A Useful Woman (19 page)

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not. I met a man at one of the publishers' evenings. His name is Harry Colburn. He says that people are clamoring for stories of the
haut ton
. He's had an enormous success with that thing,
Glenarvon
. You know it, the one that's supposed to be written by Caroline Lamb about her affair with Lord Byron? Mr. Colburn thinks more like it would sell outrageously well. He might even be willing to advance a sum to anyone who could
promise him a manuscript. Describe a few dances, throw in a daring highwayman and a treacherous nun . . .”

“French or Italian?”

“Italian, I think. The highwayman can be French.” They shared a smile, but it was brief. Alice stopped right in the middle of the walk. Ignoring the curses and growls that rose around them, she faced Rosalind directly. “Rose, will you tell me what you're doing? I swear I won't breathe, or write, a word of it until you give me permission. I'm worried about you.”

“I . . . you really promise you will hold it in confidence?”

Alice held up her hand. “May Madame DuFrense's ruler strike me down if I don't.”

Rosalind smiled. “All right. Honoria Aimesworth believes Jasper was murdered, and it's starting to look like she was right. She's asked me to find out who the killer is.”

“What?”
Alice exclaimed. “You loathe Honoria, and she returns the sentiment.”

“Yes. And I'm not sure that's changed. But I have more freedom to ask questions than she does.”

“With that mother of hers for a jailer, there's men in Newgate who have more freedom than she does.” Then, Alice's hand flew to her mouth. “That's why you wanted to know if you could trust Adam Harkness! You're not just asking questions for Honoria! You're asking them for . . .” She dropped her voice. “Merciful heavens, Rosalind, you're working for Bow Street!”

Rosalind did not answer. She turned and began walking again, leaving Alice to trot to catch up.

“And you said you couldn't turn lady novelist!” Excitement raised Alice's voice to a squeak. “This is wonderful! Oh, you have to let me do a piece on it . . .” Rosalind frowned at her. “Once it's all over, of course, and the perpetrator is brought to justice. Have you any real clues?”

“That's the problem.” She bit her lip. “Jasper was killed during the patronesses' Monday meeting, or right after it. Mr. Harkness thinks he might have been beaten to death.”

“Rosalind.” Alice reached out and gripped her wrist. “You are not seriously suggesting that one of the lady patronesses committed violent murder? I couldn't even sell that to the major!”

“I'm suggesting one of them might know who did commit the murder.”
And heaven help me, it might be Lady Blanchard.

They walked on in silence for a while, pressed close together by the passing crowds with their baskets and bundles. “Rose, according to what George and I . . . heard, there were other people in the building. Willis himself, for example.”

She wasn't going to say it, so Rosalind did. “Devon Winterbourne was also there, and me, of course.”

“Yes. I don't know if you've thought of this, but beating a man, it must make rather a lot of noise. Whoever was in the building when Jasper did die, they should have heard.”

“Oh yes,” Rosalind answered. “I have thought of that, Alice. Rather a lot.”

The Gossip in the Servants' Hall

This will show you how reports spread in a moment, and how little credit should be attached to the
on-dits
of society.

—Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

The clamor of the Tamwell House kitchen poured over Mrs. Kendricks in a ragged wave of noise. “Mrs. Heath, is the pigeon pie ready?”

“Just here. Alfred, you take care with that!”

“Mr. Barstow, they're about out of sherry upstairs.”

“Take up the fresh glasses. I'll have more up from the cellar directly. Martin, come with me!”

Not one person was sitting still. Everyone had a job to do, from the sour-faced girl, Rebecca, who was mending linens so extra rooms could be made up should any extra relations decide at the last minute to stay, to Mrs. Kendricks herself, who was helping arrange cakes and savories on the trays for the footmen to take upstairs.

Although Mrs. Kendricks would have cut off her right hand before she admitted it to Miss Thorne, she regretted having left service in a large establishment. It was more than just the
company of her fellow servants she missed, it was the sense of moment and purpose that was brought to the job at hand, especially during an important party or event, even should that event happen to be a funeral.

A funeral was a terrible time for a family and a busy one for the house. Everything had to run as perfectly as for the finest dinner party. Any misstep would not only be noticed, but be profoundly embarrassing. All this left downstairs in a particular state of uproar, and when she'd offered to lend a hand, Mrs. Kendricks had been gratefully accepted.

Upstairs, the men were still off at the churchyard seeing young Mr. Aimesworth laid to rest. This initial reception was for the ladies, both relatives and visitors, whom tradition did not allow to attend the burial. For them, the refreshments had to be light and plentiful, and everything the finest the house had to offer. After the men returned, there would be a supper for the relations and choice friends. The table for that was already laid and the cold preparations waited in the larder, but there was still a great deal to be done.

“Hey now! You get off there!”

Even over the noise and bustle, Mariah Neill's exclamation made the whole room jump. A man's grinning face pressed up against the area railing outside the kitchen window. Alfred, the senior footman, said something he wouldn't have wanted his mother to hear and bolted out the kitchen door.

Mrs. Neill drew the curtains more firmly shut, but that did nothing to damp down the sound of Alfred shouting, “Clear off!” Probably there were a few swift kicks administered as well. News of the young man found dead at Almack's had spread and wide, and all manner of idlers lingered on the walkways outside and probably even around the church.

“For shame!” cried Mrs. Neill as she moved to hand a tray of dainties to one of the footmen. “Vultures.”

Miss Thorne might not have friends in Tamwell House, but the head housekeeper, Mariah Neill, was Mrs. Kendricks's cousin by marriage, and they exchanged visits and news with each other on a regular basis, something Miss Thorne encouraged, even if Lady Edmund did not.

“An' it ain't gettin' any better,” said Alfred as he came back in. “What's them constables doin' out there, I wonders?”

“No good,” said Mrs. Neill. “Here, you get the decanters ready for Mr. Barstow when he comes up.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Alfred opened the glassware cupboard and began taking out the cut glass decanters.

“I thought Lady Edmund was going to go out there with a cutlass,” muttered Rebecca as she bit through her thread. Mrs. Kendricks found herself eyeing the girl thoughtfully.

“You be quiet, Becky Lewis,” snapped Mrs. Neill. “This is a house of mourning, and we don't need any talk like that.”

“Mourning,” snorted Becky.

“I heard that,” the housekeeper warned her.

“It is a terrible thing, Mrs. Neill,” said Mrs. Kendricks as she nudged the little cakes on the tray in front of her into tidier lines. “My mistress says Miss Honoria is ill with grief.”

Becky snorted again.

“That's it!” Mrs. Neill snapped. “One more like that and I'll put you in the scullery with Sally until you can't remember what upstairs work looks like.”

“Yes, Mrs. Neill.” Becky bowed her head to hide her expression. “Sorry, Mrs. Neill.”

“Honestly.” Mrs. Neill shook her head as she held up another silver tray to inspect for smudges. “Girls these days. No respect.”

“Not like when we were young, Mrs. Neill,” murmured Mrs. Kendricks as she stood back to let Cook inspect her handiwork. The other woman nodded her approval and the filled tray was placed with the others waiting in readiness on the table.

“Nothing is, Mrs. Kendricks. Certainly not . . .” Mrs. Neill rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “What's it all coming to, that's what I'd like to know.”

“Do you think . . .” Mrs. Kendricks lowered her voice. “There's the possibility that he jumped?”

Mrs. Neill lowered the tray she was inspecting for tarnish. She also glanced over her shoulder toward Becky Lewis. Cook turned her attention to the sauces simmering on her stove and pretended not to listen. “Well, I don't know who told you that, but I would never believe it. At least, I wouldn't have.”

Mrs. Kendricks waited for Mrs. Neill to enjoy her moment. She had a love of the dramatic, Mariah did. She leaned close. “Gambling, Mrs. Kendricks,” she whispered.

Mrs. Kendricks let her brows shoot up. Mrs. Neill nodded solemnly. “He'd been worried about money. After his father about it. Now, what could that mean but a debt he had to pay, an' . . .”

Just then Mr. Barstow and the young footman, Martin, emerged from the cellar with a bottle of sherry in each hand. “Mrs. Neill,” said the butler. “It occurs to me we should bring up some more of your dandelion and lemon cordials. The dowager ladies favor those over more spirituous drinks at such times.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Neill slapped her palm against her forehead. “And I've had no time to bottle the new. I'll go to the stillroom . . . oh . . .” She gestured at the cook and the trays.

“I can go, Mrs. Neill,” said Mrs. Kendricks at once. “Then you can get on with the cakes and the service.” She paused. “Becky can come help me, can't she?”

One look at Becky's screwed-up face told her all the girl thought of that task. Which, as far as Mrs. Neill was concerned, sealed her fate.

“Do as you are told,” snapped the Aimesworth's housekeeper. “And remember, I've got my eye on you, my girl.”

Becky put down her linens, stood, and curtsied. The whole time her face was about as cheerful as a wet January. Mrs. Kendricks nodded once. She'd made the right choice.

Most houses had a stillroom, but they were nothing like the ones Mrs. Kendricks remembered from her youth. Then, there'd been a separate maid to tend the fires, distill liquors and tinctures, and cook down the syrups both sweet and medicinal that the house might need. Nowadays, the stillroom was barely a closet off the kitchen where the cook made jellies or dried herbs on a small brick hearth. Occasionally, though, if a housekeeper had a special recipe, the copper-bottomed distillers might be brought out.

The tiled room smelled strongly of smoke and the savory herbs that hung in bundles overhead. It was warm and dry in there, and perspiration immediately prickled under Mrs. Kendricks's stiff collar.

“Now, just bring me two of the clean bottles, Becky, and a fine sieve,” said Mrs. Kendricks as she reached up on the shelf for the crocks labeled in grease pencil. She found a pitcher as well and brought that down to the worktable.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Kendricks,” muttered Becky. “Right away, Mrs. Kendricks.” She did, however, bring the bottles.

“You won't last long in this house with that kind of attitude, my girl.” Mrs. Kendricks set the sieve over the top of the pitcher. “Even if you don't feel humble, you need to act as though you do. Her ladyship is not the forgiving sort.”

“This house.” Becky took hold of the sieve to keep it steady
while Mrs. Kendricks poured the pale gold cordial from its crock into the pitcher. “Wouldn't care if I never set foot in it again, 'cept that I ain't been able to find another place yet.”

“One house is very like another, you'll find. Best to stick with what you've got.”

“'At's what they”—Becky jerked her chin toward the kitchen—“all say. A bird in the 'and is worf two in the bush.”

Mrs. Kendricks took the sieve and shook out the last drops of liquid into the pitcher. “But you're not so sure, are you? Can you find me the funnel?”

Becky shrugged, and opened the cupboard under the table. “Oh, I'm a good girl. I mind my place. Save me breath to cool me porridge. Ask me no questions an' I'll tell you no lies.” She slapped the tin funnel onto the worktable.

“What's happened to you here, Becky?”

“Oh, right! I tell you and you run right over to tell Mrs. Needles. No fanks.”

Mrs. Kendricks ignored this childish play on her cousin's name. She had already heard enough to lose the girl her place. Now, however, was not the time to mention this. “Have you a cheese cloth?” Becky rolled her eyes and ducked her head down into the cupboard again, coming up with loose-woven, bleached cloth. Mrs. Kendricks took it to wrap the mouth of the funnel before she set it into the bottle.

“You know,” she said as she began to pour the cordial carefully from pitcher to bottle. “If you really were unhappy, my Miss Thorne might be able to find you a new place.” Becky made no answer. “Quiet like, of course. Better not to have anyone know when you're looking to leave, isn't it?”

Becky looked toward the door to the main kitchen. “Would she really?”

Mrs. Kendricks nodded. “There's always a place for a clever girl who knows her work.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks. And thank Miss Thorne if she would. That is, I'd like another place, but they're so hard to find!”

Mrs. Kendricks set the pitcher down. “What is it, girl?” she asked Becky gently. “Come on and tell us, one woman in service to another. Was it . . .” She glanced toward the door, which stayed firmly closed. “Was it the young master? Gentlemen can make trouble for a good girl and everybody knows it.”

Becky bit her lip. “Weren't the young master. I've got sharp enough elbows an' 'e wasn't bad like some. Didn't bother me more than once or twice. 'Twas the mistress.”

“Now that doesn't surprise me,” murmured Mrs. Kendricks. “The tales my Miss Thorne has to tell about them both, mother and daughter.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, well, I'd be given to fits, too, with a mother who moves heaven and earth to get me engaged, and then goes and breaks it up!”

Mrs. Kendricks felt her jaw drop. “Now then, Becky, there's no call to be making things up.”

“It's true! Hiller, her ladyship's maid, just about left her place because of it. Such scenes, and such goings-on behind everybody's back. She couldn't bear it. I heard her telling Mrs. Neill.”

You hear a deal more than's good for you.
Mrs. Kendricks stoppered the cordial bottle and wrung out the cloth over the slop bucket. “Well,
I've
never heard of such a thing. Are you sure?”

“Sure as sure,” said Becky stoutly as she wielded her cloth to wipe down the bottle. “Hiller said Lady Edmund found out something she didn't like about Mr. Phineas, that was Miss Honoria's fiancé . . .” Mrs. Kendricks nodded. “But instead of telling
Miss Honoria about it, Lady Edmund starts tossing other girls in Mr. Phineas's path. Her guest lists were a sight. Not that your miss helped much.”

“Now you watch yourself, Becky.” Mrs. Kendricks set to work straining the lemon cordial into a clean pitcher. “Miss Thorne does a good deal to help all sorts, and yourself might be one if you'll recall.”

“I'm sorry, but she must have scented something was up, and did nowt to stop it.”

Mrs. Kendricks shook her head. It was possible. When Miss Thorne took on favors for other ladies, she usually had her own good reasons for doing things that might look a bit out of line. But those reasons, in Mrs. Kendricks's very private opinion, were not always as sound as Miss Thorne might believe.

“What kind of woman queers the pitch for her own girl?” Becky was saying. “Why not just come straight out and say the fellow's no good?”

“Well,” sighed Mrs. Kendricks. “Many's the young lady who won't listen to her mother on the subject of young men.”
Especially when they're trying to get out of a house that's no home at all.

“I suppose. But that weren't . . .” Becky stopped.

Mrs. Kendricks set the pitcher down and turned fully toward Becky. “There was more?”