“My friends are in London,” Cynthia went on. “But you needn’t worry about me enduring the heat and stink this summer—Miss Townsend has a house at the seaside, and she’s invited Bobby and me to stay with her for a few weeks.”
“Cynthia, you know my views on Lady Roberta,” Lady Clifford said, her dying-away voice full of disapproval.
“You barely know her, Mummy. She’s a good egg with intelligent conversation.”
“She wears trousers.” Lady Clifford pronounced the words as though Bobby, Cynthia’s closest friend, regularly drowned children. “And cuts off her hair. Please tell me she has grown out of such crudeness.”
“Not a bit of it. Miss Townsend’s respectable enough. And bloody rich.”
“Oh dear. Your language.” Lady Clifford’s voice held distress. “You are already a hopeless bluestocking, Cynthia. If you become any more mannish, no gentleman will want you.”
“Excellent. I’ll keep it up, then.”
“I do despair of you. Your sister married, and see what she gained?”
“A husband who chased his maids before she . . .” Cynthia trailed off with a cough. Her sister had died not long after I’d come to work here. She’s been mistress of this house. Lord Rankin, the husband in question, had moved to Surrey in his grief but allowed Cynthia and her aunt and uncle to stay here and run his London home for him.
Lord Clifford cleared his throat. “What your mother means is that Emily married well, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. Be in charge of your own household—wouldn’t that be better than gadding about London as an eccentric?”
“You were plenty eccentric when you were my age, Papa,” Cynthia observed. “Is being lord of the manor better than that? Or has life grown deadly dull?”
Another chuckle. “My dear, you do have a sharp tongue.”
“Only when I speak the truth. I don’t want to leave London. I am happy here. I have friends—respectable ones—though I can’t imagine why either of you have begun worrying about that. Auntie has been going on to you, hasn’t she?”
“Your aunt has your best wishes at heart,” Lady Clifford said. “However, nothing needs to be decided today. We will stay in London for some time, enough for you to have some summer gowns made.”
“Gowns, eh?” Cynthia huffed. “Where will we find the money for that?”
“Now, daughter.” Lord Clifford lost his amusement. “Do not twit me about funds. I have plenty.”
“Do you? Who did you swindle them from?”
“Cynthia,” Lord Clifford said, aghast. “Really.”
“Do apologize to your father.” The steel in Lady Clifford’s voice increased.
“You know Papa is not much more than a confidence trickster, Mummy. Why have you truly come to London?”
“Your mother told you.” Lord Clifford’s voice hardened. “To fetch you home. Your aunt has given us many stories about you, including you swanning about in gentleman’s attire and associating with a cook, of all people.”
The cook in question was me. I hoped Lady Cynthia would deny our friendship and maintain the peace, but when Cynthia lost her temper, she did not guard her words.
“The cook you dismiss is a fine human being and far kinder to me than you two have ever been. I’ve watched you drinking with stevedores, Papa, so do not admonish me about speaking to a cook. A damned good cook, as it so happens.”
I warmed to Cynthia’s praise even as her words alarmed me. Defending a friendship with me was not the way to prevent her parents from shunting her home.
“If this cook has taught you the appalling manners I am now observing, I am not surprised Isobel is unhappy you trot down to the kitchen at every chance,” Lady Clifford said. “The woman is probably a harpy from the backstreets.”
“Honestly, listen to you both. Mrs. Holloway is worth ten of you. Do not bleat to me about the backstreets, Mummy. You know you lived in them before Papa managed to finagle his way into his lofty title and empty house.”
“Cynthia, darling . . .”
Lady Clifford’s words trailed off as thumping footsteps headed for the hall—Lady Cynthia stamping out in anger.
I quickly rounded the corner to the servants’ staircase and started up the four flights to the attic floor, where I had my chamber. I did not pause to catch my breath until I was in my small bedchamber and had shut the door behind me. I leaned against it and inhaled heavily.
My chest was hollow with worry that Cynthia’s parents would prevail. Not only would I miss Cynthia, but sequestering her in the country would only break her. She needed independence, a direction, not a foolish husband to stifle her spirit. Nor did she need to molder away in her parents’ rather dank household until her youth and looks were gone.
While I’d told those in the kitchen that it was not our place to interfere with an earl’s and countess’s wishes for their daughter, I had no intention of doing nothing. I would have to be covert and discreet, but I would act. My show of acceptance had been for those, like the footman Mr. Davis had been admonishing, who might carry the tale above stairs.
I unfastened and carefully removed my best gown, fluffed out my petticoats, and donned my gray work dress. I had recently sewn on new cuffs and collar, white and starched.
Back down the stairs I went. When I reached the ground floor, I peered about cautiously, but saw no one. I heard voices murmuring in the drawing room, but the double doors were now closed. Of Cynthia, there was no sign. I hoped she would do nothing drastic. A few months ago, she’d packed a bag and walked out of the house, and would have run away entirely if Miss Townsend hadn’t talked sense into her.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Tess had returned to the sauce, and Mr. Davis was holding forth about his dislike for people who considered themselves quality but behaved like spoiled children. Mrs. Redfern regarded him in disapproval, but Elsie and Charlie, the bootboy, listened with interest.
“There isn’t time for all that, Mr. Davis,” I told him on my way to the stove. “We have work to do. Tess, the sauce is not thickening because you did not cook the roux enough. A little arrowroot will help, but next time, make certain the butter is bubbling but not browning, nor is the roux dry.”
“Yes, Mrs. H.” Tess scattered in a spoonful of arrowroot from the jar on the shelf near the stove and continued to stir. Charlie ducked into his corner, and Elsie returned to the sink.
“We must convince the Bywaters to allow Lady Cynthia to remain here,” Mr. Davis said, not budging from the center of the room.
“How will we do that?” Tess asked over her shoulder.