Page 32 of One Night with an Earl

“I took Lady Penelope for a spin in the park, and I danced with her at the Evermans’ ball,” he said.

“I’m pleased. Apparently, so was the girl’s mother. She is attending the exhibition at the Royal Academy.”

“I see.”

“I’d like you to attend as well.”

He was interested, but not for the reason his grandmother hoped. Still, he was careful to hide any eagerness. “I have no interest in the exhibition.”

“Most of the people who attend do not, my boy! They are there for social purposes. I suggest you do the same.”

His mouth curved in a grin. “For you, Grandmother, I shall.”

Chapter Twelve

On Ana’s free day from her duties, she waited until Penelope was off to the drapers with her mother before leaving the house. She was free to spend the afternoon as she wished, and she always spent it the same way.

She walked to the corner and hailed a hackney. A short ride later, she looked out the window to see dwellings in a working-class part of the city near the Baltic Exchange. She alighted and paid the driver. She passed Threadneedle Street and the coffeehouse where jobbers and traders of the London Stock Exchange gathered to discuss business.

Soon, the homes grew close together, and although well-kept, they were small and old. Here the streets were narrower but bustling with passersby—men in coarse corduroy jackets and fez hats, a young girl with baggy pants showing beneath her dress selling flowers, a former soldier with one arm begging for a shilling, and an older woman selling figs and apricots. The people here were textile traders and merchants, and Ana identified a mix of languages—Arabic, Greek, and Armenian.

Whenever Ana visited this part of the city, she experienced many emotions. She looked like these people with her dark hair and olive complexion. They were her mother’s people, and she felt a strong sense of connection. But she was also half English, raised as a baron’s daughter. Her mother had talked about her family home and her childhood, but she also sought to raise Ana as a proper English lady. Now, years later, Ana never felt as if she fully belonged in either world.

Ana passed an apothecary and a shoemaker, before coming up to the row of small homes. She stepped on the porch of one of these, lifted the brass knocker, and rapped once.

An old woman opened the door. She appeared to be in her eighties, but with alert brown eyes. Wisps of dyed red hair were visible beneath her gold turban. She wore a red silk belt with two pendants of silk and gold thread. The woman’s eyes sparkled when she spotted Ana.

“Anahit! You are early today.” She spoke in Arabic.

“Good day, Queenie,” Ana answered in Arabic, then stepped inside. She embraced the old woman, then kissed both of her cheeks.

“Come. Sit.” Queenie showed Ana to a small parlor. The furnishings were well worn, but the side tables were dusted, and the floorboards were polished. A faded blue settee occupied a corner of the room, and Queenie motioned for Ana to sit before disappearing behind a blue curtain.

Moments later, the woman returned with a tray laden with mezza—small plates of tabbouleh salad, hummus, pita wedges, feta cheese, and an assortment of olives. Ana clapped in delight at the feast.

“The young woman who helps me clean and cook was here today. Please eat.”

Ana did not need any further encouragement. The tabbouleh salad was full of fresh flavors and slightly tart with lemon. The hummus was smooth and bursting with flavor from the chickpeas, tahini, and garlic, and the cheese and olives were delightful. It was a far cry from the English fare at Malvern Manor, and Ana savored every bite.

“Thank you, Queenie. I miss this.”

“English food is bland, no?”

“Not all of it.” Ana had a preference for scones.

“You should visit more often so I can feed you.” Queenie’s eyes traveled over her. “You’ve gotten thin.”

Ana chuckled. Queenie always thought she needed a good meal. In their culture, food was the answer to many problems.

Queenie had been one of her mother’s good friends, and the two had been from the same village in Lebanon. Queenie was Ana’s last connection to her own mother, and the older woman had become like a second mother to her over the years. Queenie never spoke of how she’d come to live in London from the Middle East. Some say she was sold to a Turkish harem and convinced the head guard, a eunuch, to leave the gate unlocked for her to escape. Others say she was married to a sheik who lavished her with jewels. Others claimed she met a handsome English sea captain and snuck aboard his ship to flee. No one knew the true story of her past. But Ana’s culture prized their elders for their knowledge, and Queenie was well-known and respected in their circles.

Queenie also knew the truth about Ana’s family and why she had sought employment within the Malvern household.

Ana sighed. “This is delicious. I miss my mother’s cooking.”

“Silva was wonderful at preparing all types of dishes, but meat and rice wrapped in grape leaves were her specialty.”

They’d had a special grapevine at Rosedown. The grapes were bitter, but the leaves were especially tender. Ana used to help her mother pick the leaves in early spring and then place them in glass jars of brine to preserve them for the long winters.