“He is a handful,” I said, nodding at the sitting room. “Quite boisterous.”
Jepson’s baleful stare told me she did not care for my observations. I also saw she agreed with them. “Mr. Morris is right that you had best be off.”
“I do need to give your cook the recipe.”
“Give it to me. Cook can’t read.”
I withdrew the paper from my pocket and handed it to Jepson, as she continued blocking my way downstairs. I wondered if the cook would even receive it.
“Good day to you,” I said.
Jepson barely gave me a nod. She would not move, so I exited the house through the oval-windowed door that led to the garden, feeling Jepson’s cold gaze on me all the way.
* * *
* * *
The gardens were refreshingly open and peaceful after the stifling atmosphere of the house. I took a few breaths to steady myself before I walked on.
When I passed the stairs that led down to the kitchens, I decided to descend and speak to the cook myself, Jepson notwithstanding.
I took care on the steps, which were steep and damp, and let myself in through the door at the bottom. Beyond a square foyer I found a kitchen that was far more spacious than mine. Light flooded the room from the high windows that faced the garden, rendering the space cheerful. The kitchen was fitted out with plenty of shelves and cupboards as well as the latest in stoves, with eight burners plus a warmer, and three ovens below. Baskets hung on one wall, and between them, a grainy photograph of an older man, possibly the cook’s husband, or brother, or father—someone she wanted to gaze at fondly as she worked.
How fine to have a large, well-stocked kitchen with fresh herbs and vegetables just up the back stairs—the garden would save running to the market every day. It was difficult to grow vegetables in London because of all the soot and smoke, but it could be done by a competent gardener and a hothouse.
Mrs. Gamble was what most people thought of when they heard the term “cook,” a plump woman with gray hair, a flour-dusted apron, and a round, pink face. She was rolling out dough at her work table, her hands as floury as the pastry.
“Good morning,” I called to her. “I am Mrs. Holloway.”
Mrs. Gamble blinked at me, frowned, and blinked again. We were alone in the kitchen—no kitchen maid evident, no housekeeper or male servants going in and out.
“Oh, right, love. You are that cook what was coming to visit the mistress. Have you seen her?”
“Indeed. I gave Jepson the recipe—a wonderful lemon cake. It’s simple, really. Eggs, lemon, flour, orange-flower water, sugar, and butter.” I went on to explain, knowing that cooks who couldn’t read had prodigious memories for recipes, and I did not trust Jepson to read the thing out to her. “Separate the eggs to keep it light. Beat the whites with the orange-flower water, sugar, and a bit of lemon rind, then beat the butter in a different bowl, add the egg yolks to it, and fold the egg white mixture into that. Then you stir the flour into the whole thing. The cake must go into the pan immediately after or the batter will deflate before it can bake.”
Mrs. Gamble listened attentively. “The proportions?”
“Three quarters of a pound each of sugar and flour, and a quarter pound of butter to ten eggs. The lemon and orange-flower water as you like.”
She nodded. “The mistress will be expecting me to make this, I suppose.”
“Possibly.” Lady Covington had been inventing so many excuses for my presence that she might have forgotten about the cake. “Can you remember the recipe? In case it slips Jepson’s memory.”
Mrs. Gamble’s lips twitched. “Aye, I’ll remember. Jepson doesn’t always come to the kitchen.”
“Her ladyship praises your cooking,” I said. “Says everything you prepare specially is sweet as can be.”
Mrs. Gamble nodded without hesitation. “Aye, she has a finicky digestion. I make her soothing meals, as what I make for the family sometimes disagrees with her. Lemon cake will be just the ticket.”
“If you have any questions about it—or if you would like other suggestions to help her ladyship’s digestion . . .”
Mrs. Gamble returned to rolling the dough, a bit too harshly in my opinion. Pastry wants a light touch.
“If those four children let her be, her insides would be well,” Mrs. Gamble declared. “I know I’m talking out of place, but ’tis true.”
“I met three of them upstairs,” I said to encourage her to continue.
“Three leeches, you mean. Young Lord Covington’s not a pleasant man either, but at least he has much to keep him occupied out of the house. The young ladies need marrying, and so does the younger gentleman. Places of their own to give them something to do. Idle hands are the devil’s tools, you know.”
If one of the younger generation were poisoning Lady Covington, it was the devil’s work indeed.
I waited, in case Mrs. Gamble was more forthcoming about the secrets of Lady Covington’s relations, but she pursed her lips and continued rolling her pastry. The piecrust would be much too tough if she continued to abuse it as she did.
“This is a fine kitchen.” The dresser brimmed with plates and bowls and the shelves with foodstuffs, and polished copper pots hung over the stove.
Mrs. Gamble gave me a modest nod. “This mistress knows how to fit out a kitchen. So many don’t, and then they expect perfect meals made on a smoky stove that won’t boil water and a table too small for anything but setting down a teacup.”
“Too true, Mrs. Gamble,” I agreed. “We are fortunate to work in good houses.”
“Well, the mistress is all right. She’s the second wife, as you know. The first, I hear, ran this house like a martinet but couldn’t put together a menu to save her soul.”
“You weren’t here when she was alive?”
“Lordy, no. I was in Oxfordshire. Didn’t come to London until last year.”
“Has her ladyship always had a delicate digestion?”
Mrs. Gamble sent me a peculiar glance, as though wondering at my interest. Daniel had pried much out of her, but then, Daniel had a warm smile and handsome eyes.
“It’s a trial when our ladies and gentlemen can only stomach certain foods,” I extemporized. “I wondered if you had any advice, seeing as her ladyship is a bit dyspeptic.”
“She wasn’t always,” Mrs. Gamble said. “Didn’t start until, oh, six months ago? Nothing to do with my cooking.” Her gaze was hard.
“It wouldn’t be, would it, if all of the household eats your food but only her ladyship has troubles?” I said quickly. “No doubt she is grateful for your soothing dishes.”