Chapter 3
Friday
Hatton Garden, London
Clara stopped in front of the townhouse and checked the address.
It was a sandstone structure, and one of three residences.
A servant’s entrance with stairs leading down to the kitchen, she assumed, was on the left of each home.
She pushed back her hood, smoothing back her hair tightly contained at the base of her neck, and checked that her mob cap was in place.
Then she picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps before she lost her nerve.
As she knocked on the door, Clara sent a prayer up to her mother. “Cross your fingers for me, Ma.”
A young girl, thirteen at most, answered the door. She gave Clara a friendly smile, her blond curls spilling from her mob cap. “May I ‘elp ye?”
“I’m to interview for the position of cook,” she told the girl. “Is Mrs. Johnson about?”
Henri had told her a housekeeper and butler had already been hired to ready the house for Comte du Aveculót’s arrival. “Yer young fer a cook, ain’t ye? My name’s Sally.” The girl stepped back and let Clara into the small entry of the kitchen.
Clara shrugged. “I’m not sure how old a cook should be?”
Sally giggled. “I s’pose I thought ye’d be as old as Mrs. Johnson.”
“And how old is that?”
Both girls jumped and turned to find a short, plump woman with fading auburn hair and sharp blue eyes. “Don’t you have chores to do, miss? Or should I add some to your list?”
Sally shook her head, mumbling “No, ma’am,” and ran toward the back of the kitchen.
Mrs. Johnson stared at Clara, who began fidgeting with the clasp on her mantle. “I am here to interview for the position of cook.”
The housekeeper arched a brow. “Are you, now?” She spied Clara’s small satchel. “I assume you have references?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s go to my office, and we’ll have a look.” The woman turned and left the kitchen, Clara hurrying behind her.
They went into a narrow hall with several doors, all closed. Mrs. Johnson stopped before one and opened it. “This is my domain, so to speak. The room next to this is my bedchamber, and the cook’s quarters are across from that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Intimidated by the older woman, Clara kept her eyes downcast, not wanting to appear as if she were gawking at the woman’s personal items.
“The door directly across the hall from my office is the butler’s pantry. I believe Mr. Smalley would skin anyone trying to enter that room without an invitation. His bedchamber, and the sleeping quarters for the male staff is on the other end, along with the servants’ hall.”
Clara took a wooden straight-back chair at the large table on one end of the room, her shoulders back and legs crossed at the ankles. She gripped the satchel so tightly, her fingernails left marks.
Don’t be nervous and hold your head high. You are a steal at the wages being offered. Henri’s words came back to her. She took a deep breath and turned to the housekeeper with a smile, handing her the reference from Henri.
“I realize I am young, but I have been working with—”
“Lord and Lady Gosset.” She nodded, her eyes darting down the paper. “I know Chef Henri, very talented. My old employer tried to lure him away but never succeeded.”
“He has been very generous to train me,” added Clara.
“Will you need board or do you prefer to be a day worker? The new owner of the townhouse will be renting it out each year for the Season, so if your performance is satisfactory, this could be a full-time position. The wage is a bit higher if you don’t require board and will, of course, increase during the Season.
How much depends on the present occupants.
Comte du Aveculót does not seem willing to pay much more, considering his requirement for French training.
” She glanced up from the reference. “Do you have anything else to show me?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have a collection of my recipes.” Clara handed over the leather-bound book, a gift from Henri. “I am always adding to it.”
Mrs. Johnson flipped the pages, pausing here and there. When she looked up and smiled at Clara, the housekeeper’s entire face changed. The woman went from severe to warm and approachable.
“I will work hard, Mrs. Johnson, and take any and all advice you have to offer.” Clara bit her lips, wondering if she was too forward. “Since I live with my father, I will not require a room.”
The housekeeper tilted her head, studying Clara. “This could be a nice stepping stone for you, Miss Alberts. As far as advice, you’ll be in charge of the kitchen, not me. I will guide you in the ways of running a household—as it pertains to the position of cook—but you will lead your own brigade.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara’s stomach knotted, not knowing if this was leading to a yes or a no.
“I will consult the comte on menus, and you will be in charge of the rest. You will be provided with one assistant, who I will be interviewing tomorrow. If you want to attend and share your opinion with me, that would be satisfactory.”
Clara’s breath caught. She had the position? “Are you saying…”
“Yes, you are hired, Miss Alberts. Beginning tomorrow, you will be introduced as Mrs. Alberts, befitting your position.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She beamed at the woman who was helping to fulfill her dream. “When would you like me to start?”
“The comte is arriving in less than two weeks. I have most of the staff hired except for your assistant. You’ve already met Sally, the scullery maid.
” She tapped her finger against her mouth.
“Could you begin tomorrow? We’ll discuss your day off then.
Half a dozen of us will be staying here as of tomorrow, and all of us will need to be fed.
It will also give you a chance to familiarize yourself with your surroundings, and Mr. Smalley and I will be able to test your skills. ”
Clara almost curtsied before she caught herself and shook Mrs. Johnson’s hand, thanking her profusely.
Once outside, she skipped across the street, waving cheerfully at the driver of a wagon cursing her for almost getting hit.
She left Hatton Garden, hurrying through Camden to tell Henri the good news.
***
Saturday
Covent Garden
Elijah whistled a jaunty tune as he made his way toward Bow Street to report to his superior and see what had been added to the Criminal Register since yesterday.
His head was filled with images of a little shop, the canvases and easels stacked along the wall, leather satchels to carry the sketchpads, pencils, and brushes.
But it was the paint pots that whirred his imagination.
He loved color, how a painting could tell a story with vivid tones, some bold and bright, some dark and shaded, all evoking an emotional journey through the artist’s hand.
The costermongers of Covent Garden were out, yelling their wares to the passersby.
A small girl in a worn skirt and wool shawl too big for her, called to him, “Chestnuts, a penny a score.” Elijah’s stomach growled as he passed.
Another older woman, bundled in a coat and great scarf around her head and neck, cried in a singsong voice, “Ho! Ho! Hi-i-i. Here's your turnips.”
Eli needed to place an order with the butcher on his way home. His grandmother usually took care of the shopping, but she wasn’t ready to venture out yet. As his mind wandered, his eyes scanned the crowded lanes and alleys of Covent Garden, looking for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary.
He was one part of the day patrol, and this area was always rife with mischief.
Eli wore his dark-blue short greatcoat and beaver top hat.
His weapons included a short cutlass, a tipstaff or trudgeon, with a crown at the end of the hard wooden stick to represent his badge of authority, along with a set of William Lacey pistols.
At night, when the more dangerous criminals were active, the patrols wore plain clothes and moved in groups of five or more.
If Elijah were to stay on with the patrol, he might move up to such a position.
Bringing in thieves and other miscreants could be lucrative if convicted, but he didn’t have the temperament of his brothers.
Harry, Gus, and Clayton were hardened souls who loved the thrill of the chase and the excitement of danger.
They had done well during their time as Runners.
Elijah was an excellent marksman, could fight with his fists as well as his pistol or sword, but his heart wasn’t in it.
He did his duty, paid his homage to Paddy, and bided his time.
But his sketching provided another way to assist the O’Brien Investigative Service, and he would always be available to help the Peelers and Bow Street in that way.
“Norton,” called a voice from across the street.
He peered at the front of the Brown Bear, a tavern where its cellar often held those who were waiting to be heard in court.
Conveniently located directly across from 4 Bow Street, it was also a gathering place for the constables, Runners, and magistrates.
George Ruthven, wearing his signature yellow waistcoat, hailed him. Eli smiled and waved back, making his way across the crowded street and dodging between a wagon and a carriage. “Good day, sir,” he called to his superior.
“Norton, come and sit with me. I have a case for you,” said Ruthven. He was a powerfully built man with sandy hair and small eyes set in a red face. A brilliant investigator, he had been instrumental in breaking the Cato Conspiracy against the Crown the previous year.
The tavern was dark, smoky, and crowded even in the morning. The food was reasonably good and cheap, and the ale wasn’t watered down. Any criminals kept below wouldn’t think of escaping with the clientele above them. Eli followed Ruthven to a corner and eased into a chair.
“How’s Walters?” Ruthven asked as he leaned back and signaled to the barmaid. “Did he finally get caught in the parson’s trap?”