Page 7 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

Not far from that was the Oriental Club, where gentlemen who’d been in India and other parts of the Eastern world could gather with their mates and have a chinwag about all they’d seen. Mr. Davis had told me that the Duke of Wellington, that hero who’d tossed Napoleon out of Spain and then trounced him at Waterloo, had been its president long ago.

I briefly wondered if the gentlemen of the club insisted on Indian cuisine to remind them of their travels, and if so, whether their chef would share recipes. Mrs. Bywater would never hold with me putting curried dishes on the table, but I might like to try some for myself.

We strolled through the square and continued to Oxford Street, where an overfull omnibus rumbled toward us.

“We’ve had such an interesting chat that I hate to leave you,” Mrs. Cullen said. “Perhaps the omnibus can take you to a market?” She asked the question hopefully.

“My usual is the other direction, Mrs. Cullen. So happy to have met you today.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Holloway.” She quickened her pace as the omnibus rolled to a stop, disgorging passengers. “Perhaps you can return for a cup of tea on your day out. I would welcome the company.”

“Perhaps,” I said, promising nothing. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cullen.”

“Afternoon, Mrs. Holloway.” Mrs. Cullen trotted to the omnibus, admonishing the driver to wait for her. I heard her voice raised to someone inside, telling him he was a perfectly fit young man and could give up his seat to a lady who was obviously huffing and puffing.

The omnibus lumbered into traffic, Mrs. Cullen’s stentorian strains fading. I turned my feet the other way, heading down Oxford Street toward the greengrocer I did not really need to visit.

I purchased some fresh herbs there, having to pick through them before I found some that were not too wilted. One must shop for produce early in the morning, because all the best bits are gone before noon.

I could not reasonably extend my errand any longer, so I returned home after this.

Tess had continued with supper preparations in my absence. I divested myself of my coat and the herbs and joined her to finish the meal.

Supper went up and was consumed in its entirety. No one fell ill tonight, and Mrs. Bywater did not come down to accuse me of serving tainted food. I noted that her worries on that account had not prevented her from eating heartily this evening.

Tess and I finished feeding the staff then prepared for breakfast in the morning, as usual. Once Tess and the other servants had gone to bed, I sat alone at my table, the rest of the house asleep, making notes about today’s meals in my little book.

A muffled tap on the outside door made me drop my pencil. I hurried to unlock it, knowing who stood on the other side. Daniel had begun to knock in a certain pattern when he visited at night, so I’d know it was he and not a burglar or other criminal trying to gain entry. I did tell him that someone bent on committing a crime would hardly knock, but he insisted.

I opened the door, not minding at all when Daniel took a step inside, cupped my face in his gloved hands, and kissed me.

He melted me, did Daniel McAdam. I wanted to stand so with him the rest of the night, but the December wind pouring down the stairs was raw. I pulled him inside and bolted the door.

“It’s too cold for you to be wandering about outdoors.” I hastened to the tea kettle and poured more hot water into the pot, setting out another cup. “Come and warm yourself.”

“My intent exactly, Kat.” Daniel peeled off his coat and gloves, hanging them up with his hat, then took a stool at the table.

While the tea steeped, I found some tea cakes and another wedge of plum tart, setting all in front of him.

“Did you come with news?” I asked as I poured the tea. “Or is this a social visit?”

“Both.” Daniel curved his hands around the mug I slid to him and took a grateful sip of the hot brew. “As ever, I come to gaze upon you and listen to your voice, even when you explain to me what a fool I am. But I also came to tell you about Mr. Whitaker’s supposed ladybird.”

“Did you?” The small dart of uneasiness that touched me surprised me. I wondered if Daniel had visited the young lady in his guise of vacant upper-class gentleman or the suave City gent. Either way, I did not like the idea of him sitting alone with a seductress.

“Yes.” Daniel took another sip of tea, oblivious of my apprehension. “She is not, in fact, his mistress. She is, instead, his daughter.”

Chapter 3

I stared at Daniel, dumbfounded, my teacup halfway to my lips. Of all the things I expected him to tell me, it was not this.

“But Mrs. Cullen said he was … incapable.”

“Who is Mrs. Cullen?” Daniel asked in perplexity.

“The cook to the Whitakers’ next-door neighbor. She told me Mr. Whitaker could not sire children.”

Daniel’s brows rose. “You learned much quickly.” He turned to his tea cakes, breaking one apart. “It is true that Whitaker and his wife have never had children. The lady, Miss McCafferty, is the offspring of an early dalliance, before Whitaker met his wife.”

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