Page 13 of A Moveable Feast
The pastries also needed to be iced, the ham basted, and stocks made into gravies and sauces. We bustled from table to oven to dresser and back, while Mary, once she’d whipped the cream to perfection, carried loads of pots and dishes to her sink in the scullery.
Mrs. Seabrook returned. “Her ladyship devoured her breakfast,” she declared. “First time in a long while.”
I was pleased she liked it. “How is Mrs. Morgan?” I’d sent a bit of hash and toasted muffin upstairs via Mary earlier, and she’d said the cook was awake though still weak.
“Too much to do this morning to look in on her,” Mrs. Seabrook snapped and marched out, though she slid the plate of food I’d prepared for her from the table as she went. We soon heard the slam of the door to the housekeeper’s parlor.
I was far too busy to look in on Mrs. Morgan myself, but I told Mary to nip upstairs and retrieve the tray. I’d put a hearty cup of tea, one without laudanum, on it, with instructions to Mary that the cook was not to drink or eat anything that I didn’t send her myself.
Mary returned while Tess was removing another fresh-baked loaf from the oven, the bread’s odor inviting.
“Cook et it all.” Mary showed me the tray with its empty plates. “She’s feeling a bit better, but I don’t think she’ll be down to help us today.”
That was just as well, I decided. Two strong-minded cooks in one kitchen simply got in each other’s way.
“She says she wants to have a chat with you soon,” Mary went on. “She’s worried about the dinner, I think.”
We were well into the most critical parts of the meal, everything needing to come together in a moment, so I could not rush upstairs and reassure Mrs. Morgan right now. I’d wait until the last course went upstairs, then I’d take her a piece of strawberry cake and tell her that all was well.
I was pleased that we’d begun moving like a well-oiled machine, differences put aside in the rush to finish the meal. Even Jane ceased her antagonism and quietly chopped, stirred, and iced what I put in front of her. Tess was invaluable with her knowledge of what needed to be tended first, which she’d learned in her years of working for me.
Mary, who left her sink from time to time to scurry halfway up the outside stairs, reported on the guests’ arrivals.
“There’s that pretty Lady Cynthia, with her aunt and uncle,” Mary announced when she descended. “I hear she wears trousers, but she’s in a frock like anyone else.” She sounded disappointed. “A black-haired man came with them. Maybe her sweetheart?”
Mr. Thanos, I thought in relief. Mrs. Bywater hadn’t, in the end, stopped him coming. Mr. Thanos got along well with almost everyone, so I didn’t worry about him much.
Other guests included a bishop in a purple waistcoat and dog collar, one of the Babcocks’ cousins, a few ladies and gentlemen who were friends of Lord Alfred and Lady Margaret, and Lady Babcock’s maiden aunt. A commoner, Mrs. Seabrook sniffed on her way through. Nobody.
Mr. and Mrs. Bywater were commoners as well, I reflected, but they were blood related to a daughter of an earl, so perhaps they were spared Mrs. Seabrook’s complete disdain. I’d already heard Mrs. Seabrook refer to Mrs. Bywater as Lady Babcock’s silly friend, which meant she didn’t think much of her, in any case.
Mrs. Seabrook said that the guests would converse in the drawing room with whatever drinks Lord Babcock served them, then they’d move to the dining room.
In the kitchen, we hurriedly put the soup into the dumbwaiter, and I cranked it upstairs to where Armitage, who’d slid into a frock coat and hurried up a quarter of an hour ago, would be poised to retrieve it.
The fish went up soon after, and then the ham came out of the oven in all its glory.
I refused to let the others help me transfer it to the large platter that would be its final resting place. I settled the platter on a tray then added roasted potatoes, spring cherries in aspic, and a pot of the jelly sauce that would accompany it all.
I carried the tray carefully to the dumbwaiter, while Tess, Mary, and Jane watched proudly. I had just slid the ham and its trimmings into the dumbwaiter’s box and shut its door when Mrs. Seabrook hastened into the kitchen.
“Put it all away,” Mrs. Seabrook commanded. “The dinner is off.”
I froze with my fingers around the dumbwaiter’s door handle, certain I hadn’t heard her aright. Tess and Jane fell equally silent behind me. The outburst, when it came, was from Mary.
“What d’ya mean it’s off?” she screeched. “We worked ever so hard. I scrubbed all them tatties!”
I heard Mrs. Seabrook’s swift movement and swung around in time to seize her upraised arm before she could strike Mary, who flinched away from her.
“What has happened?” I demanded, releasing the indignant Mrs. Seabrook. At least she let her hand fall and did not try again to hit Mary. “A family does not dismiss an entire meal on a whim, especially not on a feast day. Is someone ill?”
Mrs. Seabrook drew herself up. “Lord Alfred has died,” she told me in a hard voice.
The four of us stared at her in shock. Mrs. Seabrook’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her breath came fast.
Died? I repeated to myself. Lord Alfred, the marquess’s heir, was a young man, as Mary had informed us.
Mary gasped in stunned dismay. “His young lordship? Can’t be. You’ve made a mistake.”
