Page 7 of A Moveable Feast
Lady Babcock seemed in no way aggrieved that Mrs. Bywater was so obviously currying favor with her. “I am so pleased you came,” she said to me, her voice rather childlike. “You can return to your kitchen. Your mistress and I have charge of Mrs. Morgan now.”
Lady Babcock did not wear the expression of someone impatient with another’s illness, so I decided Mary had the right of her motives, not Jane.
“Make sure she takes all the broth,” I said, setting the bowl on the night table. “It will do her much good.”
Mrs. Bywater pointedly held the door open for me. “Off you go then, Mrs. Holloway.”
I still needed to know how the kitchen was supplied, but Mrs. Morgan did not seem up to discussing her inventory with me. I’d have to go to the markets and buy whatever I needed, telling the grocers to put the purchases on Lord Babcock’s account.
A shaky but surprisingly strong hand caught my wrist. I looked down to see Mrs. Morgan gazing up at me imploringly. “Stay,” she whispered.
Chapter 3
Mrs. Morgan’s eyes were wide—with fear? Of whom? Lady Babcock? Or Mrs. Bywater, who could be trying on the best of days?
Whatever the cause, I could not in good conscience leave her here alone. “I will need to feed her the broth,” I said to the two women who obviously waited for me to go.
Mrs. Morgan regarded me gratefully as I sat down on the edge of her bed and took up the spoon.
Lady Babcock stared at me as though she had no idea how to respond, while Mrs. Bywater frowned, used to my impertinence.
As I appeared to have planted myself firmly at Mrs. Morgan’s side, Lady Babcock set the cup of tea on top of the bureau and retreated to the open doorway. “You’ll be better in no time,” she told Mrs. Morgan with the optimism of those in a sickroom. “And back in your kitchen soon. Won’t you?”
Mrs. Morgan concentrated on the spoon I lifted to her lips and didn’t answer. Mrs. Bywater sent her a disapproving gaze, as though she expected Mrs. Morgan to leap from her bed, curtsey, and promise to hurry down and cook the Easter meal.
The two ladies at last withdrew, but I noted they left the door ajar. I could not rise to close it, as Mrs. Morgan was hungrily drinking broth from my spoon. I wondered if anyone in this house had offered the woman anything more substantial than tea.
When at last Mrs. Morgan breathed a little easier, I set aside the broth, rose and closed the door, fetching the tea on my way back to the bed.
“You’re a good woman,” Mrs. Morgan croaked at me in a half whisper. “Even if ya is too young.”
“I assure you, I can provide his lordship a decent meal for Easter,” I said. “You worry about nothing. I suppose you’ve put plenty by for the task?”
I didn’t like to trouble her about the food when she was so wretched, but I needed to begin somewhere.
“Have a care while you’re in this house,” was her answer.
Curiosity plucked at me. “Why do you say that?” Mrs. Seabrook was unfriendly and the butler a drunkard, but I’d dealt with such things before.
Mrs. Morgan snaked her fingers around my wrist once again and pulled me closer.
“Her ladyship ain’t wanted,” she whispered, her breath unpleasant. “No one can stick her.”
“We can’t always love those we work for,” I said, trying to soothe her. “Else none of us would find a position.”
“Seabrook bows and scrapes to her, but she don’t like her. Nor do the rest of the ’ouse. Used to be nobody, did her ladyship. A tart by all accounts. Watch out for her.”
I stared at Mrs. Morgan in perplexity.
I’d met aging courtesans before, who used powder and other artifices to hide their wrinkles, but there wasn’t a trace of any of this on Lady Babcock’s face. Also, those women had maintained their regal arrogance, confident in their ability to entice princes and foreign kings, even if those days had passed.
Lady Babcock wore fashionable clothing, and her hair was a la mode, but in no way did she resemble a former courtesan. More a woman fading into middle age, trying to hold on to her youth by dressing smartly.
“Do you mean she is dangerous?” I asked, though I could not see how Lady Babcock could be.
Mrs. Morgan didn’t answer. Her grip on me slackened, her head sank into the pillow, and in another moment, a snore issued from her mouth.
Stifling a sigh, I gathered up the bowl of broth. I could leave the tea for her, but by the time she woke, it would be stone cold. I’d have Tess or Mary check on her later and bring her a fresh cup.
