Page 2 of A Moveable Feast
Mrs. Bywater lifted her chin. “You are not to tell me what you shall or shall not do, Mrs. Holloway. Tess will be one too many in Lady Babcock’s kitchen, and she will be needed here.”
Tess sidled backward during this last exchange, as though ready to flee the house and return to her former existence of thieving for survival. I wanted to reassure her that all would be well, but I dared not look away from Mrs. Bywater.
“If I am to cook a large meal in an unknown kitchen, I cannot do it without Tess’s help,” I stated. “It is impossible. If there is a worry about where she will sleep, she can either bunk with me or return here for the night and set off again first thing in the morning.”
Mrs. Bywater was a stubborn woman, used to having her way by means of bullying everyone with her nonstop chatter and the assumption that she’d already won. That she’d met her match for stubbornness in me was a constant annoyance to her.
I’d learned long ago to stand up for myself against those who considered me far beneath them. I might have been born in a London backstreet, but I had skills the higher-born needed, and they knew it. I was as much an aristocrat in my world as Lady Babcock was in hers.
I watched Mrs. Bywater debate which was the lesser evil—me bringing along my assistant or she having to tell Lady Babcock that her offered cook had refused to help. I might be sacked for my insolence, but I thought my agency would understand my plight.
Mrs. Bywater’s mouth tightened as she made her choice. “Very well. Bring Tess along. I will leave it to you to make arrangements for her accommodation and wash my hands of the matter. If they do not want her there, it is nothing to do with me.”
I nodded, pretending to be grateful. “Of course. We will begin packing at once.”
Mrs. Bywater did not return my nod. “See that you do,” she said coldly, and marched out of the kitchen, her heels clicking on the slate tiles as she stormed down the passageway toward the backstairs.
Once she was gone, Tess dropped her knife with a clatter and came around the table to me. “Mrs. H, what are we going to do?”
I wanted to sink to my chair, bury my face in my hands, and perhaps weep a bit, but I retained my composure. “Exactly what I said. We will gather our dishes and make our way to Portman Square.”
“Won’t all the things we made be ruined?”
“Possibly.” I squared my shoulders. “We’ll just have to do our best.”
“You was going to save a bit back for Mr. McAdam,” Tess reminded me.
I did remember this fact, ever so painfully. We’d known we could not be together for Easter dinner, it being a workday for me, but Daniel had promised to visit my kitchen later for a portion of the feast.
Scraps and leftovers only, of course. I’d never steal foodstuffs from my employers to feed my beau, no matter how tempted I was.
Before I could answer Tess, Mr. Davis strode into the kitchen, his slim frame animated, his hairpiece slipping from the bald spot atop his head.
“Mrs. Holloway, that bloody woman has just told me to pack up all the bottles we’ve chosen and send them off with you,” he raged. “She cannot mean to cart off all my wine.”
“I am afraid she does, Mr. Davis.” I did not want to deal with his fury, no matter how justified, as I was having enough trouble with my own. “It is our duty to comply, whether we like it or not.”
Mr. Davis stared at me, as though surprised I wasn’t waving my knife and declaring a mutiny. I gazed steadily back at him until he calmed a fraction.
“The master will hear of this,” Mr. Davis said darkly.
Mr. Davis did not mean Mrs. Bywater’s husband, who I wagered didn’t fancy spending his Easter in the home of a stuffy marquess any more than we did. He referred to Lord Rankin, Mr. Bywater’s nephew-in-law, who held the actual lease on the London house—he lived in seclusion in Surrey, allowing Mrs. Bywater to play lady of the manor in his Mount Street home.
Lord Rankin paid the salaries of all the staff and also the wine merchants’ bills. If Lord Rankin objected to Mrs. Bywater giving away half the carefully selected wine cellar, she’d be accountable, not Mr. Davis or me.
“I will return what I do not use,” I offered.
Mr. Davis threw up his hands. “It will not matter. Once the bottles are opened and exposed to air, they will be useless if not drunk immediately. You might as well pour them into the cistern.”
He stalked away after this pronouncement, in high dudgeon.
Mr. Davis exaggerated, though only slightly. I’d tote the half-empty bottles home, and he and Mrs. Redfern could enjoy their contents during their late-night chats in the housekeeper’s parlor.
For now, Tess and I had much work to do.
The cakes and pastries would fare the best, if we were careful. We wrapped them in clean cheesecloth and laid them into small crates, ensuring that the heaviest cakes were on the bottom. I had to assume the Portman Square kitchen would have cream I could whip and other fresh things I couldn’t tote. I put the strawberries into another crate along with root vegetables and fruits I would prepare tomorrow. Their staff should have gotten in greens and other produce, I reasoned, though not any I had picked over.
The ham, in its roasting pan, went into another small crate that I covered with paper and cheesecloth, as did the mutton shank and the quail, ready to be dressed. The stock I’d been reducing for my sauce would have to remain. I’d inspect the other kitchen’s stocks and broths once I got there and adjust them to my taste.
