“Just the usual murder and mayhem,” Jim called before he disappeared up the steps.
Murder and mayhem? Is he referring to The Gilded Pearl?
“Pay Jim no mind,” Mrs. Gates said, a reproving line between her brows. “If he spent half as much time on improving his skills as he did on idle chatter, he’d be a first footman by now.”
She turned to chastise a pair of chatting housemaids, who scurried off to do her bidding.
Seeing the cook’s arms tremble as she lifted a large saucepan from the stove, Harry strode over to assist. “Allow me, Mrs. Crabtree.”
She relinquished the heavy pan with a grateful smile. “Much obliged, Bennett.”
“My pleasure.” With her plump, pigeon-like figure and frizzled hair, the good lady reminded him a little of his own mama. He set the pan down on the worktable, next to a dish of baked eggs. “The cream sauce smells delicious.”
“It’s the tarragon.” Her eyes twinkled. “And the splash o’ sherry.”
“My mama made shirred eggs in the same fashion.”
“Do your kin live in London?”
He hesitated. “My parents passed some time ago.”
“I’m sorry to ’ear it.”
“Thank you.” Although his mama had died when he was twelve and his papa a decade after that, Harry still felt a pang when he thought of them. Marjorie and Samuel Kent had been a loving couple and devoted parents; sometimes, he wondered if he would ever experience the security and happiness of his early years again.
“It ain’t easy losing kin. I lost mine when I was a girl.” Mrs. Crabtree spooned the sauce carefully over the eggs. “If it weren’t for the master, I’d have ended up in the orphanage or worse.”
“Mr. Black took you in?” Harry couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“Owe ’im everything, I do. ’E provided for my care, saw that I got trained in a trade. And I ain’t the only one ’e’s ’elped. With the Corn Laws leaving folk starving in the streets, ’e funds the free kitchens o’ the parish churches and finds work for the men where ’e can. The government may not care ’bout the common people, but Bartholomew Black does.”
Her assertions astonished Harry.
“And contrary to Jim’s palavering, the master was busy this week looking after poor Miss Mavis—Mrs. Todd, I mean,” Mrs. Gates put in. “A more loving father I’ve never met.”
“Poor Mrs. Todd.” Mrs. Crabtree clucked her tongue. “She relies upon ’er papa during ’er spells. Lord knows she ’as no one else.”
The cook and housekeeper shared a knowing look.
Recalling his instructions to collect any information about Black and his family, Harry asked, “What about her husband?”
“That one.” Mrs. Crabtree snorted. “All ’e cares ’bout is filling ’is coffers. If Mr. Black weren’t there to keep ’im in line, ’e’d ne’er show ’is face around ’is own ’ouse.”
He filed the fact away. “And Miss Todd? Is she close to her parents?”
“Poor girl always looked up to her father, not that she saw much of him,” Mrs. Gates said. “She and her stepmama are fond of each other, but Mrs. Todd needs her peace and quiet.”
“Both of which are in scarce supply around Miss Todd,” he muttered.
Mrs. Crabtree chuckled, and Mrs. Gates looked as if she was fighting a smile.
“You’re faring better than most, Bennett.” Approval glinted in the housekeeper’s bespectacled gaze. “Most of your predecessors didn’t last a sennight. Ran off with their tails between their legs. Takes brawn and brains to keep up with our Miss Tessa.”
“Now she may like to play ’er tricks,” Mrs. Crabtree said in a consoling tone, “but beneath that pluck, the girl’s got a ’eart o’ gold. Treats all o’ us below stairs wiv kindness, ne’er forgets a birthday, is always the first to ’elp when there’s trouble. Remember when Mr. Black’s old valet broke ’is arm, Mrs. Gates?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Miss Tessa went personally to visit him and bring supplies to the family. She visits the orphanages, too, you know. I don’t know what the children like more: the food she brings or the tricks she’s taught Swift Nick to perform.”
“Like ’er grandfather, that one,” Mrs. Crabtree declared.
