Chapter 6
A week later, Sunday
Hatton Garden
Clara pulled out the heavy iron pot with both hands, the heat soaking through the heavy cloth protecting her skin.
The scent of roasted meat and juices floating to her nose filled her with pride.
She had made five of the recipes so far, and the staff had given her nothing but praise.
Pleasing her own kind was far different from impressing the sophisticated palates of the ton.
Today, the comte arrived, and there was still so much to do.
It had taken the first few days to stock the kitchen with the staples needed every day: flour, sugar, salt, and spices.
They had been notified that the Comte du Aveculót’s sister would be accompanying him. He requested a cold supper ready with freshly made bread, Stilton cheese, sliced beef with no fat, and a bottle of red wine.
“Can’t accuse the man of being vague,” said Mrs. Johnson.
“He’s testing my knowledge with the wine,” said Mr. Smalley, leaning his tall, thin frame over the housekeeper’s shoulder as she read the post. “He shall find my choice to his satisfaction.”
“Is it always so nerve-racing when the lord arrives?” asked Clara. Is this what Henri went through? No, she couldn’t imagine anything ruffling the Frenchman’s feathers.
“Only when we’ve never met. His lordship could be kind, indifferent, or cruel. We won’t know until he’s situated,” said Mrs. Johnson in a matter-of-fact tone. “If I don’t like him, I will find another position.”
Clara had learned the housekeeper’s last employer died at the age of two and eighty. Mrs. Johnson decided this position would be easier—fewer megrims—running a partial household for half the year without a lord or lady in residence. I’m not getting any younger, she said often with a rueful smile.
There were boiled potatoes and artichoke thistle, a custard with lemon curd, and the blue and white Stilton cheese.
Everyone worked hard, making sure the townhouse was spotless, the silver gleaming, and the food mouthwatering.
The fires would be lit soon in the dining room, drawing room, and two bedchambers.
Clara’s stomach was in a knot of excitement.
Mrs. Johnson had informed her that when there were guests for dinner, she might be invited to the dining room and praised for her service.
Clara was petrified she might be summoned, but it would be worse if she wasn’t called because her cooking was considered bland.
She thought of Mr. Norton, who had met her daily at seven since their meeting and walked her home.
A pretty lady shouldn’t be walking alone at night, he said each evening as she walked up the steps to meet him.
Clara was growing used to his handsome face, deep voice, and sense of humor.
He liked riddles and enjoyed teasing her. She enjoyed being teased by him.
Hanging her apron, she donned her cloak and bounded up the stairs.
“Slow down. What has you so excited?” asked Mr. Norton as she took his arm with one hand, the meal for her father in the other.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she answered truthfully, swinging her small box tied with string.
His smile assured her she wasn’t being too forward. “Can I carry that for you?” he asked, holding out his arm at the same time. “So, what does a French count look like?”
She handed him the box. “He hasn’t arrived yet, so I won’t be able to tell you until tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
She bumped him with her shoulder to show him she knew he was teasing. “Did you arrest anyone today?”
He shook his head. “I did catch a little urchin taking nuts from a vendor. But I retrieved half the stolen property and let him go.”
“Why only half?”
“He was so thin. I let him eat half, then gave him a shilling, and sent him on his way.”
She gave him a side-glance. His blond hair shone like gold under the street lamp, and his profile now haunted her dreams. They were learning more about each other with each walk, but he hadn’t kissed her yet.
Clara had to admit that, while she was disappointed, she was also happy that he was pursuing a slow courtship.
Perhaps it boded well for their future? For Clara truly hoped they had a future.
“My grandmother asked what has put such a gleam in my eye,” he said as they took their usual route. “I told her about you.”
Her heart leapt. “What did you say?”
“I explained how we met, how my heart was lost the instant I saved your life.”
Clara’s head jerked up at the last part, and she saw him chuckling. She punched his arm, realizing he was teasing. “I heard you paid the driver to come galloping down the street so you could play the hero.”
His hand, and Pa’s lunch, went to his heart. “You wound me, my lady.”
When they reached Houghton Street, she slowed.
Peering down the alley, she saw the window in their kitchen was dark.
“Would you mind waiting until I have a lamp lit?” Clara wasn’t afraid of the dark, but her father had been acting odd recently.
Always anxious, fidgety, as if something made him nervous or weighed on his mind.
“Is your father often away in the evening?” asked Mr. Norton, his hand absently patting the tipstaff under his greatcoat.
“He’s been working more hours lately. His deliveries take longer and longer.” Clara had hoped he would relax a bit with her new position bringing in money. Something was bothering him, but he refused to admit it whenever she asked.
Mr. Norton frowned. “Deliveries at night?”
She nodded and let herself in, fumbling in the basket by the door.
Once the lamp was lit, the cozy room came into view.
Clara busied herself with building a fire before she took off her coat.
It was freezing in the small apartment, and her hand shook as she scooped some coal from the bin to the small stove.
A hand covered hers. “Let me do this for you. Sit,” said Mr. Norton. He deftly added kindling and took the flint box from a narrow shelf on the wall, next to a portrait. “Your mother?”
Clara nodded. It seemed so natural to have this handsome man helping her in such a domestic way.
“She’s a prime article,” he said, his back to her. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
A small blaze flared, then settled beneath the coals. He stood, turning to her. “I’d offer to stay, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. I could wait outside for a bit if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’m fine now that there’s light and a fire started.”
“Well, then I suppose I’ll be on my way.” He hesitated, staring down at her. Clara noted the gold flecks in the greenish-brown of his eyes. Never quite the same color, she thought.
Mr. Norton replaced his top hat, and she followed him to the door.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Say yes, say yes, say yes.
Each evening replayed the same. He met her in Hatton Garden, walked her home, she asked the same question, and he gave the same answer.
Yet each evening, she held her breath when she queried him, dreading a different answer.
“I would be honored to escort you home tomorrow night. When is your day off?” he asked, a crooked and oh-so-endearing smile on his face.
“Thursday and Sunday afternoons beginning this week.” The disappointment prickled when he only nodded without asking to see her either day.
Clara took off her cloak and hung it up, her fingers trailing the empty peg where her father’s coat should be.
Trepidation skittered down her spine. Pa had been acting strangely—nervous, muttering to himself, distracted—and he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong.
He avoided the blue ruin, never partook in whisky, only drinking ale. Gambling? Maybe.
It could be nothing or something innocent. A new lady friend? That would explain the distraction and possibly his unease. But a romance would make him happy rather than jumpy.
Clara sat down before the fire, rocking herself to sleep as she waited for her father. She woke to shouting.
“Ruby!” A hoarse call from the other side of the door.
Rushing to the door, she threw up the latch to find Mr. Mason holding up her father. “We’ve ‘ad a li’l ruckus, miss,” he said, half-carrying Pa inside and depositing him in his chair by the stove.
Clara gasped. Both men had blood smeared on their faces and hands. Her father’s left eye was swollen shut, his bottom lip cracked and bleeding, along with a cut on his right cheek. His knuckles were also scraped up and bloody. She took off Pa’s cap and pulled off the fingerless gloves.
“What happened?” she asked his coworker as her father’s head fell back against the soft material covering the straight back. Both eyes were closed now, and his breathing was shallow.
“We… we were set upon by footpads.” He ducked his head as he took off his own cap, showing a gash in his dark hair.
“During a delivery?” she asked, moving into efficiency mode, pouring water into a bowl, and fetching some towels. “Sit.”
Mr. Mason promptly obeyed, and she dipped one rag into the basin and applied it to his bleeding scalp. “Hold this while I tend to Pa.”
“Delivery?” he asked.
“Did the ruffians get the wagon or did you save the goods?” she asked again, frowning at the man.
Her father moaned, redirecting her attention. Clara wiped his injuries and settled a cold cloth on his swollen eye. Mr. Mason rose, put his cap on, and nodded to her. “I need to be away, miss. Take care.”
Before she could object, he was gone, the door slamming in his wake. By the time she helped her father to his bed, she was exhausted. Her mind was a tempest as she wondered at Mr. Mason’s surprise at the term “deliveries.” What was Pa up to?
***
The morning came too quickly. Clara was surprised to find her father awake and sitting at the table. “How are you feeling?” she asked, pulling on her boots and making quick work of the laces.
“Ruby, luv,” he began.