Page 58

“Aye, thank you.”

She prepared the coffee and brought it to him. In a moment, she steered Belinda to the table and gave her a mug as well.

“I don’t want it,” Belinda protested.

“Try it,” June told her firmly.

The girl wrapped her hands around the hot mug, staring suspiciously into its contents.

John took a swallow of the coffee, its flavor rich and mellow.

Belinda bent to her own mug. Her face was hidden, but John could hear a little slurping sound . . . and another.

“Not too bad,” came her muffled voice, and the slurps continued.

Mad Dog, meanwhile, had gone to lean against the marble-topped table beside the range to watch June cook. His posture was relaxed, most of his weight settled on one leg. Viewing the steaming contents of a stewpan, he asked with pleased surprise, “Is this egg soup?”

June gave him a speaking glance, her lips pursed like the top of a drawstring pouch. “I’m learnin’ to poach eggs. Hardest thing I ever done so far.” Looking down at the water filled with shreds of yellow and white, she grumbled, “Waste of good food.”

The sight of her self-reproach seemed to pain Mad Dog. “Aw, June, don’t you worry none. I’ll go out and poach all the eggs you need. Just tell me how many.”

John paused in the middle of lifting his coffee mug. Belinda’s slurping ceased. They both tensed in apprehension of the abuse that was about to rain down on Mad Dog’s head.

But an unexpectedly sweet smile appeared on June’s face. “It ain’t that sort of poaching, Mad. It’s a way to boil food, gentle-like, in a shallow pan.” She handed him a slotted spoon. “Here, scoop out the bits of cooked egg for Alan.”

Hearing his name, Alan climbed out of his basket and watched them expectantly, his tail wagging.

In short order, the stewpan was cleaned and filled with hot water from the kettle. June carefully cracked a new batch of eggs into the pan and turned over a sandglass timer on the counter. Meanwhile, Mad Dog took a bowl of egg scraps to the corner, where Alan circled and danced eagerly.

“Sit,” Mad Dog prompted, but the excited dachshund could only manage to sit for a half second before standing again. “Alan, sit,” Mad prompted. Another little bob, down and up. “That ain’t sitting, Alan, it’s a bleedin’ curtsey.”

A muffled guffaw came from Belinda’s direction. She watched the proceedings with genuine amusement, her light blue eyes twinkling.

After three minutes, June used the slotted spoon to lift perfectly poached eggs from the pan and crowed with triumph. Each plump white pillow was drained and settled onto a thin slice of fried ham.

Soon the other servants entered the kitchen, exclaiming at the platter of fancy eggs. Following June’s directions, Belinda set out a plate of fried potatoes, a basket of hot rolls, and a dish of fruit compote studded with jewel-like cherries. The group wasted no time settling down to eat. They cut through the eggs to let the golden insides spill over the ham and used the soft bread to mop up every drop of tender yolk.

Tuppence, who was pale with morning queasiness, nibbled on a breakfast roll and washed it down with sips of tea.

John wondered how advanced her pregnancy was. Her extreme slenderness made it difficult to tell. What was the polite way to ask a woman about her probable date of delivery? He’d heard it expressed in couched terms, such as “blessed event” or “quickening,” or the more dire-sounding “falling into travail.”

It seemed the same question had just occurred to Belinda, who had also noticed the housekeeper’s lack of appetite. Bluntly the girl asked, “When’s it gonna drop out?”

Tuppence blinked. “You mean . . . the baby?”

“It drops out when it’s done growing, yeah?”

The housekeeper wore a carefully neutral expression as she replied. “It doesn’t happen that way, exactly. But the baby’s coming in a fortnight, give or take a few days.” She hesitated before offering, “I could explain more about it, or . . . you could ask me anything you like about . . . female topics. Come to my sitting room at teatime, and we’ll chat.”

Puzzled by the offer, Belinda asked, “Today?”

“Yes, come today.”

Recalling Tuppence’s description of Belinda as a she-demon, John wondered at her willingness to spend time alone with the girl. Perhaps it was the realization that Belinda was still an unfledged girl in need of guidance.

As Belinda began to clear the empty plates from the table, Tuppence rose to take her leave. “Mr. Pembroke,” she said, “I’m available to discuss schedules and look over the household books, if you like.”

“I would.”