Page 28 of Murder in Blackfriars

His mouth tightened as he recalled what he’d found upon entering.

“I assure you, Daniel’s visit was only to chat,” I said, my dignity returning. “I have not sunk quite as low as you are imagining. Good night, Mr. Davis.”

His reply was only a stiff “Mrs. Holloway.”

I knew I would not move him. I gave him another nod and slipped out the door, closing it again behind me.

My kitchen was cold now without Daniel. I washed up our tea things and the empty plate in the scullery, blew out the candle, and went to bed with much on my mind.

* * *

I dreaded to face Mr. Davis again in the morning, but when I descended from my chamber, the door to his butler’s pantry was closed, and he did not appear.

Mr. Davis had never approved of Daniel, having encountered him only in his capacity as scruffy man of all work. He had no idea of Daniel’s connection to the police, or of the murders he’d solved, or his work that had saved the queen’s life on several occasions.

I wondered if Mr. Davis would approve even if he had known. He had strict ideas of hierarchy among those in service, and in his view, I was marrying a long way beneath me.

Was I, though? Daniel knew nothing of his family, hence our current inquiries.

What if Daniel proved to have come from origins far higher than mine? If Daniel was the missing heir of a viscount or something of that nature, he certainly wouldn’t be able to marry a cook from Cockney London.

I banished such thoughts as nonsense while I kneaded bread, shaped rolls, and fried hash, but the remote possibility niggled at me.

Mr. Davis finally entered the kitchen around the noon hour, plunked down two bottles of wine I’d requested yesterday morning for today’s meals, and glided out again without a word. I told myself he’d grow used to the notion of memarrying Daniel and forgive me, but my chest ached. I didn’t like to be at odds with a good friend.

Meanwhile, I considered ways to keep Daniel from running headlong to Bethnal Green and getting killed by one of Mr. Naismith’s henchmen. Daniel was usually sensible, but he was also as impatient and curious as I was. In the matter of learning something of his own family, he might not be as prudent as he ought to be.

I mulled things over as I created meals from this week’s leftovers and planned for a grand Sunday dinner.

By the end of the day, I was also planning cakes and scones for an elaborate tea, not one Mrs. Bywater had requested. I sent a note upstairs to Lady Cynthia, asking her if she’d invite the vicar of All Saints in Shadwell to partake of it with her on Saturday afternoon.

9

Mrs. Bywater considered the vicar, Mr. Errol Fielding, now a suffragan bishop for the entire East End, to be a charming gentleman. Mr. Fielding often praised Mrs. Bywater for her work in charities that provided clothing or improving books for the downtrodden of London, and he occasionally made a modest monetary contribution to said organizations.

In return, Mrs. Bywater was happy to ply him with tea, cream scones, and perfectly iced petit fours in her first-floor parlor from time to time. Cynthia, bless her, donned a frock that Saturday afternoon to join her aunt and Mr. Fielding, sipping tea and listening to them converse.

Afterward, as I’d hoped, Mr. Fielding insisted on descending to the kitchen to praise me for my skill in baking the tasty treats. Mrs. Bywater was always willing to send him down, as she believed his chats with me might set me on the path of righteousness and better behavior.

Mrs. Bywater firmly disapproved of Cynthia running intoand out of my kitchen at will, but she made an exception if Cynthia escorted Mr. Fielding. Perhaps he’d guide her to better behavior as well, I assumed was Mrs. Bywater’s thinking.

A slim but strong man, about the same height as Daniel, Mr. Fielding had a trim brown beard and brown hair, with blue eyes that missed nothing. He also had a smile to light a room, its ingenuousness masking the cunning and intelligent man who lurked behind it.

“What a fine repast, Mrs. Holloway,” Mr. Fielding exclaimed as he clasped my hands in his. “Thank you for letting me partake of your bountiful gifts.”

I made myself not react to his overblown flattery. At least he didn’t try to pass me a coin.

“ ’Tis naught but a bit of bread and cake,” I said with feigned modesty.

“On the contrary, it was fit for a king.” Mr. Fielding released me to kiss his fingers and open them to the sky.

Tess and Elsie, the scullery maid, watched and listened with interest. Mr. Fielding was always entertaining.

“Mr. Fielding’s hyperbole aside, it was quite good, Mrs. H.,” Cynthia said. “The cakes with the violet frosting were particularly delicious.”

I was pleased by this, because beating the buttercream and coloring it just right with dye I made from crushing violet candies had been tricky. The edible violet petals placed on top of each had been a masterful finishing touch.

“Thank you,” I said in true gratitude. “I am happy you enjoyed it.”