what had happened, and I gave her a truncated version as we worked.

Today, I started the Christmas pudding, which, after boiling, would rest in the larder for several days before I warmed and served it. Some families enjoyed the tradition of “Stir-Up Sunday,” where every member of the family, on the first Sunday in Advent, would come to the kitchen and give the pudding a good stir. Mrs. Bywater didn’t hold with such things, she’d told me. Too unsanitary, was her view. I was to start the pudding no earlier than the week before Christmas.

I bade Tess grate the heels of stale bread until we had a heaping bowl of crumbs. She rubbed her arm when she finished, complaining that her elbow would never be the same again.

Into the bowl went thinly sliced orange and lemon peels, raisins, chopped currents, and chilled suet I’d saved for this purpose. Tess cracked open a couple dozen eggs, and I stirred these in with a liberal amount of a good brandy Mr. Davis had chosen for me.

We made enough batter for several puddings—one for Christmas, one for New Year’s, and an extra in case any visitors arrived in between. The Christmas one would have the trinkets Mrs. Bywater insisted be stirred into it, though I didn’t much like adding inedible things to food. Mrs. Bywater, for reasons unknown to me, didn’t worry about sanitariness in this instance.

I had some pretty molds—a domed one and two with serrated edges that would make pleasing shapes. Tess and I spooned the batter into these and covered them with damp, floured cloths, tying them tightly to the sides of the molds. We then set the puddings into pans of water to boil overnight.

Early the next morning, I came downstairs and lifted the puddings from their baths. I set them in the larder, where they’d drain and wait until Monday, when I’d boil one again for Mr. Davis to serve at Christmas dinner.

When I emerged from the larder, pleased that the puddings so far had gone well, Cynthia banged in from the outside stairs, strangely early for her.

She hadn’t been to bed, I saw, from her rumpled male attire and disarranged hair. Stayed all night with Bobby and Miss Townsend, I guessed.

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