“Well, he is an ass, Erica,” Harriet stated. “I know you dote on him, but he’s a stuck-up prig who believes he’s more intelligent than he is.”
“Stop!” Erica shouted, raising her hand to strike Harriet. “You stop. He’s better than your brother, who is a lying, thieving—”
“Ladies, cease this at once.” Lady Covington’s voice boomed through the room. “What will Mrs. Holloway think of us?”
Lady Covington likely didn’t worry about my opinion of her family, but I was a servant, and who knew what tales I’d pass along?
“I do not gossip, your ladyship,” I told her primly.
Lady Covington ignored me, her focus on the two younger women. Erica flushed. “Beg pardon, Stepmother.”
“Yes, all right, I beg your pardon, Mama.” Harriet wrinkled her nose at Erica and stuck her tongue out at me once Lady Covington turned away. Then she grinned as though she’d made a joke. As I’d observed at the Crystal Palace, Harriet was much like a child in grown-up clothes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holloway, you may go,” Lady Covington told me. “The footman will show you the way to the back stairs.”
I curtsied once more, not that any of the three noticed, and exited the room through the double door Harriet had left open.
No footman was in sight, nor was the maid who had served us, but I guessed the back stairs would be under the grand, polished staircase in the main hall.
I was struck by the quiet as I crossed the expanse of carpet. In the Mount Street house, Mrs. Bywater regularly had callers or hosted one of the many organizations she was a member of. The sound of female chatter constantly filled the main floor. Cynthia’s laughter rang, or her voice and Mrs. Bywater’s rose in disagreement, which happened frequently. In my kitchen, Elsie sang, Tess chattered about anything that came into her head, and Mr. Davis and Mrs. Redfern were free with their opinions as they passed to and fro. Here, dust motes swam in the air, caught in the feeble light from the high windows.
Silence sat upon this house like a shroud. Even the women in the drawing room could barely be heard from here—the carpet and space muffled all. More rooms opened behind the staircase, including the dining room, which was reached by a set of five steps next to the main stairs. Its doors were open to reveal a massive table and solid chairs.
I moved through this soundlessness to the door under the stairs and reached for the brass doorknob . . . to have it wrenched out of my grasp as the maid Jepson yanked open the door from the other side.
Jepson’s lip curled when she saw me, her eyes like flint. She wore no cap—lady’s maids, who had high status in the household, often did not. Her gray hair had been severely tamed into a knot, her black brows telling me the color it had been originally. Jepson was a few inches shorter than I was, but the way she peered up at me in complete distrust did not give me an advantage.
I regarded her with the same lack of trust. Here was a woman who could easily poison her mistress—Jepson handled Lady Covington’s food, tea, coffee, or any other drink, as well as her medicines.
Jepson opened her mouth, likely to demand what I was doing there, but was interrupted when the front door flew open, banging harshly into the wall. The footman leapt from the shadows of the vestibule to catch it, but too late.
A young man strode past the flustered footman, tossing the lad his hat. The footman caught it without fumbling, showing he’d performed this ritual before. The young man also threw the footman his walking stick, then gloves, which the footman scooped up, a grin on his face.
“Jepson,” the intruder called. “What the devil are you doing hiding so furtively under the stairs? And who are you?” He halted directly in front of me and sent me a very impudent grin.
5
Jonathan Morris, the ne’er-do-well son, wore a dark suit of fine fabric—I’d seen enough of Daniel’s tailor-made clothes to realize these had been crafted by the best in Bond Street or Savile Row. His morning coat buttoned to a tie that peeked modestly from under his collar. Above that tie was a flushed face, light blue eyes, and the dark brown hair of his mother.
“I am Mrs. Holloway,” I answered him with dignity. “Your mother sent for me.”
“Did she? Why?” Jonathan’s question held lively curiosity.
“Mrs. Holloway is a cook,” Jepson supplied. “She is delivering a recipe.”
“Jolly good.” Jonathan beamed at me. “Something tasty, I hope.”
“Lemon cake.” Though I’d not had a chance so far to hand anyone the recipe I’d labored over.
Jonathan rubbed his hands. “Excellent. I hope I can try it soon. That is, if our cook can manage it. Where is my mother, Jepson? I must report in like the dutiful offspring I am.”
“Sitting room.” Jepson’s disapproval rang in her voice.
Jonathan did not respond to her chill tones. I could see he was a charming young man—his smiles and way of speaking directly and without hauteur were disarming. If I had not become used to Daniel’s constant charm, I might have succumbed.
“Well, the maternal love calls. Best be getting on, Cookie,” he said to me, “or Jepson will boil over. She hates strangers in the house.”
Jepson looked as though she’d boil over on the moment. I gave Jonathan a rather stiff curtsy.
“Mrs. Holloway,” I said.
“Pardon?” Jonathan blinked ingenuous blue eyes.
“I am Mrs. Holloway,” I repeated. “Not Cookie.”
He stared at me a moment longer, then his grin returned. “Cheeky little devil, ain’t you? And so young to be a cook. I do look forward to this lemon cake. Maybe Cook—our cook—will let you stay and make it yourself. I would be delighted.”
I wanted to let him know his familiarity was not acceptable, but I must take care not to offend him. Sons of wealthy widows and stepbrothers of aristocrats could make life difficult for me.
Before I could decide how to answer, Erica emerged from the sitting room. “Jonathan,” she snapped. “Cease bothering the servants. Your mother wants you.”
Jonathan turned back to us and rolled his eyes so comically that I wanted to laugh. A treacherous young man, I concluded, far too winsome and forward.
“Coming, dear sister.” Jonathan put on a falsetto and trotted across the hall to Erica. He pinched her cheek as he passed and sailed into the sitting room. I heard a squeal of delight from Harriet within.
Jonathan banged the sitting room door closed behind him, shutting Erica out. Erica glared at the door then gathered her skirts and marched stiffly up the stairs, ignoring us completely.