Mr. Davis spied me and beckoned me into the dining room. The dining table had been turned into a sideboard, filled with food that guests could take to other parts of the house.
Mr. Davis’s dark hair shone with pomade, his hairpiece perfectly aligned, his swallow-tailed coat an example of excellent tailoring. He addressed Mrs. Bywater, who hovered with a cluster of guests near the table, the remains of my feast, including the roast duck, upon it.
“Mrs. Holloway, ma’am,” Mr. Davis announced.
Mrs. Bywater, who prided herself on dressing like a prudent matron, wore a plain maroon gown and a sort of bag on her head that was meant to be a turban. Her friends were rather more fashionably dressed, a few in the black or gray of mourning or half-mourning.
“Here is our cook,” Mrs. Bywater declared. “Responsible for our excellent meal.”
The group around her burst into polite applause. I curtsied, trying to look grateful, hiding my discomfort.
One of the ladies, her gray hair in tight ringlets, lifted a lorgnette to peer at me. “It must be a frightful expense to employ her.”
“We are frugal with the household budget.” Mrs. Bywater managed to look proud and humble at the same time. “Much can be done with careful planning. Mrs. Holloway is clever with her purchases.”
This was the first time my employer had admitted such a thing about me, though I did not take her compliments as they were. I knew she spoke to impress her friends.
“She is very young.” The lorgnette flashed as it moved over my person. “I prefer a stout woman with plenty of gray hair. You’d know she had experience. This one cannot be much into her twenties.”
Mr. Davis radiated silent disapproval, considering it gauche for the mistress to discuss not only expenses, but the staff, especially in front of other staff.
I was young, it was true, especially to be a cook in an elegant Mayfair household. The Mrs. appended to my name was a sign of respect given to senior female servants, and if people assumed I had once been married, I said nothing to dissuade them.
A new voice joined the conversation. “Mrs. Holloway is thirty. A fine age, I think.”
Lady Cynthia Shires, niece to Mr. Bywater and daughter of an earl, halted near Mrs. Bywater and gave the lorgnette lady a look of frank assessment.
I hid my surprise when she came into view. Cynthia had dressed, uncharacteristically, in a frock more beautiful than any in the room. She had recently come out of mourning for her sister, and her evening gown had plenty of colors to make up for her previous lack of them—a deep pink bodice and a cream silk skirt, which was gathered back into a small train and trimmed with ruched ribbon and cloth roses.
She wore her golden hair in its usual unadorned knot, simple elegance in a room filled with diamond-studded turbans, flower-filled bandeaus, and braids and false curls festooned with feathers.
Cynthia met my gaze, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. That Cynthia, who preferred to lounge about the house in a man’s suit, had donned such a splendid dress meant she was up to something.
A young woman joined Cynthia, sliding her hand into the crook of Cynthia’s arm. She was dark-haired and a beauty.
The term beauty is bandied about without discretion, in my opinion, when every young lady who makes her bow is termed so, regardless of her true looks, but this woman was an exception.
The lady was about the same age I was, by my guess. Her very dark hair was dressed in curls at the base of her neck, bound with a thin gold chain. Her cream-colored gown was subdued, its bustle small and without the masses of ribbons, embroidery, or appliqué that other ladies wore tonight. It was a ball dress, no doubt, but a tastefully made and subtle one.
“The lobster rissoles were excellent, Mrs. Holloway,” the young woman said to me.
I curtsied to her diffidently but did not speak. I should only answer when asked a direct question.
“I have not tasted such splendid food in an age,” she continued. “A fine treat.”
I nodded my thanks, attempting to keep my eyes averted as a proper servant ought, but I shot her a glance of curiosity. I had no idea who she was, but from the way she hung on Cynthia’s arm, the two were close friends.
The lady studied me with openness, but in a far more courteous manner than the lorgnette woman. Another difference between this lovely lady and the others in the room was that she spoke directly to me and used my name.
Mrs. Bywater seemed to think I’d had enough praise for one night. “Thank you, Mrs. Holloway,” she said in a tone that meant I was dismissed.
I curtsied to the company, darted a last look at Cynthia’s friend, and walked sedately from the room. No scurrying back to my hole. I departed with my head high, dignity in place, accepting the praise for my hard work without false modesty.
I could have wished for a coin or two, however. Compliments are all very well, but shillings and pence are far more welcome.
* * *
* * *
Not until after midnight did I have the chance to hang up my apron, scrub my hands and face in the scullery sink, don coat and hat, and depart to meet Daniel.
February rain poured outside, rendering the night cold and dank. I pulled on gloves and ducked my head against the spattering drops as I hurried into the street.
Little traffic, foot or carriage, roamed on this wet night, the residents of Mount Street wisely remaining indoors. I too ought to have stayed at home to snatch a few hours of sleep, giving Daniel my apologies when I saw him again.
It was a testimony to my curiosity and my fondness for Daniel that I scurried, head bowed, along South Audley Street toward Grosvenor Chapel. James had told me his father would await me there.
I doubted James meant in the chapel itself, which was shut. I made my way along a passage that edged the graceful church and ended at a gate to a green.
I hoped Daniel did not wish to have a conversation on the grass. It was dreadfully wet, and I felt a sneeze coming on.
“Kat.”
He was behind me. I swung around, dismayed by how lighthearted Daniel’s voice rendered me. I told myself this was because I had not seen him in many weeks, and I naturally was glad to see him.
He stood in an open doorway, outlined by light, which proved the chapel was not shut entirely.
“My dear Kat, come in out of the rain,” Daniel said, reaching for me. “Next time, tell James you wish me to the devil and stay home.”
He caught my hand and pulled me into the lighted space, shutting the door behind us. I found myself in a small room lined with cupboards and robes on hooks—the sacristy, I believed it was called. The room had no stove, but the absence of chill wind and rain came as a relief.
Daniel wore his working clothes—wool coat patched at the elbows, linen shirt, knee breeches shiny with wear, and heavy boots. He’d removed his cap, showing me that his dark brown hair had grown even longer during his absence.