Chapter 3 #3
Caroline watched the other woman out of the corner of her eye, noted how she swung the stove door open and poked the coals, how she trickled water onto the heavy iron pan and knew, by the way it hissed, that it was time to add the bacon.
And Caroline kneaded until her shoulders ached, which was no time at all, really, and wondered if she would survive life as a kitchen maid long enough to find Charlie.
At six thirty Rab arrived. He was dressed today in a purple calico shirt with little white flowers, which should have been overly feminine but somehow had the opposite effect.
“Smells wonderful, Viv,” he said, taking a clean plate from the stack beside the sink.
“Not hard to please you lot,” Mrs. Easton replied, scooping two eggs from the boiling water and placing them in china cups. “You’re happy as long as there’s meat on the menu. Toast’s in the oven.”
As Rab drew a rasher of bacon from the popping pan, Caroline’s stomach growled.
“Make Miss Huxley a plate, too,” Mrs. Easton said without looking up from the dough. She had taken the task back from Caroline, who, after witnessing her efforts, she had deemed competent enough to only slice and butter the bread. “And put the kettle on.”
Rab pulled two stools up to the worktable and gestured for Caroline to sit as he tucked into his breakfast. Caroline glanced at the plate beside him, then up at Mrs. Easton.
“You look as though a sneeze might knock you over,” the older woman said, intuiting her hesitation.
“You’d think there was no food to be found in the whole of the Midlands.
” When Caroline still did not sit, her expression softened.
“I already had my breakfast. And we have a long day ahead. Eat up, Miss Huxley.”
Caroline lifted her fork. It was silver, she could tell by the weight, the handle gracefully curved, wrought with twisting leaves and flowers.
And her plate was fine bone china with a neat blue stripe rimming its edge.
She remembered her glimpse of the parlor last night, the strange artifacts on the walls, the velvet chairs and mismatched men. What was this place?
“The guests will eat breakfast in thirty minutes,” Mrs. Easton said, as Caroline took her first bite.
The eggs were soft and yellow as summer sunshine, salty butter melted halfway through the slice of spongy bread.
She was surprised by her hunger. But her appetite was nothing compared to Rab’s.
Lord Foster’s hunting dogs ate with more decorum.
“I’ll handle service,” the landlady continued.
“You get started on the dishes. Yesterday’s soup for lunch, so not much work there.
You’ll start with shining the silver, then empty all the chamber pots and change the sheets in rooms 101, 103, 203, and 204.
When you’re done, come back down here to help me with supper.
Steak and kidney pie, green beans, and mash.
Trifle for dessert.” She patted at her forehead with a kerchief.
“It’s hot as Hades down here, is it not?
Lord help me, why am I baking a pie? I should scrap it and serve salmorejo. But Mr. Tythe does so loathe tomatoes.”
Rab shoved his stool back with a squeal. “I’m off,” he said, swiping a napkin over his mouth and depositing it beside his empty plate. Caroline stared at him. She had just swallowed her first bite. “Thanks for breakfast, Viv.”
“Don’t forget your sandwich,” Mrs. Easton called. Rab took the wax paper package from the table beside her and planted a quick kiss on the landlady’s cheek.
Caroline blinked. The display of affection had almost been like that between a mother and son. But his name was Ripley, hers Easton. And clearly, the two shared no blood.
“Where does he work?” she asked, when Rab’s footsteps had faded overhead.
“At a chemist’s down on Brick Lane,” Mrs. Easton replied, the glow of pride clear in her voice.
“The owner is a greedy fellow, but Rab’s much better than he, and he knows it.
Lets him run the shop, these days.” She placed the final, perfect dinner roll beside its brethren.
“You’d never known it, had you seen him as a child.
What trouble he gave me! Dropped on my doorstep in a Moses basket.
Screamed like a banshee for the first three months.
And then, St. Mathew’s! I can’t tell you how many times the headmaster called me in, threatened to expel him if he left one more toad in some poor professor’s desk.
” She smiled fondly at the point where Rab had disappeared at the top of the stairs. “But look at him now.”
The bread turned to glue in Caroline’s mouth.
“St. Mathew’s?” she repeated.
The gray-stoned school that sounded more like a prison, where Charlie had spent ten long years.
The only bit of his life in London she’d known something about.
The stories of mischief, of beatings, of the nameless, faceless boys who had climbed the walls, captured hedgehogs in the gardens, set garter snakes loose in the middle of Sunday service.
“That’s right. It’s not the finest school in the city, mind, not like St. Paul’s, or Christ’s Hospital. Lord knows the strings I had to pull to get him accepted. But still. He got an education, I can say that…”
The boys from the stories congealed into one face. One name.
Rab.