“Good.” I let out my breath. “I have no idea how you will go about discovering their motives, but I must beg you to be discreet.”
“My dear woman, I am a master of discretion. I convinced the Church of England to let me take orders, didn’t I? They had to have been mad to do it, but I tend my flock well enough, and they don’t regret it thus far.”
Mr. Fielding stood still and gazed across the massive park toward the Serpentine. The original Crystal Palace had stood on the vast green, erected the year I was born, for the Great Exhibition of science and technology. Less than a year later, the Crystal Palace had been dismantled and rebuilt—and expanded upon—in Sydenham, south of the Thames. The place had been a marvel when first opened, I’d heard, and the current incarnation was larger and even more impressive than the first.
“I will discover Lord Clifford’s scheme,” Mr. Fielding said. His exuberance faded, and his expression became serious. “If you worry, then there is cause to. I learned that lesson. I will discover his business and impart all to you, and then we will decide how we can stop him.”
* * *
* * *
Mr. Fielding walked me home. I quite enjoyed my short stroll—it was a fine day, and Hyde Park was one of the few places in London a body could find a breath of fresh air.
Mr. Fielding bowed and tipped his hat to me when he left me at the head of the outside stairs in Mount Street.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holloway,” he said loudly. “Your interest in charitable works for the destitute is heartening. I only wish more domestics were as compassionate about their fellow souls.”
“You rather overdo things, Mr. Fielding,” I admonished him in a quiet voice.
“Only giving what’s expected of me.” He dropped his volume to match mine. “Also, my speeches will keep you in the good graces of your mistress. Carry on with your fine cooking, Mrs. H. And no worries.”
He winked, straightened his hat, and strode off, assuming a countenance of extreme piety.
I smiled to myself as I descended to the kitchen. I liked Mr. Fielding, despite Daniel’s warnings, but I knew I could not let myself soften completely toward him. He was indeed a reprobate, which is why I’d sent him after Lord Clifford. A fraudulent man would recognize another fraudulent man’s activities.
I entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Redfern, who relaxed in relief when she beheld me. “Thank heavens, Mrs. Holloway. Lady Clifford is on her way down.”
“Down?” I blinked as I shrugged off my light coat and hung it on its peg. “I thought she’d send a list of changes she wanted.”
“As did I, but she has decided to come herself.” She broke off abruptly as a light patter on the slates announced the arrival of her ladyship.
As Lady Clifford halted languidly in the passage outside the kitchen, I was struck by how much she resembled Cynthia’s younger sister, Emily, who had first hired me to work in this house.
Lady Clifford had the same pale hair as her daughters, a delicately boned face, light blue eyes, and an air of being too fatigued to keep herself upright. I recalled my first interview with Lady Rankin—Emily—and how she’d peered at me tiredly over her writing table and said she supposed I’d do.
Her mother now regarded me with a similar weariness. Her gown, a cream-colored organdy, was adorned with lace on the high collar, cuffs, and placket of the bodice. The gown reminded me of those Emily had worn, and I wondered if Lady Clifford’s choice had been a deliberate one.
Lady Clifford peered vaguely into the kitchen as Mrs. Redfern, Tess, and I quickly curtsied.
“Mrs. . . . ?” She gazed at me, eyes half-closed as though trying to see me in the dim light.
“Holloway, your ladyship. How may I help you?”
“Come with me.” Lady Clifford beckoned and wandered down the passageway, me behind her, until she came to the larder.
She gazed into the room—a long chamber lit by one high window, filled with shelves of crockery and boxes of foodstuffs, as well as empty crates that had held today’s vegetables stacked neatly, ready to be returned to the vendor. Lady Clifford entered and glanced about as though she’d never seen a larder before.
“The meals,” she said, not looking at me. “Too heavy. An herb salad and a bit of rice. That is all I require.”
“I am happy to cook a special meal for you, your ladyship. To serve you at supper or on a tray, or however you like.”
Lady Clifford’s fair brows arched. “This is for the entire family, my dear. It is growing far too warm to continue with the fare we had last night. Whole roast chickens and beef and potatoes.” She made a delicate shudder.
“Mr. Bywater prefers it,” I explained. “He is hungry after his day in the City.”
“Neville ought to stay home then.” For a moment, Lady Clifford’s languor slipped, and she spoke as a sister irritated with her younger brother. “And the meat pies.” Another shudder. “My dear, my brother might like them, but I loathe them. It reminds me of a horrible boardinghouse I stayed in when I first married. That was long before Reginald—his lordship—came into his inheritance.”
“I understand, your ladyship.” I thought it unfair she decided that no one would eat what she loathed, but it was not my place to say such a thing.
“Good. Then we’ll have no more of that. No gravies, no sauces. Simple salads, perhaps some fish from time to time, but only with lemon and a little minced herbs on the top. His lordship doesn’t like his meals fussy.”
I knew that if I served Mr. Bywater salad, rice, and a tiny portion of dry fish with a smattering of thyme, I would have to quickly look for another post. He preferred plain fare to anything complicated, which I agreed with—food does not have to be complicated to be good—but Lady Clifford was taking things a bit far.
“Mummy?” Cynthia’s voice floated down the back stairs, followed by the arrival of Cynthia herself, her hurry stirring the tails of her man’s frock coat. “Mummy, what are you doing down here? Papa is searching for you.”
“Saving his digestion from these awful meals,” Lady Clifford said, as though I weren’t standing a few feet away.
“There is nothing wrong with the meals, Mummy. Uncle likes Mrs. Holloway’s cooking. He’s cross as a bear when his stomach isn’t happy. He’ll be impossible to live with if she does not carry on as usual.”
“We should all give in to my brother’s whims, should we?” Lady Clifford asked in annoyance.
“Better than existing on leaves and rice. Papa washes down his meals with so much port, he never worries what he eats, if he even notices.”