Page 67 of Speculations in Sin

“Not a word to the others.” Mrs. Bywater would object to me taking even scraps to a prisoner in Newgate.

Tess sent me a wink. “You can count on me, Mrs. H.”

* * *

Mr. Davis reappeared from his pantry in time to supervise the footmen serving at supper. He was his usual cool self, tailcoat brushed and crisp, his hairpiece placed exactly. His sharp commands to the footmen floated down the back stairs as they went up, then the door at the top slammed, cutting him off in mid-admonishment.

After Tess and I sent up the food, I told her to go to bed, as she’d done most of the work today. I tidied up, set out preparations for the morning, then retired myself.

Instead of going straight to bed in my exhaustion, I pulled out the boxes I’d brought from the Millburns’ and laid out the papers across my bed. Seating myself on the small wooden chair I’d procured a few months ago, I started reading through them.

It was hard going. I could plainly see words and numbers, but there were so many abbreviations and so much shorthand, it might have been written in another language. I had little knowledge of finance other than making certain my kitchen budget did not go beyond its allotment, and these columns, notes, and rows of numbers meant nothing to me.

There were several sets of handwriting on the papers—onemain hand of whoever had copied it out, which was possibly Sam himself. Others had made notes in the margins or crossed out things on the main body and added corrections. One of the notators embellished theirH’s andI’s with a little uptick at the end of the bottom stroke. The other writings were fairly plain, clear, and easy to read. At least, they’d be easy reading for the man I had in mind who could make sense of it all.

I packed the papers away, hid them with my bundle of money in the bottom of my wardrobe, blew out my candle, and climbed wearily into bed.

In the morning, I bade Sara, the upstairs maid, to ask Lady Cynthia if I could speak to her. Sara returned to the kitchen not long later to say that Cynthia had spent the night out with her friends and had not come home.

I imagined the friends in question were Miss Townsend and Lady Roberta. Though Cynthia had many chums she’d kept from girlhood, whenever she stayed out too late or drank too much wine at a club she and Lady Roberta had crashed, she’d sleep over at Miss Townsend’s house or in Lady Roberta’s flat. I would simply have to wait for her to return.

Mr. Davis this morning was terse when he spoke at all, so I did not stop him for conversation. He was grieving his friend, I could see, or perhaps grieving for the friendship that could now never be. I hoped he’d change his mind and attend the funeral, and that the Bywaters would be compassionate enough to give him leave to go.

Mrs. Bywater did come down to the kitchen after breakfast, but not to speak to Mr. Davis. She brought a letter to me.

“It is from that so-very-cultured Miss Townsend,” Mrs. Bywater said, her sallow face flushed with pleasure. “She wishes you to call upon her—or rather upon her cook, to teach her to make your wonderful orange sorbet. Apparently, she heard someof my friends, as well as Cynthia, raving about it. When my do’s are coming to the attention of someone like Miss Townsend, I know I have arrived. A lady like her wouldn’t bother being courteous to someone like me otherwise, though I do have connections to the aristocracy.”

Mrs. Bywater’s connection to the aristocracy was through her husband, whose sister had married an earl—Cynthia’s father. Mrs. Bywater was no blood relation to Cynthia or her parents, but she gave herself plenty of airs, as though she had dukes in her immediate family. Mr. Bywater felt no shame in his position as a middle-class gentleman, but Mrs. Bywater yearned for the prestige of the landed nobility.

“I will make a note to visit her on Monday. My half day out,” I added, as Mrs. Bywater stared at me as though she had no idea what I was talking about.

“No, no, no, that will never do.” Mrs. Bywater waved the letter. “Miss Townsend writes,at Mrs. Holloway’s earliest convenience, and it will be convenient for you today. We are having no guests this evening, so you won’t have much to do.”

I bristled that Mrs. Bywater thought producing three meals a day for three family members and nearly a dozen staff wasn’t much to do, but I kept my silence. She would not comprehend, and would reprimand me for being impertinent.

“Very well. I will settle things with Tess and go today.” I would not throw away the opportunity Miss Townsend had provided. I knew that instructing her cook was a ruse to get me to the house in Upper Brook Street, and I wished very much to know what Miss Townsend had to tell me.

“Do not sound so reluctant,” Mrs. Bywater admonished. “Such a prominent lady taking an interest is a compliment to you. And a compliment tomefor planning such excellent suppers.”

Mrs. Bywater hadn’t planned the supper beyond telling me she wanted a good meal for fifteen ladies, but again, I said nothing. I’d learned there was no use in speaking my mind to Mrs. Bywater.

Mrs. Bywater took my silence for acceptance, and went away, clutching the letter happily.

I explained to Tess I’d be going out once luncheon was prepared, but I’d try to be back before supper. I told her exactly where I’d be, so she didn’t come up with a fantasy of me nipping to the nearest park to spoon with Daniel.

“Go as soon as you like,” Tess said as she chopped onions to fry with the luncheon chops. “I used to be frightened when you left for any amount of time, but now I can manage. As long as I don’t have to do a party of twenty on me own, I’ll be all right.”

I thanked her and fetched my coat. I debated changing into a good frock, but if I truly did have to teach Miss Townsend’s cook to make sorbet, I wouldn’t want to ruin my clothes.

I set off on foot to Upper Brook Street, a short way from Mount Street. I crossed South Audley and turned north on Park Street, reaching Miss Townsend’s home at the west end of Upper Brook Street in a matter of minutes.

I watched out for James or Daniel as I went but saw neither of them. Nor did I spy Mr. Jarrett. I hoped that both Daniel and Mr. Grimes had made him fearful of approaching me again.

I pulled the bell at Miss Townsend’s tall, elegant house, and the door was opened by the stately butler, Mr. Hubbard.

“Mrs. Holloway,” he said without inflection. “How nice to see you. Miss Townsend is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Most days, I was shown up the four flights of stairs to the top of the house, where Miss Townsend had her art studio. She painted much of the time she was home, and I felt privilegedto be admitted to that private room. That she had summoned me to her drawing room instead was curious.

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