Across the dining room, Mrs. Fenwick counted wineglasses, which apparently was not going the way she liked. She kept starting over with a huff. No doubt she had other things on her mind. Who didn’t?
The Whitby ball was tomorrow, and all the servants were in a flurry of activity. Rugs had been beaten, floors waxed, curtains shaken and rehung, and then criticized by Mrs. Fenwick. Anna lost count of how many times Elias carried chairs from one room to another until Mrs. Pembroke decided they looked better where they’d started.
Poor Elias.
Unfortunately for Anna, she didn’t escape Mrs. Pembroke’s ridiculous instructions either. She’d been sent from the dining room to the pantry, to the storeroom, to the sewing room, and back so many times she suspected Mrs. Pembroke wasn’t preparing for a ball, but trying to wear a path through the house.
And through it all, the brown cloak had not reappeared. If it had, would the locket still be in it?
Anna told herself the missing cloak was good. It meant that if Mrs. Pembroke had removed it, whatever task she’d set in motion had likely been completed. The locket was no longer Anna’s concern. None of it should occupy her thoughts while she polished spoons and counted glassware.
Unfortunately, the locket seemed to be lodged in her mind. So did Nathaniel Reed, of all things. The man was so annoying, and he wasn’t even in the house.
“You’re doing it again,” Mercy sang.
Anna looked up. “Doing what?”
“Thinking.”
“Thinking is not a crime, Mercy.”
“I don’t know,” Mercy said. “In this house, I’m beginning to think it is.”
Mrs. Fenwick lifted her head. “Less chattering, you two, and more polishing. If Captain Whitby is determined to blind his guests with our silver, I intend the glare to be so strong it damages his eyesight. Not that it will work.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fenwick,” Mercy said sweetly, trying not to laugh.
The front bell jangled. Everyone in the room went still.
Mrs. Fenwick closed her eyes. “If that is more officers, I shall put arsenic in the custard and call it a mercy.”
“You will do no such thing,” Anna said.
Mrs. Fenwick smiled. “No, but it pleases me to imagine it.” She pointed toward the front hall. “Anna, see who it is. Mercy, stop breathing on the punch glasses.”
Mercy took a step back from the glasses and clasped her hands behind her back.
Anna smiled and hurried toward the entry hall. Elias had reached the door and was opening it to two men in rough-looking coats carrying a wooden crate between them. A third man stood behind them with a folded paper in his hands.
“Delivery from Mr. Sloane,” the man said. “For Captain Whitby’s gathering.”
Elias glanced at the crate, then at Anna. She’d no more authority over deliveries than he did. “What is it?” she asked.
“Wine, candles, lamp oil, and a few other things ordered this morning,” the man said.
Lamp oil. It made her think of barrels marked as oil.
“Set it in the hall,” Elias ordered.
The two men carried the crate inside and set it down with a heavy thud.
Anna tried to remain expressionless. It sounded too heavy for candles. Perhaps not for wine, but it was only one crate, and one crate was not enough for thirty-five guests.
The man with the paper held it out. “This requires a signature.”
“Mrs. Pembroke signs for the household,” Elias said.
“Captain Whitby signs for the order,” the man shot back.
