Chapter 9 #2
Mr. Fielding pressed a hand to his chest. “I will not fail you, good lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fielding,” I said, ignoring his dramatics. “Shall we return?” I asked Lady Cynthia.
“We shall, yes, before my aunt sends out an army regiment to haul us back. Pleased to partake of your company, sir, as always.” Cynthia bowed, manlike, to Mr. Fielding, who bowed in return, ever fascinated by her.
Mr. Fielding guided us back to the gate and out into South Audley Street. There he took his leave, with more bowing and handshaking and lifting of his hat—he was back to being the unctuous clergyman. He headed south to Curzon Street and wherever was his next destination.
“One never knows what that fellow will say,” Cynthia observed as we strolled together toward Mount Street.
“He had my aunt riveted with his tales of missionaries in Polynesia, and she even promised a good sum of money for him to send to them. Uncle will put a stop to that, I will hazard. He believes missionaries are interfering meddlers descending upon people who’ve lived happily for thousands of years, to claim they’ve been doing everything wrong. ”
Mr. Bywater was a pragmatic man, unswayed by emotions or impassioned speeches. I believed Cynthia when she speculated that Mrs. Bywater’s money would stay at home.
I had to wonder, given Mr. Fielding’s character, whether he’d truly intended the donation to go to the missionaries. He was a conniving trickster, but he could then turn around and be incredibly generous. Hence his care of the six children thrust upon him.
Cynthia accompanied me to the kitchen, where Tess and Elsie regarded us in curiosity, clearly hoping we’d tell them what had transpired. I disappointed them by setting them both on tasks for supper’s preparations.
Mr. Davis marched in with two bottles of wine, plunked them on the dresser without looking at me, and walked out again. I’d had to request them via Mrs. Redfern, because Mr. Davis had shut himself into his pantry and wouldn’t respond to my knocking.
“Whatever is the matter with Davis?” Cynthia said when he’d gone. “He’s been cross as an old bear for the past couple of days. Is he ill?”
I could not explain in front of Elsie, who did not yet know that I’d gotten myself engaged to Daniel. I uncorked the red Bordeaux and trickled it into a decanter to keep its sediment from getting into my dishes.
“He does not approve of my choices,” I said to Cynthia once Elsie began sloshing water in her sink. “He is not ill, but vexed.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “I see. So he knows, then?”
“Found out rather abruptly.” I finished decanting the wine and set the bottle aside.
I could see Cynthia was curious but also that she realized she could not ask for details with maids and footmen running into and out of the kitchen. “Would you like me to speak to him?”
I quickly shook my head. “Please do not. He’ll come around.”
“I would not be too certain. My sister once tried to change the wine merchant Davis had worked with for years, and he wouldn’t speak to the family for several months.
It was unnerving to watch him move about the dining room in complete silence, his nose in the air.
He didn’t thaw until Rankin ordered my sister to relent. ”
I quailed at the thought of Mr. Davis furious with me for that long, but I could hardly break my engagement to please him.
“We will come to an understanding,” I said. “In the meantime, would you take a message to Miss Townsend for me? Please tell her about Betty and her aspirations to the stage. Miss Townsend might be able to steer her along a safe path in that arena.”
Cynthia nodded. “Judith does know everyone in the world of arts and theatre. I believe I will pay her a visit this evening. I can’t stomach the thought of sitting through supper, with Auntie going on about the missionaries dear Mr. Fielding wants to support and Uncle tut-tutting every other sentence. ”
She flashed me a smile, then bid me farewell, hurrying out of the kitchen with a light step.
I envied her spending an evening in the elegant house of the equally elegant Miss Townsend. However, I’d hardly fit in with Miss Townsend’s friends, who consumed brandy and cigars and spoke about artists and poets I’d never heard of. Miss Townsend’s circle was decidedly modern.
What I truly would prefer was an evening with Grace, listening to her rattle on about her day while we took supper I’d cooked for just the two of us. I yearned for that so much, it hurt.
Not long from now, she’d be even farther from me, the two of us separated by a gulf of woods and hills that might as well be the oceans between England and Polynesia.
I resolutely pushed these thoughts aside and concentrated on supper and what I’d prepare for Sunday dinner tomorrow.
The markets now carried an abundance of produce—fat potatoes of all colors, apples sweet and tart, figs, damsons—plumlike fruit—and plums themselves, plus red grapes as big as my thumb, juicy and delicious.
I would fill the house with tarts and cakes and make the grapes and damsons into jams that would last all year.
I tried to turn my thoughts entirely to baking as I rubbed butter into flour to begin more tart doughs. I would absolutely not think about Grace leaving London or Daniel trying to creep into the East End and disturb every wasp in their nests there.
I made several different kinds of doughs, from sweet with castor sugar and plenty of butter to savory tart crusts with a minimum of sugar and a pinch of salt. The sweets I divided for plum tarts, apple tarts with fresh walnuts, and one with figs, nutmeg, and raisins.
I chopped up leftover pork and lamb, made sauces from drippings plus wine, and laid them into the savory crusts to bake as meat pies.
Mr. Bywater would rub his hands with glee when I sent them up next week, even if Mrs. Bywater had declared she did not like them.
Mr. Davis always reported she’d eat every bite, however.
Tess was not happy with my overabundance of energy in the kitchen, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
She’d changed her days out to Sundays, as that was when her beau, Constable Caleb Greene, now had time off, though he had precious little of it for Tess.
He’d been promoted to detective constable, and he couldn’t always count on even the Sabbath to remain free.
He also could not discuss his cases with Tess, which frustrated her.
Still, she set off happily enough to meet him on Sunday morning. I did not begrudge her the time, though Sunday was when I was at my busiest. Today she left with some relief as I shooed her away, and I returned to my obsessive cooking and baking.
Monday afternoon, I visited Grace, putting aside my worries to immerse myself in her. Daniel did not come, which meant both that I did not have to explain that I’d recruited Mr. Fielding to help and that I had to worry whether he’d been taken captive by Mr. Naismith in the East End.
James relieved my mind on the latter point, when he told me that evening that Daniel had doubled the number of deliveries he and James were making every day. Saving up, James said with a grin and a pointed look at me.
I did not forget my promise to Hannah to bring the down payment on rent for the stall. Grace shopped in the market Monday afternoon while I handed over my shillings to the gent who managed the stalls and signed the paper he presented to me.
My heart thumped hard when I’d done it. It would be another change in my life, whether good or ill remained to be seen.
On Wednesday morning, Mrs. Redfern brought in an envelope for me, saying it had arrived through the post via my agency. The redoubtable lady would never express curiosity, but a flicker in her eyes betrayed it.
I thanked her and took the letter, which bore the stamp of a post office in Whitechapel. As Whitechapel Road led into Shadwell, I was not mystified about who had sent it.
Once Mrs. Redfern had departed, I slit the envelope and withdrew the short letter.
I found her, it began.