We shared a cool stare, then I ducked around him and strode back to the kitchen. There, emotions and sensations chased each other through me so fast that I had to sit down for some time before I could carry on.
* * *
I slept very little that night. Daniel did not return before I retired, though I lingered well into the darkness, sharpening knives, making notes, and straightening the kitchen. I imagined Mr.Monaghan was keeping him on a short tether.
Once abed, I lay awake worrying not only about Daniel but about Hannah. I’d need to find out if she was still all right, alone in that house of villains. I’d ask Mr.Fielding to tell his groom—if he too hadn’t been sacked—that she was there and to look after her.
I longed to speak to Daniel again, to ask him about the things I’d not had time to: the blackmail letters, the envelopes he’d addressed, the secret police Inspector McGregor had more or less confirmed Daniel worked for, and many other things.
Most of all, I longed to snatch up Grace, take Daniel by the hand, and run with him far, far from Monaghan, the Fenians,the police, and anarchist plots. I’d seen photographs and paintings of the Lake District, in the north of England, which appeared quite beautiful and also remote. I could open a tea shop there as easily as anywhere, couldn’t I?
I knew from experience that such things would not be as simple. But it was nice to daydream, which had a calming effect. I dropped off in the early hours of the morning, waking when the high window in my bedchamber lightened.
The sun rose early in May so I was downstairs before anyone else, despite my interrupted sleep.
My restlessness allowed me to make a start on the meals for the day, including another couple of the star breads, one savory with roasted onions and herbs and the other sweet, with the last of the apples. I’d make an apple butter to spread on the second bread, flavored with cinnamon and sugar.
My head was still reeling with Daniel’s return and fear that Monaghan would send him somewhere worse—might have already done so—and working was the only way I could keep myself calm.
I had the doughs mixed and resting and the breakfast mostly done before Tess came downstairs.
“Sara says Lady Cynthia wants to speak to ya,” Tess informed me after she’d exclaimed over how much of the tasks I’d already finished. “She’s still in her chamber, but I’d guess you could go up to see her, since we’re so far ahead.”
“It isn’t fitting for the cook to rush up to a lady’s bedchamber,” I said as I turned to stack toast onto platters. “Cynthia knows that.”
“You could take her a tea tray,” Tess suggested. “Would save Sara some work. The mistress has Sara running off her feet, she says.”
I knew that Lady Cynthia liked to lie abed late after one ofher nights out with her friends, demanding very strong tea and toast when she woke.
Tess’s idea was a good one, and truth to tell, I was curious about what Cynthia had to say. I prepared a pot of tea, adding a silver container of sugar and a ceramic pitcher of cream to the tray. Several pieces of the hot toast, dripping with sweet butter, went alongside the tea things.
I reflected as I carried the heavy tray up the stairs that I was lucky I was rarely required to tote things I made from the kitchen. I’d collapse if I had to carry the supper dishes upstairs every night instead of putting them in the dumbwaiter that went to the dining room. I gained new respect for Sara and the other maids for running up and down with loads like these.
Sara sent me a grateful glance when I emerged into the second-floor hallway. She had her hands full of towels and dashed from the hall cupboard toward the mistress’s bedchamber, from which Mrs.Bywater’s voice rose.
“No, this water is too cold. Take it away. WhereisSara?”
Mrs.Bywater’s bedchamber door banged open, and a footman scuttled out with a large basin of water. Sara whirled past him and inside, slamming the door behind him.
The footman started when he saw me, slopping some of the water onto the floor. He glowered at me and disappeared into the discreet opening in the paneling that led to the backstairs.
I tapped on Cynthia’s door and received a groan in reply. Taking that for permission to enter, I fumbled with the door handle and carried the tray into the room.
Cynthia’s chamber was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning light. She let out another groan as she cracked open her eyes.
“Mrs.H.,” she wheezed in surprise. “How splendid. I hopethat tea is strong. My head aches something fierce.” She put a weary hand to that appendage.
“As dark as I could brew it,” I assured her. “You need to drink the whole pot. I’ve also brought some toast, fresh and hot.”
“Put it over there.” Languid fingers emerged from the bedcovers and fluttered at the nearby table. “I’ll see what I can manage.”
I set down the tray where indicated, but I did not depart and leave her to it. I poured out tea, dolloped some cream into it along with a lump of sugar, laid a thick piece of toast onto a plate, and carried both to her.
“Get that down you,” I instructed. “Then you can tell me what you wanted to say.”
Cynthia sent me a faint smile. Even in the half light, I could see dark smudges beneath her bloodshot eyes.
“Yes, Mum.” She obediently took the tea. “You know, you’re better at mothering me than my own mama.”
