“Never you mind who it was, Tess,” Mrs. Redfern snapped. “And hold your tongue about your betters.”
I guessed, from Mrs. Redfern’s evasive answer, that the visitor had been Mrs. Beadle. She and her husband had leased the house next door once the previous owners, the Harknesses, had gone.
Mrs. Beadle hadn’t seen wrong—I’d clung to Daniel shamelessly, needing his strength.
“Mrs. Bywater is not happy,” Mrs. Redfern went on. “She is prepared to come down here and question you about it after breakfast.”
Meaning she’d wait until her husband had gone to the City and could not interfere. I swallowed, wondering how I would explain myself. Mrs. Bywater was ever waiting for an excuse to give me the sack.
Mr. Davis stared hard at me. He’d in the past claimed that Daniel was “sweet on me” and opined that I could do better than a scruffy deliveryman. I expected Mr. Davis to tell Mrs. Redfern exactly who the man had been and make it clear he did not approve.
Instead, he let out a snort. “Preposterous. Mrs. Holloway is not walking out with anyone.”
I almost argued with him—he knew Daniel came to visit me often—but I held my tongue.
“I told you, Mr. Davis, I know nothing of the matter,” Mrs. Redfern answered. “I came to warn Mrs. Holloway what is being said of her. She is free to defend herself.”
“Meddling Mrs. Beadle saw nothing of the sort,” Mr. Davis went on. “Mrs. Holloway was very upset last night—there was a death at the Crystal Palace, where she went to hear improving lectures.” He waved the newspaper, indicating that a story about the death lay within its pages. “I was comforting her. The man Mrs. Beadle saw was me, and no, I have no amorous intentions for poor Mrs. Holloway, nor does she for me.”
Tess listened with avid interest, and my mouth dropped open, but I could not speak.
Mrs. Redfern regarded Mr. Davis with surprise. “Mrs. Holloway returned very late. I heard her come up to her room after one o’clock.”
“I was up very late myself. Checking the wine cellar to make sure his lordship didn’t have another go at it.” Mr. Davis finished with a growl.
Mrs. Redfern gazed at Mr. Davis for a moment in deep skepticism then she let out a breath, deciding to accept the explanation. “Thank you, Mr. Davis. Well, I shall go up and tell Mrs. Bywater there’s nothing in it. I am very happy the neighbor was mistaken.” She shot me another look, still uncertain, and strode from the room.
“Mr. Davis,” I began, my voice quavering.
Mr. Davis held up a forefinger, silencing me. With a glance at Tess, who bounced on her toes, a grin on her face, he stalked out, heading for the butler’s pantry.
I abandoned the kitchen and followed him. Mr. Davis tried to close the door on me, but I pushed into his sanctum.
“Mr. Davis, why would you—?”
Mr. Davis slid out of his tailed coat and turned from hanging it on a hook. “Because I do not wish you to lose your post, Mrs. Holloway. I doubt any cook Mrs. Bywater hired would be anywhere near as good as you, and my stomach would not thank me. Besides, aren’t we friends?”
“I’d like to believe so.” I wet my dry lips. “And I do not wish you to think less of me. I—”
He lifted his forefinger again. “No need to explain, Mrs. Holloway. We all make mistakes, and I know you are a respectable woman. But I am curious. Was it the vicar?”
I blinked in amazement. “Mr. Fielding? Good heavens, no.”
“Ah.” He deflated. “I had hoped. A vicar of a poor parish could do worse than taking a cook to wife. Not, again, that I wish you to leave. That means it was McAdam.” Mr. Davis looked displeased.
“Mr. McAdam is a fine man,” I stated. “Not a scoundrel. He is more than what he seems.” Mr. Davis did not know the extent of that, nor could he ever find out.
“Too many women have been taken in by a gentleman’s disarming manner.” Mr. Davis shook his head. “It usually ends in tears.”
“I assure you, there is nothing untoward between Mr. McAdam and me.” I conveniently forgot the many times Daniel had kissed me. “He was, as you say, comforting me, because yes, I was upset about the death. Lady Covington’s stepdaughter. It was a terrible thing.” I faltered.
Mr. Davis took up the newspaper, his glance sympathetic. “We shall say no more about it. I am happy to look after you, my friend, but please do not allow Mr. McAdam to comfort you again within sight of the neighbors.”
“I will bear it in mind, Mr. Davis.”
We exchanged a glance of understanding, and I left him.
* * *
* * *
I returned to my intention of visiting Lady Covington. I would have to invent an excuse to placate Mrs. Bywater—I could not simply tell her I wished to pay my condolences, as cooks were intended to carry on with their duties even if the sun fell out of the sky.
I opened my notebook after Tess and I had sent the breakfast dishes up in the dumbwaiter, and I looked over the ingredients list for the spiced custard. Cinnamon, cloves, star anise . . .
“Oh dear,” I said in a loud voice. “I am out of bay leaves.”
Tess glanced up from mixing the batter for my lemon cake. Those upstairs had liked it so much, Mrs. Bywater had sent down a request that I serve it again.
“I can run to the market for you,” she offered.
“No, indeed. You must finish the cake. I know where to procure some quickly.”
So speaking, I stripped off my apron and cap, snatched up my coat and hat, and was out the door before Tess could answer.
A warm breeze blew down the street, promising hotter weather to come. June could be quite pleasant in London, and I looked forward to it, but July and August turned stifling and smelly.
The Bywaters stuck it out through the summer instead of retreating to the country, because of Mr. Bywater’s position in the City, but that was fine with me. If they shut up the house during the summer months, I’d have no wages, and if they took me to the country with them, I’d not be able to visit Grace. London born and bred, I could put up with the stench and heat, and Grace was worth any discomfort.
I walked quickly along Mount Street and turned to Park Lane. Lady Covington had implied I could use anything I liked from her kitchen garden, and I pounced on that invitation today.
I passed the house on Park Lane and turned the corner to Upper Brook Street and the gate to the garden. The gate was unlocked, and I slipped inside.
I heard the sound of a rake on gravel and saw Symes behind a hedge, hunched over his work. The back of the house showed blank shades drawn over the windows, a sign of a bereavement.