Page 8 of A Moveable Feast
The tea shouldn’t go to waste, however. I was thirsty from my trek from Mount Street and my frustration with the kitchen staff, and the tea, which Mrs. Morgan hadn’t touched and wasn’t likely to, enticed me.
I lifted the cup and took a long swallow, then grimaced. The tea was far too bitter and strong. Either Lady Babcock had no idea how to brew up, or those in this household liked it muddy.
I poured the rest of the tea into the slop pail by the washstand, piled the soiled crockery on the tray, and carried it out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me.
As I descended, I wondered if Mrs. Morgan’s admonition for me to stay with her had been for fear of Lady Babcock or out of annoyance at both ladies’ intrusion. In any case, Lady Babcock did not strike me as a woman who could engender terror in her servants. Her manner had been hesitant and lacking steel, but Mrs. Morgan’s words had been adamant.
Watch out for her.
I’d once briefly worked for a frail, elderly, weak-voiced woman who couldn’t rise from her bed and yet had kept the entire household firmly under her thumb. None dared make a move without approval from the lady’s chamber. When the lady had finally died, her entire family had immediately scattered, as though in relief, and I’d returned to my agency to seek another post.
Perhaps Lady Babcock was of similar dominance, never raising her voice but controlling all aspects of those around her.
I returned to the kitchen, reasoning that I would not be in this house long enough to determine whether Lady Babcock was a quiet martinet or not.
Knowing I’d have to go to the markets myself, I deposited the used crockery at the sink, put away the tray, and took up my things, ready to hunt for produce and other necessities in Oxford Street.
“I won’t be long,” I promised, lifting my now-empty basket. Tess at least had been diligent about unpacking. “Start the mushrooms brewing, so we’ll have a good, strong stock from them, and continue preparing the onions and leeks we brought.”
“Don’t you worry none, Mrs. Holloway,” Tess assured me. “We’ll manage until you’re back.”
“Why can’t you go?” Jane demanded of Tess. “She’s the cook. Shouldn’t you be out drudging for the vittals while she lords it over us in the kitchen?”
Tess’s scowl instantly returned.
“I can more quickly find the choicest greens and best fish,” I said before Tess could speak. “My experience is better put to choosing the vegetables than chopping onions. Which I expect to be done by the time I return, Jane. If ensuring you do the job you are paid to is lording it over you, well then, so be it. We’ll have a nice repast in the end for all our hard work. You’ll see.”
I wrenched open the door and scurried out under Jane’s glare. She was a hard one, and resentful, but hopefully I could soften her a bit before I went home.
As I trudged along to Oxford Street, a wave of near despair washed over me. Why was I bothering to put together an Easter feast for a family who knew nothing of me, among kitchen staff who didn’t want me there? I’d agreed under duress because of Mrs. Bywater, a woman who, after all, did not actually pay my salary. Lord Rankin did.
Why should I not turn around, fetch Tess, return home, and dare Mrs. Bywater to do anything about it? I doubted Mr. Bywater would let her sack me, and their niece, Lady Cynthia, would do everything in her power to keep me at the house, I was certain.
I halted near the door of my favorite greengrocers and leaned against the brick wall, suddenly needing a rest. I concluded I was exhausted from all the work I’d done preparing the supper for the Bywaters and their few guests—which had included Mr. Thanos—and now I had to do this extra shopping and cooking for a mob. I had no stamina for it.
I took a moment of self-pity, which was unusual for me. But really, I had been much put upon, even for one of the servant classes.
I straightened up, drew a long breath, and entered the greengrocers.
As I’d suspected, he had little left, but as I was one of the man’s best customers, he always kept something back in case I needed it. Thus, I was able to at least procure some decent greens and better potatoes than what waited for me in the Portman Square kitchen.
I thanked him profusely, directed him to charge the purchases to Lord Babcock, and departed to visit the fishmonger and butcher. Though my tiredness jumbled my thoughts a bit, I arranged for fresh sole to be delivered to the house as well as another ham, along with some oxtail and beef bones so I could make soup and aspic.
A deeper wave of lethargy swept over me as I finished the shopping and began the short walk back to Portman Square.
I halted in the middle of Portman Street amid people scurrying home to prepare for their own Easter celebration and fought a sudden need to lie down and sleep.
I forced my eyes to remain open, wondering what on earth was wrong with me. This was more than me feeling sorry for myself because I’d been suddenly overwhelmed with work. Was I ill? Had Mrs. Morgan been contagious after all?
Propping myself against the iron railings that surrounded the park in Portman Square, I went over my symptoms. I was seldom ill, but my ailments usually manifested in a scratchy throat and stuffy nose, with the occasional fever. I had none of these, my skin cool and damp rather than hot and dry.
Though tired, I seemed to be as robust as ever. I reasoned that even if Mrs. Morgan did carry an infectious illness, it wouldn’t have gripped me so quickly.
However, there was no question about my sudden fatigue. It was most odd. The only time I’d felt like this was long ago, when I’d strained my wrist and a doctor had given me a bit of laudanum to ease the pain. I’d not liked the medicine and refused to take the rest of the dose he’d left with me.
Laudanum. The realization made me suck in a breath of cool air, which woke me a bit.
Where on earth had I taken laudanum?
