20
The Old Bull Inn was quite a different place on a Saturday morning than on a Saturday night. Thankfully. Eva was harried enough without having to elbow past patrons, and this early in the day it smelled of freshly washed tables instead of spilled ale. She shifted on the chair, a yawn stretching her jaw, her backside cramped from sitting there the past fifteen minutes. After ten full days of scrambling to pull together a fundraiser worthy of inspiring generous donations, she was weary to the bone.
And dwelling on her money matters didn’t help. Though she pestered Bram daily, there was still no answer on the sale of the relics they’d brought to Cambridge. She’d even suggested they bring another load, this time to the Fitzwilliam Museum instead of the college. He’d been too preoccupied with the dig, though, almost in a frenzy to uncover some proof of Caelum Academia—and she didn’t blame him, especially since his job might depend upon it.
The kitchen door swung open and out stepped Miss Thompson, the Old Bull Inn’s head cook and begrudging miracle worker. Her flour-dusted apron left a sprinkling of white on the floorboards as she strode like a burly stevedore ready toheft a mountain of crates. Truly, with the size of the woman’s biceps and meaty jowls, she looked more suited to a dockyard than a kitchen. Eva would have much preferred to have hired the tried-and-tested Mrs. Havery over at the Coach and Horses Inn, but she had already booked a private dinner for the same night as the gala.
Eva rose. “Thank you for meeting with me, Miss Thompson. Being that it is only a week away from the relief society’s gala, I wished to see how the menu is coming along and that everything on your end is running smoothly.”
“Humph.” The woman planted fists on her hips, her jaw moving as if she chewed on a tough old biscuit. “I’m not sure why ye think I have time for a silly meeting such as this, Miss Inman. I’ve a kitchen to run, ye know, one that’ll soon open for the lunch hour, so I’ll thank ye to be quick about it.”
“This should not take long. The gala is crucial for the society’s fundraising efforts, so I merely need to ensure everything is perfect.”
“Perfect? Ha!” She spit the word like a bitter almond, derision sharpening her tone. “Easy for ye to say, sittin’ in yer cozy parlour up in yer fancy house. Ye have no idea what it’s like tryin’ to make magic happen in a cramped kitchen with a staff who wouldn’t know a mushroom from a potato.”
Eva bit her lip to keep from smirking. If only the woman could see the buckets in the back half of the house catching water whenever it rained. “I am sure you suffer many trials, Miss Thompson, but if you would not mind keeping this to the menu? You are, after all, in a hurry.”
“Aye.” She finally dropped her fists. “About that menu of yers, I’ve made a bit of a change. A hearty tongue and ale soup should be just the thing for yer little”—she swirled a podgy finger in the air—“soiree.”
Eva pressed her hand against her belly. Just thinking aboutserving such a common meal made her ill. “But that is not what we discussed. I ordered chicken with a garlic-cream sauce.”
“And I landed a great bargain on tongue.” She folded her arms, her ample bosom nearly spilling out the top of her apron. “I should think ye’d be glad fer a savings. This is Royston, not Buckingham Palace.”
“Even so, Miss Thompson, I insist you remain with the chicken. I intend to impress the guests with an elegant experience, not a night out at the pub. No offense.”
A magnificent scowl etched deep lines into the fleshy part of Miss Thompson’s forehead, casting a shadow over her narrowed eyes. “Then I suppose ye’ll not want the croquembouche swapped out for spotted dick either.”
Eva choked, immediately turning the horrified sound into a polite cough. “No. As I said, please stick to the dishes we agreed upon. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Fine, Miss Inman. Have it yer way. But mark my words, ye’ll be singing a different tune when the guests are clamoring for a taste o’ my tongue and ale. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I don’t have the luxury of standing around discussing lavish menus.” She turned on her heel, a huff puffing from her nostrils.
“I shall expect the food delivered by six o’clock next Saturday. Thank you, Miss Thompson.”
The woman waved her thick fingers in the air.
Eva frowned. Oh, that Mrs. Havery had not been booked!
But there was nothing to be done for it now. Gripping her reticule, Eva strolled down Market Hill toward Campbell and Sons Press. Halfway there, she paused in front of a window with a dazzling jade green evening gown for sale. Longing welled from her toes to her head. How lovely it would be to wear such a dream to the gala instead of the brown gown she’d worn two years previously.
Refusing to sigh, she marched the rest of the way toCampbell’s. She pushed open the door to a small office, the scent of ink and paper thick on the air.
“Good morning, Mr. Campbell.” She smiled as she approached the counter. “I am here to pick up the pamphlets for the fundraiser.”
A fellow as slender as the metal ruler sticking out of his apron pocket faced her, a smudge of ink near his upper lip vying for attention alongside a dark moustache. “Ah, good day to you, Miss Inman. I’ve got your order all ready. If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back in a moment.”
He opened a side door that let out the clack and hammer sounds of printing presses, then disappeared just as the front door opened and in bustled Mrs. Mortimer.
“Miss Inman!” The woman beamed as she approached, the cloying scent of violets a sickening cloud around her. “You have saved me a trip to your house.”
“Oh?” Eva retreated a step. A noble effort, but one that didn’t do much to lessen the flowery reek. “Did you wish to speak with me?”
“I do.” The reverend’s sister pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her brow. “I have found a suitable position for you.”
“I do not recall mentioning I was looking for one.” Indeed, she’d not even told Lottie she must find some sort of employment if she couldn’t pay the tax bill.
“No matter.” With a flourish, Mrs. Mortimer tucked the handkerchief into her pocket. “Mrs. Eleanor Pempernill of Pempernill Hall is looking for a traveling companion. The old dear wishes to go abroad, you see. Tuscany, I believe. I spoke to her of your many admirable qualities, so all you need do is apply to her by post.”
“Travel abroad?” Eva grabbed hold of the counter, shocked at the thought. “I could not possibly leave my sister. Surely you must know that.”
