No one has taken sick thus far, but there was a near thing. Lady Covington yesterday afternoon said her stomach ached slightly. Jepson was about to mix her a large glassful of some powder from an unmarked packet, but I happened to be passing the bedchamber and jumped in to offer a set of powders I’d found jolly good at passing off indigestion. I managed to foist them onto Lady Covington, who was willing to try them, before Jepson could grab them and throw them in a rubbish pail. I mixed the powder—which was bicarbonate of soda I’d procured at the local chemists for just this circumstance. Lady Covington drank it up, with Jepson hovering like a disapproving bat, and after the lady belched heartily, she declared she felt much better. She continued in roaring good health all night and continues this morning. It was after this episode that Jepson’s frowns grew less fierce.
This makes me wonder: is Jepson on Lady Covington’s side or is she not? Surely she’d be less happy with me for curing her mistress’s dyspepsia if she were trying to murder her. Then again, she might be buttering me up so that next time I do not interfere.
It is difficult for me to read people, Mrs. H. I am not certain how you do it so well.
I will continue posting you my observations of the family, which so far have shown me that they are spoiled and ungrateful. Makes me ashamed of my own pique with my family, but then, my family can be overbearing.
Erica has been disappearing from the house often, I gather, but where she goes, I have no idea. Neither does anyone else. She takes a maid, but the maid is always sent home with the excuse that Erica is meeting with a friend and doesn’t need her. Erica returns in a hansom and is vague about where she’s been. I suspect a liaison, but with whom, I do not know. Erica is not a beautiful woman and is rather stiff mannered, but perhaps with her paramour she is sweet and loving. I have difficulty imagining it though.
The whole lot of them are keeping things from Lady Covington. Good old George sits on the board of the aforementioned railway company—a private line. George likes to talk about his business, but I gather he’s rather bad at it. Lady C. is constantly holding up his father as a prime example of a brilliant businessman, which must rankle him.
In my family, and in Bobby’s and Miss Townsend’s, talking about money and business, especially at the supper table, is considered rather gauche, but then Lady C. wasn’t raised in the peerage. Her father, somebody-or-other Maddox, was an entrepreneur, and Sir Arthur, his only son, is as well. Sir Arthur too twits dear old George on his lack of business sense.
George points out that Sir Arthur now runs a school, as though that is a horrible scandal—like a brothel—at which Sir Arthur only looks weary. I try to like Sir Arthur, as he was kind enough to give Mr. Thanos a fine flat and a job as a lecturer, but he can be a tedious bore, I’m sorry to say. I will never express this opinion to his face, however, because I do not want to endanger Mr. Thanos’s position in any way.
Harriet is quite a frustrated young lady, I’d say. She does wish to marry, I think, but any mention of a suitable gentleman is brushed aside with a scoff. When Erica, who had a bad marriage as you know, complained that Harriet was an ungrateful harridan for turning up her nose at perfectly good gentlemen, Harriet threw a spoon at her. Lady Covington banished Harriet from the table, and Harriet stomped off with her nose in the air.
I found Harriet later, crying her eyes out. I tried to comfort her, saying marriage shouldn’t be entered into lightly, and I agreed she ought to be picky, but Harriet stared at me as though I’d run mad. This morning, she disappeared from the house for a time, though she returned before anyone raised the alarm. She was much happier then, and I suppose she simply needed a bit of time to herself, perhaps for a brisk walk. She was flushed and windblown when she returned.
There you have what I know so far about the family. When we dined, all dishes were served by the footmen, and we ate the same thing. The cook is nowhere as talented as you, but she turns out some decent grub. If any member of the family refused a dish, I did as well, eating only what was taken by all. Lady Covington is always served first. Apparently, the late Lord Covington paid her this courtesy, and the custom remains. Dear George tried to look gracious when she took the first helping, but I saw his resentment.
His resentment stems from the fact that she is given deference by all the staff, not because she is greedy with the food. Lady Covington, though she has a good appetite, takes far less on her plate than the younger ones. Sir Arthur eats like a horse. It is interesting that only Lady C. takes ill, because the others consume enough for an army. If the poison were put into the food in the kitchen, everyone at the table would be writhing in agony.
I will try to find out more about Erica’s and Harriet’s mysterious outings, where Jonathan’s money actually goes, and how poison gets into the house. I managed to purloin one of the powder packets that Jepson tried to feed Lady C., and I will take it to a chemist to see what he believes is in it.
I must finish now to send this to you. I wish I was in your kitchen, nattering away with you, but I will be a good soldier, and remain on duty until the poisoner is uncovered.
Yours in haste,
Corporal Shires (saluting)
* * *
* * *
On Monday, I returned from my half day out with Grace, helped Tess prepare supper, and then changed into my best frock and boarded a train with Cynthia, Bobby, and Miss Townsend to Sydenham and the Crystal Palace.
Cynthia had procured my ticket, and I found myself in a first-class carriage with the three young ladies. I never felt comfortable traveling first class—servants rode third class—but Cynthia saw no reason I should not journey with her. I sat on the corridor side of the coach, my hands folded in my lap, trying to be unobtrusive.
Bobby, dressed in a gentleman’s suit with a high hat, so resembled a male that the conductor did not realize she was a lady—he called her sir. Unlike willowy Cynthia and Miss Townsend, Bobby was a bit plump around the middle and was the very image of a young gent who liked his pudding. She cut her hair short—couldn’t be bothered with it, she’d told me—and slicked it back with pomade. If she pasted on a mustache, none would be able to tell her from a man.
Miss Townsend, with whom Bobby now lived, was an artist, and did not dress in the restrictive, highly fashionable clothing other young ladies of her class did. I liked her simple close-fitting chocolate-colored gown with cream lace. Her hat was the same shade as the gown, its front brim adorned by a short cream lace veil.
Cynthia had forsaken male dress tonight for a maroon gown with black trim and a delicate bon bon of a pillbox hat set on her carefully curled fair hair. She did not wear a veil, as she’d once declared she hated the things. If this hat had originally had a veil, she’d torn it off.
“Couldn’t let Thanos down,” Cynthia said when Bobby chided her for looking like a fashion plate. “It’s his debut, as it were, and I’d hate for him to be embarrassed because his best woman chum is shocking the audience by dressing as a gent. No one minds you doing as you like, Bobby,” she added hastily.