I do not know how I spoke so offhandedly, but I began to act as though this sort of invasion of the kitchen were an ordinary occurrence. I opened the cupboard and pulled out the remains of raised pie from dinner, put it in a large iron skillet, and began to warm it up. There, on the sideboard under a crockery cloche, was the cheese, which I pulled out and sliced.
As I worked, I was aware that my visitors stood stock-still, staring at my back.
“Well?” I asked briskly, not bothering to turn around. “Will you wash and sit at that table or take your supper on the steps?”
First one, and then the next began to wash, eyeing me warily. In under half a minute, however, they were back to their original swagger, speaking with strong northern accents, laughing, and taking seats on the benches at the table. I calmly put down bread, cheese, and butter, taking stock of them as I did so.
None of them looked like miners to me. They seemed even too rough for that. Were they what the cook referred to as rovers—men who raided farms and bullied market stall sellers, men who stole their living rather than work for it?
“Much obliged, me darlin’,” one of the men called out to me. “Be a dear and sit on me knee while I eat, eh?” He had a menacing grin and wore a grimy muffler around his neck.
“She ain’t sittin wif yew,” growled the man who first forced his way into the kitchen. He then leered at me, and said, “She likes a fella wif teef.”
“I like a man with manners,” I firmly replied, setting down plates and turning to serve the raised pie. My impertinence earned me a few howls of appreciation. I felt the danger, but rather than being afraid, I had slipped into a heightened state. Every detail became vividly alive, my mind sharply focused, my senses fully alert.
Food—it was all I could think to do. I would buy myself time by putting more food in front of them. Tins of biscuits, jars of pickles, cups of hot milk, a small piece of cake covered in a napkin at the back of the shelf that Penny must have hidden away for herself.
“You there,” I said to the ruffian who leered at me most explicitly and seemed somewhat in charge, “what is your name?”
“That there be Crupps,” said the one withoutteef.
“I see,” I said, flashing a bright smile. “Crupps, bear a hand with that cellar door if you would like to try a bit of salt beef in cream.” I had seen Mrs. Smith reconstitute beef in this way as a quick dinner for the servants. “I believe there is a small bit of ham left too.”
Unbelievably, the man responded to my tone of fearless authority. He lifted the heavy door, and I went down the ladder, thinking vaguely I would likely be thrown down there once they had finished using me. The conclusion of this surreal circumstance stood in my mind as inevitable. They were too pointed in their looks, too ready to laugh at the vulgar suggestions that came more frequently with every minute that passed. Once their stomachs were full, they would begin to wonder who else was in the house and why I was alone. Their other appetites would soon awaken, particularly when they realized that only a very old lady and two young girls stood in their way. They would begin to pillage in earnest.
I was still too numb to be frightened.
I made the salted beef in cream, and put the remains of the hambone and a knife on the table for them to carve. There would be no point in trying to keep a knife from men who would only wrest it away from my grip and take brutal satisfaction in using it against me. I kept busy to keep terror at bay, but it was slowly building beneath the calmness of my exterior. It threatened to break through when Crupps spoke again, this time with a touch of menace beneath his leering admiration.
“Now, don’t ya be stingy, chit! This ’ere porter can’t fill a thimble for so many o’ us. Bring us the bottles ye ain’t wantin’ to share.”
If they were now thinking of strong drink, they would soon be searching Mrs. Jennings’s parlor cabinets.
“There is a little wine in the other room. I shall bring it to you, but meanwhile, there is ale in the cellar you can fetch up for yourselves.” I had purposely withheld that information to buy time, and my time was now up. I dashed out of the room.
Chapter Fourteen
The parlor was barely lit when I fled the kitchen.What to do! What to do!I wrung my hands and silently paced the floor in the dark.
“Miss?” whispered Doreen from the top of the stairs. Behind her stood Penny, both girls in their nightclothes, clutching their shawls, uncertain.
“Go to Auntie’s room, lock the door, andstay there.” I hissed.
The sound of crude voices erupted from the kitchen as I spoke, and both maids sprang back up the stairs. My mind was in a hopeless jumble. If only Mrs. Edmonton had not left for Derby last week! How far would I have to go to find someone—anyone? Should I run outside and call blindly for help? On impulse, I darted toward the door, my hand on the latch. The knocker sounded! Oh no! So loud!
I ripped open the door to stop the second knock from sounding, and there stood Mr. Darcy!
“Pardon the—”
My hand flew up to his mouth, and I pulled him roughly by the coat sleeve into the hall. The door stood ajar to the frigid air of February, and we faced one another in the dark, both breathing heavily—I from fright, he from surprise.
I slowly lowered my hand and whispered, “Sh.”
“There are men—” he whispered.
“They are here,” I whispered back. “In the kitchen.”
“Good God,” he said aloud.
