Page 4 of A Moveable Feast
My heart fluttered again, but I made myself restrict our farewell to a friendly nod. “I look forward to it. Now, I must get on. Keep well, James,” I called up to the young man.
“And you, Mrs. H.,” James said good-naturedly. “I’ll look after this one.” He pointed a gloved finger at his father.
Daniel’s smile turned wry. He tipped his hat to me, scrambled up to the driver’s seat, and saluted me once more before he took the reins and chirruped to the horse.
I hid my glumness as the delivery van ambled away, unhappy I had to say goodbye to the two who’d become very close to me and face a daunting task.
I firmed my resolve and trudged the final block to Portman Square.
What awaited me was worse than I’d feared.
The house, which stood on the north side of the square, two doors down from Upper Berkley Street, did have a fairly well-appointed kitchen. A stove of a later model than mine gleamed on a bed of tiles, its stovepipe fixed into an old chimney behind it.
Bright copper pots and cooking utensils dangled from racks, the kitchen table was wide and ample, and a carved Welsh dresser loaded with crockery stood against a wall. The flagstone floor had been recently scrubbed, and the whitewashed walls brought a refreshing lightness to the room.
The staff, on the other hand, were next to hopeless. Tess stood among them, minus her hat and coat, scowling her most fearsome scowl. A plump, middle-aged woman in a brown frock, whom I took to be the housekeeper, stood near the dresser regarding Tess, me, and the crates we’d brought in vexation.
“What am I meant to do with this lot?” she demanded.
I remained as unruffled as I could while I hung up my coat and hat and unrolled my apron. “We will sort out the food and add it to what has already been prepared,” I said as calmly as I could. “It is not ideal, but I’m certain that between us, we can fix a fine meal for the upstairs, with a nice one for ourselves afterward.”
One of the two kitchen maids perked up at my last utterance, but the second one studied me with intense dislike.
“Cook’s already got in her own supplies,” the housekeeper said sourly. “Mrs. Morgan won’t be wanting other things cluttering up her kitchen.”
From what I could see, Mrs. Morgan hadn’t brought much into her kitchen at all. One pot simmered on the stove, emitting a scent of old beef, but no other cooking scents pervaded the air. It was apparent that when the cook had fallen ill, the other staff hadn’t stepped in to take up the slack.
“I am sorry to hear she is doing poorly,” I stated. “Mrs. Morgan must be wretched, not being able to bustle about her own kitchen on this important occasion.”
“Aye, she’s in a bad way.” The housekeeper nodded, though she did not appear to have much sympathy for her colleague. “Had stomachache all day Thursday, soldiered through part of the day yesterday, and couldn’t heave herself from the bed this morning.”
“Poor soul,” I said. “I hope she is soon better. I am Mrs. Holloway, and your mistress has brought me in to finish the meal. This is Tess Parsons, my assistant. She is quite skilled and will help me but stay out of your way.”
I ceased speaking, waiting for them to introduce themselves, but all three simply stared at me, the housekeeper and one maid glowering, the younger kitchen maid regarding me in open curiosity.
I turned to the more interested maid, who had dark hair and eyes and a rather square, plain face. “What is your name, my dear?”
“I’m Mary,” she answered readily. “This is Jane.” She jabbed a thumb at the maid beside her. Jane had an oval face, lighter brown hair, and blue eyes. Her churlish expression marred the prettiness she otherwise possessed.
“I can speak for meself,” Jane snapped. “How d’ya do, I’m sure.”
“Keep a civil tongue, Jane,” the housekeeper admonished. “I’m Mrs. Seabrook, if we must make introductions as though we are at tea. I’ll not take orders from you, Mrs. Cook.”
“I’d not expect you to.” I strove to keep my tone even. “If you will show me the larder, I can make a start.”
“I’ve better things to do than take you around the downstairs,” Mrs. Seabrook said sharply. “Jane will do that. Is that wine in them crates?” She moved to one whose lid Tess had loosened and peeked into it. “You’d better save back a few bottles for the footmen, or you’ll get nothing accomplished. Give them to Armitage. He’s butler.” Mrs. Seabrook frowned as Tess and I stared at her. “Come on then, Mrs. Cook. There’s much to do.”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the room, Mary watching her go with uncertainty.
I made myself turn to the table. I’d immerse myself in cooking—with all the wine I’d brought—and we’d leave this house tomorrow afternoon. There was no need for me to befriend a bad-tempered housekeeper.
“Now then, Jane,” I said briskly. “Let us look at the larder.”
“I don’t take orders from ya, neither,” Jane informed me. “I work for Mrs. Morgan. Old Bat Seabrook don’t frighten me, and neither do you.”
Tess darted forward. “Look ’ere, you?—”
I put myself between the two young women. “I’m certain I can find my way on my own. Carry on with what you were doing.” Which didn’t seem to be much of anything, from the lack of foodstuffs on the table.
