Kitty answered the door. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“Hi, Kitty, I’m here to see Lydia. Is she around?” I inquired.
“Come in.” She stepped aside, and I entered the Bennets’ home.
“Where is everyone?”
“Mom and Mary are at church, and Jane and Lizzy are running the shop.”
The Bennets had added extra hours lately to their shop. I realized now it was an attempt to bring in more money due to trying to make ends meet.
“And Lydia?” I asked.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Kitty motioned toward the door on the far side of the room. “She’s stress baking.”
“Does she do that often?”
Kitty moved her head from side to side. “Only when someone she cares about has gotten to her.” She gave me a meaningful but not very welcoming glance.
My stomach twisted at her words. “I see.”
She opened the door and peered inside. Then she turned to face me. “The only way to speak with her is to go in and see what happens.”
I swallowed. Face my fate. That was what it felt like. As if I were facing my judge and executioner all at once.
I managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Kitty.”
I remained outside for a few more seconds, working up the courage to go in. Finally, I forced my shoulders to relax and pushed my way through the door.
Lydia was in the middle of the kitchen, hair up in a messy bun and flour covering her from head to toe. Her movements were quick and jerky. She held a mixing bowl in her arms as she gazed too long at a recipe that—it was clear from the many bundt cakes sitting on the counters—she’d done over and over.
I took a step forward. “Lydia.”
She glanced up at me, something close to dread flickering in her gaze, but then turned away and shook her head. “I have to finish this order of bundt cakes for Ms. Bates. She kept talking about how she wanted to send one to Jane Fairfax.”
I looked at the stack of bundt cakes on the counter. “How big is the order?”
“She wants five, but those don’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because I put salt in for sugar and sugar in for salt. So now I have to start over.” She wiped flour-covered hands on her flour-covered apron.
I stepped up to the counter. “Mind if I help?”
“I don’t know. I can’t afford any more mess-ups.”
Did she think I was included in her mess-ups? Probably. Carefully, I eased the bowl from her grasp and moved next to her and began whisking the ingredients. “I’m a skilled baker. I did win the Annual Autumn Bake-Off, remember?”
“That’s right, you did. I’d forgotten.” She watched as I grabbed a second bowl and put in the softened butter and sugar, then grabbed the beater sitting out on the counter and mixed it on low. “How did you get so good at this?” she asked when I set the beater aside after getting it the proper texture.
We were alone. I couldn’t hear or smell anyone else nearby, so I chose to be open with her. She deserved that much, and more. “Those of my kind meet together weekly and bake human food. As a way of ensuring we fit in and all that.”
“The Midnight Kitchen Society?” she said, as if it was just dawning on her.
“That’s us.”
She reached toward the battered bundt cake. “Here, I need to—”
