“I will say nothing to anyone,” I promised. “I understand.”
Daniel looked relieved. I believe he knew exactly why I’d curb my curiosity.
He pushed aside his teacup and stood, and I rose beside him.
“I will miss you,” Daniel said softly.
I would miss him too. I could not ask when he’d be able to return—I was certain he didn’t know or would refuse to tell me even if he did.
“God keep you,” I said.
Daniel touched my cheek and leaned to kiss my lips.
The kiss went on rather longer than it should have, and I was in his arms, resting against his chest by the time it finished. Daniel brushed moisture from my lip.
“God keep you, Kat.”
And then he was gone.
* * *
* * *
I spent the breakfast preparations wondering how I would slip away to visit Lady Covington, but after the meal, the excuse was made for me.
While I sorted through the vegetables Tess had brought from the market, Mrs. Bywater strode into the kitchen, a paper in her hand and an excited light in her eyes.
“Well, Mrs. Holloway, it seems your talents are requested in high places. A letter arrived this morning from Lady Covington, who wishes you to personally deliver a recipe Cynthia raved about to her. I do not remember your lemon cake, so it must be something you prepared for Lord Rankin.”
Mrs. Bywater’s thin face puckered as she pondered, but I could see the delight in receiving a letter from an aristocratic lady outweighed her confusion about when Cynthia would have eaten my cake. I’d finished up the recipe last night—the third cake had been as airy as I’d predicted—but I had not yet served it upstairs.
“I see,” I said carefully. I longed to know what Lady Covington had written, but Mrs. Bywater clutched the letter, not about to hand it to me.
“You should go quickly,” Mrs. Bywater said. “Tess can take over your duties until you return.”
Tess, whose head had popped up from where she chopped the spring onions for meat pies, stared, mouth a round o. No one else lingered in the kitchen at the moment, the staff busy in various parts of the house. The room was quiet but for the stock bubbling away on the stove.
“Do hurry,” Mrs. Bywater said as I stood uncertainly. “Her ladyship should not have to wait for you. The address is 94 Park Lane, near Upper Brook Street. If you walk swiftly, you will be there in no time.”
I glanced at my apron, which was spattered with grease. “Perhaps I should change into a better frock.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Bywater’s impatience was mixed with elation. A lofty woman personally requesting a recipe from her cook would elevate Mrs. Bywater’s status in her circle. “You won’t be taking tea with her ladyship—you’ll speak to her cook. Your work dress will be fine. Go on with you now.”
She flapped the paper at me then rushed away.
I untied my apron. “It seems I will be visiting Lady Covington’s home in Park Lane.”
“Ooh.” Tess assumed a false highborn accent. “Ain’t we a toff?” She burst into laughter. “Good on you, Mrs. H. Perhaps this lady will offer you a position. If she does, you’ll take me with you, won’t you?” Her laughter trailed off. Tess ever feared I’d leave my post, subjecting her to the mercy of a new and unknown cook.
“She will not offer me a position,” I said as I unpinned and hung up my starched cap. “Mrs. Bywater is right. I will deliver the recipe and that will be that.”
“Then why’d she ask for you special?” Tess said in suspicion. “Charlie could nip ’round and take her ladyship’s cook a piece of paper.”
“Perhaps the cook can’t read, and I will have to explain.” I removed my coat from its hook, slid it on, and tucked my recipe into the pocket. “Not many cooks know their letters. A great advantage if they do, which is why I have you practice reading.”
“I know, I know.” Tess returned to the green onions. “Don’t let all those nobs turn your head, Mrs. H.”
“Of course not. I will be back as quickly as I’m able.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m only doing meat pies. Off you go.”
It spoke of how far Tess had come since she’d first stamped in here, terrified and sullen, that she didn’t mind putting together the luncheon herself. Now she made bread, pies, and other dishes without coaching.
I climbed the stairs to emerge into a fine rain that was cool but not bothersome and made my way along Mount Street toward Hyde Park, rounding the corner at the massive Grosvenor House and into Park Lane.
The two blocks to Upper Brook Street passed quickly—not many people were out and about at midmorning in the rain. A nanny herded two small children across the road to Hyde Park, admonishing them to keep their coats well buttoned and their hats on. I smiled, remembering Grace at their age—she’d wanted to dash about without hat and coat too.
Number 94 was a five-storied brick house with many windows and a good number of chimneys, which boasted that the inhabitants could afford to have a fire in most of the rooms. A half-round portico with Greek-style columns shaded the front door. The room above the portico sported a huge bow window jutting out over the porch. I thought I saw a woman’s figure there, but lace curtains and the rain confounded my gaze.
The likes of me did not approach the front door of such houses and knock. I rounded the corner, searching for the stairs that would lead down from the street and into the kitchen, but found instead a gate that led to a walk behind the house.
The gate was unlocked, and I strolled through it into a green and pleasant land. The noisy road, smoke, and fumes faded as I wandered under trees just leafing for spring. A cherry tree flowered in pink splendor in the middle of the green, like a lady in a gauzy wrap, and rhododendrons, trimmed against the walls, were just putting out brilliant scarlet blooms. Flower beds full of daffodils, irises, and other bulbs lent vibrant color to the green.
The walk skirted the house, which was a typical mansion of Park Lane, far larger than the homes in Mount Street. In one corner of the garden I found neat beds of vegetables, stakes indicating that the thin shoots would become radishes and carrots. Beyond that, a greenhouse stood against the garden wall.
“Can I help you, miss?”
A young man approached the kitchen garden as I stood admiring the mounded rows. He was obviously the gardener, in mud-spattered breeches and thick boots, a wool coat against the rain, a flat hat, and a spade over his shoulder. He had chestnut hair, thick like Daniel’s, brown eyes, and a lean face tanned by wind and sun.
“I am Mrs. Holloway,” I informed him. Best to let him know right away that I was no idle stranger. “I am cook to Mrs. Bywater on Mount Street. Her ladyship asked that I bring her a recipe.”