A Murder in Time(33)
Why didn’t that surprise her? Because she could offer no other explanation—how do you explain the unexplainable?—Kendra remained silent, staring at the housekeeper.
Mrs. Danbury studied the young woman who met her eyes so brazenly. If it had been her decision, she would have sent the bold creature packing—without references. But earlier, Mr. Kimble had knocked on her door with orders from the Duke himself that Kendra Donovan was to stay. It was galling, simply galling.
“Miss Donovan, I do not believe you. Moreover, I do not trust you.” Noticing the grains of sand across the desk, she swept her hands over its surface, clearing away the letter-making debris. “I shall, however, give you a temporary reprieve. As it so happens, we do have two ladies staying with us who could use your assistance. Miss Georgette Knox and Miss Sarah Rawdon. You will attend breakfast, and then see to your duties.”
Relief loosened the tight knot of fear inside her chest. Whatever was happening, Kendra knew that she couldn’t leave the castle. This was ground zero. “Thank you, Mrs. Danbury.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “I shall be watching you, Miss Donovan,” she warned. “That will be all.”
Dismissed, Kendra moved out into the hall. There she paused and pressed a hand to her stomach. Her present emotional state appeared to be swinging between incredulity and full-on fear. She straightened when she heard someone coming: a young maid, no more than nine, carrying a bucket. The little girl gave her a curious look as she passed.
Composing herself, Kendra made her way to the kitchen. The room was much larger than the dining area, with high ceilings and high windows that allowed natural light to flood in. A chandelier, its tapers unlit, hung from the center of the ceiling on chains as thick as a man’s wrist. Below the windows, long shelves carried the gleam of pots and the soft sheen of cookware.
It reminded Kendra of a hotel kitchen, albeit one placed squarely in what she understood to be the early nineteenth century, with at least a dozen helpers busy in several workstations. There were two fireplaces, both lit, the flames heating the blackened bottoms of bronze cauldrons hanging within. A monstrosity—a black cast iron range—took up a good portion of the other wall. An iron grid above the stove dangled with copper pots, big and small, and an assortment of utensils. A small, dark-haired man wearing a chef’s hat was stirring two large pots simultaneously, muttering angrily in French. From the snippet she overheard, Kendra ascertained that the changes in the menu had not, as Rose predicted, gone over well.
Kendra spotted Rose at one of the tables, peeling, coring, and chopping apples. Moving in her direction, she caught the scent of sizzling meat steeped in savory spices. Overlaying that was the strong yeasty smell of baking bread. Kendra realized suddenly that she was hungry. Could you be hungry in a delusion?
The paring knife Rose held flashed as she sliced fruit into a bowl. The last slice, however, she popped into her mouth, which drew a snort from the woman next to her, who was pummeling a shapeless blob of dough roughly the size of a deflated basketball.
“Wicked girl—ye’ve eaten at least two apple pies by yer thievery,” the woman admonished, wagging a finger dusted with flour.
Rose giggled, apparently unconcerned with the woman’s reprimand. Spotting Kendra, she smiled. “Miss—over ’ere! Cook, this ’ere is Miss Donovan. She’s sharing me room now. She’s a lady’s maid.”
“Ah. Ye’re one of the temporary lasses hired for Lady Atwood’s party, then?”
Kendra judged the woman to be around Mrs. Danbury’s age, but, thankfully, she did not seem to share the housekeeper’s disposition. She was short, with a comfortable figure that filled out her pale blue dress and white apron. Her face was round and pleasant, with pale wisps of light brown hair escaping the mop cap she wore. The dark blue eyes took Kendra’s measure, but without any animosity.
“Yes. Please call me Kendra.”
The woman’s lips curved into a smile as she continued to shape the dough. “Me name is Mrs. Acker, but everyone calls me Cook. Who will ye be looking after then?”
“Um . . . Georgette Knox and Sarah Rawdon.” Kendra wondered if she could ask for a cup of coffee. Preferably one strong enough to wake her from this nightmare.
“Ye’d best have yer breakfast then,” Cook said. “The ladies will be wantin’ their chocolate and tea soon, I expect.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Rose intercepted her glance, and shook her head. “Not ’ere, Miss. You’re to ’ave your breakfast in the upper staff dining room.”
“What about you?” asked Kendra.
One of the other girls nearby giggled. “Ooh, la, Miss Rose. Shall I serve ye tea?”
“’Tis the upper staff dining room for upper staff. I’m a tweeny.”
It was protocol, Kendra realized. She understood the need for protocol, for procedures and practices. Hell, she was an FBI agent. You couldn’t get through the FBI without understanding protocol. But why would her mind separate the upper staff from the lower staff servants? It was crazy.
She was crazy. Or she wasn’t. And for just a moment, Kendra didn’t know which terrified her more.
The dining room was already crowded with people of varying ages. Mrs. Danbury stood ramrod straight near the head of the table, next to an older man who appeared almost as stiff as the housekeeper.