A Murder in Time(41)

“It is quite clear that you are not suited to be a lady’s maid,” the housekeeper went on coldly. “Miss Sarah and Miss Georgette have already voiced their complaints to Lady Atwood, who, of course, brought those complaints to my attention.” Though Kendra didn’t know it, Lady Atwood had also ordered Mrs. Danbury to send her away, and though Mrs. Danbury had fully expected to comply with the countess’ orders, there was also the matter now of Miss Donovan having taken tea with the Duke of Aldridge. While she didn’t know what was going on between the Duke and the American, it was painfully obvious that she must bide her time before dismissing the creature.

“You are not a lady’s maid, Miss Donovan.”

“I—”

Mrs. Danbury’s hand shot up in warning. “I’m not finished. You are not a lady’s maid. You will join the lower staff.”

“I’m not, er, discharged?”

“Did I say you were?” the housekeeper countered testily. She hesitated, appearing a little nonplussed by her own anger. Mrs. Danbury, Kendra suspected, did not lose control often. Or ever. “Your duties will now be that of a downstairs maid,” she began again. She folded her hands, surveying the young woman coldly. “You will be given a morning and an afternoon uniform to do your duties. Naturally, the cost will be deducted from your wages, which will be adjusted according to your new position.

“You will,” she continued briskly, “change immediately. Lady Atwood has requested a nuncheon to be served alfresco by the lake. Your services will be required for this endeavor. Rose will help you find more appropriate attire.”

Slowly, Kendra stood.

“Miss Donovan? Like a lady’s maid, there are standards of behavior which are expected of a downstairs maid. You will not tell your betters to . . . to shut up. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You will not speak to your betters unless they ask you a specific question. You will, in fact, blend into the background. A good servant, the perfect servant, is not noticed. Is that understood?”

“Yes. I promise no one will even know I’m there.”

Kendra didn’t dare smile, but she left lighter, as though a burden had lifted. Helping serve a meal outside didn’t sound too bad. Much better than being a lady’s maid. Maybe things were looking up.

She never dreamed her promise would be broken just as quickly as it had been given.





11

The heat struck Kendra like a punch to the face when she returned to the kitchen. In the short time that she’d been gone, the temperature had shot up at least ten degrees, along with the noise.

For just a second, she leaned against the doorjamb and watched the maids and footmen race around the kitchen. She could smell the savory odor of roasting meat and garlic mingled with the odd smell of burning feathers. The latter she traced back to one of the workstations, where two maids were busy plucking and burning the feathers off of beheaded pheasants that were stacked on the counter like gruesome cordwood.

Monsieur Anton was almost maniacal as he hopped between the stove, fireplaces, and counters, issuing orders in a mixture of French and broken English as he stirred, seasoned, and tasted whatever was simmering in the kettles and cauldrons.

This is real. It’s not possible but it’s real.

Aware that she was beginning to draw attention, Kendra straightened and crossed the room to where Rose was standing on her tiptoes, reaching for a large serving bowl.

“Mrs. Danbury told me to join the lower staff.”

Rose set the bowl on the cupboard with a clatter, spinning around to stare at her in dismay. “Oh, miss—no! W’ot ’appened?”

“What? Oh. Nothing.” It took Kendra a moment to realize how that might sound to Rose. From lady’s maid to the lower staff. It probably looked like a demotion. Hell, it was a demotion—her first ever.

“Are you all right?” Rose’s brown eyes brimmed with sympathy.

“I’m fine.” At least, she was fine about her change of employment status here in the nineteenth century. She just wasn’t fine about being in the nineteenth century. She forced a smile when Rose still looked worried. “Honestly. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“If you say so, miss.” Clearly the maid didn’t believe her.

“Mrs. Danbury told me to help with lunch, but apparently that requires a change in clothes.”

“Oh. Aye. Come along then.” Rose picked up the bowl, and brought it to another girl. “’Ere, Beth. Cook needs this for ’er tarts.”

Following Rose out of the kitchen, Kendra marveled again at the warren of rooms in the servants’ hall, and the vast number of employees. It was like a beehive: constant people, constant movement.

“How many work here at the castle, Rose?”

“Aldridge Castle’s one of the oldest an’ grandest ’ouseholds in these parts,” the maid said with unmistakable pride. “We ’ave round four thousand servants in and about the castle.”

“Four thousand?”

“Aye, miss. And that ain’t includin’ outside ’elp for the ’ouse party.”

“Good God.”

“’Ere we are.” Rose opened a door and entered a room that looked like a cross between an old-fashioned seamstress shop and a medieval laundry. On either side of the stone fireplace were walls lined with open cupboards containing neatly folded fabrics, spools of thread and trimmings. In the center of the room was a wooden counter with a thick blanket tossed over it, and a dress laid over that. It was, Kendra realized, a primitive version of an ironing board. An older, heavyset woman was running an iron that looked like it weighed a ton across a brown dress, while the younger maid helped by keeping the material smooth.