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O n Saturday morning, the day before Easter, Mrs. Bywater, the mistress of the house, sailed into my kitchen in a rather somber gray frock and announced that I would be cooking Easter dinner at the home of her friend, Lady Babcock, in Portman Square.

In dismay, I yanked my hands from the bread dough I’d been kneading. Pots, pans, and crockery surrounded me on the table and the dresser, all in fullest use. Stewed mushrooms and beef stock bubbled on the stove, and the oven emitted scents of a rhubarb tart nearing completion.

What? I wanted to shriek.

I’d begun my labors on the Easter meal days ago.

I had a large ham hock brined, ready for the oven tomorrow, plus a half dozen small fowl as well as a shank of mutton, all in their own stages of preparation.

I’d stocked plenty of greens and vegetables to be cut and cooked at the last minute and had already made a start on the desserts.

A cake with a roasted strawberry filling awaited fresh cream, and additional strawberries, along with other baked pastries, were in the larder.

My assistant, Tess, had spent hours chopping onions and celery into separate bowls for seasoning the meats and adding body to the vegetable dishes.

Mr. Davis, the butler, and I had gone over the wines both for the sauces and for serving at table, to pair just right with what I cooked.

In short, we had everything primed and organized so that I could finish the meal as efficiently as possible the next day. It would be ready for the family and staff members the moment they returned from the Easter service at the chapel around the corner.

And now the mistress calmly stood before me, ordering me to abandon it all and go cook in another woman’s kitchen, without so much as a by-your-leave.

“I beg your pardon?” I finally managed to say.

My outrage must have shown, no matter how hard I tried to restrain myself, because Mrs. Bywater blinked.

“It should not be too much trouble, should it?” she asked.

“Lady Babcock’s cook is unwell, and her ladyship is hosting a large Easter dinner.

She is at her wits’ end. I had the thought: We could join Lord and Lady Babcock’s dinner party and lend her our Mrs. Holloway.

Why not? Lady Babcock readily agreed. You can cook a meal in another kitchen as well as this one, I’m certain. You are quite skilled.”

She tacked on the flattery, which did not soften the blow. I imagined Mrs. Bywater pushing Lady Babcock into this decision as much as she was pushing me.

“It is not that simple, madam,” I said stiffly. “Everything is at the ready. Do you mean for us to abandon this entire meal?” I waved at the food laid out around me. “Is that not a waste?”

Mrs. Bywater, the frugal soul, couldn’t abide any sort of wastage—of money, time, or foodstuffs. She constantly reminded me of this.

“Not at all,” was her brisk reply. “You will pack up everything and bring it with you.”

I would, would I? My ire rose. Many of the dishes would not survive a move any farther than the upstairs dining room.

“Even if I could do such a thing, all this will not be enough if her ladyship is hosting a large dinner,” I pointed out. “How many are attending?”

Mrs. Bywater shrugged. “Ten? Perhaps twenty, with our party joining? Lady Babcock’s housekeeper will tell you when we arrive.”

Tess listened to all this with her brown eyes wide, freckles standing out on her paling face. Her lips were parted, but fortunately she did not express her alarm out loud.

I barely contained my own. “There is a vast difference between cooking for ten and cooking for twenty, madam. Portions must be known, with extra planned in case there are hearty diners. It cannot be done. Her ladyship will simply have to hire out the meal or cancel it.”

Mrs. Bywater’s hazel eyes held impatience.

“I fail to understand why you are creating such difficulties. Lady Babcock’s cook will have already brought in the supplies for the meal, which, combined with ours, will be more than plenty.

I have already promised Lady Babcock, so put these things together and come along.

I’ve hired a cart to take you and all your dishes over, but we must make a start.

Lady Babcock’s housekeeper will arrange a place for you to sleep the night so you can begin cooking at the earliest possible hour in the morning. ”

I nearly gave my notice then and there. Tess, her knife poised over the endless stalks of celery, obviously feared I would do just that. If I walked off in anger, then she would be left with a half-cooked Easter dinner and a furious Mrs. Bywater.

For Tess’s sake, I cooled my anger the best I could.

Mrs. Bywater was correct that I could fix a fine meal to please her ladyship, even in the most difficult of circumstances.

I reasoned that, like me, Lady Babcock’s cook and housekeeper had already stocked the kitchen and been busy with preparations.

While Mrs. Bywater’s faith in my skill was not misplaced, I did not fancy the mountain of extra work she’d abruptly piled upon Tess and me.

Also, she might have asked me beforehand instead of rashly promising my labor to her ladyship without my knowledge. Mrs. Bywater was ever in awe of a title, and no doubt she’d wanted to ingratiate herself with Lady Babcock, second wife of a widowed marquess.

I released a heavy sigh, conveying that anything I did henceforth was under duress. “I suppose we can salvage some of our foodstuffs. Tess and I will load the cart and take ourselves to her ladyship’s kitchen. The kitchen staff do know we are arriving?”

“Not Tess,” Mrs. Bywater stopped me by saying. “Only you. Though of course Tess must help you carry things up to the road.”

I let my hands fall to my sides, my anger renewed. “I must have Tess,” I told her firmly. “Or else I shall not go.”

Mrs. Bywater lifted her chin. “You are not to tell me what you shall or shall not do, Mrs. Holloway. Tess will be one too many in Lady Babcock’s kitchen, and she will be needed here.”

Tess sidled backward during this last exchange, as though ready to flee the house and return to her former existence of thieving for survival. I wanted to reassure her that all would be well, but I dared not look away from Mrs. Bywater.

“If I am to cook a large meal in an unknown kitchen, I cannot do it without Tess’s help,” I stated. “It is impossible. If there is a worry about where she will sleep, she can either bunk with me or return here for the night and set off again first thing in the morning.”

Mrs. Bywater was a stubborn woman, used to having her way by means of bullying everyone with her nonstop chatter and the assumption that she’d already won. That she’d met her match for stubbornness in me was a constant annoyance to her.

I’d learned long ago to stand up for myself against those who considered me far beneath them. I might have been born in a London backstreet, but I had skills the higher-born needed, and they knew it. I was as much an aristocrat in my world as Lady Babcock was in hers.

I watched Mrs. Bywater debate which was the lesser evil—me bringing along my assistant or she having to tell Lady Babcock that her offered cook had refused to help. I might be sacked for my insolence, but I thought my agency would understand my plight.

Mrs. Bywater’s mouth tightened as she made her choice. “Very well. Bring Tess along. I will leave it to you to make arrangements for her accommodation and wash my hands of the matter. If they do not want her there, it is nothing to do with me.”

I nodded, pretending to be grateful. “Of course. We will begin packing at once.”

Mrs. Bywater did not return my nod. “See that you do,” she said coldly, and marched out of the kitchen, her heels clicking on the slate tiles as she stormed down the passageway toward the backstairs.

Once she was gone, Tess dropped her knife with a clatter and came around the table to me. “Mrs. H, what are we going to do?”

I wanted to sink to my chair, bury my face in my hands, and perhaps weep a bit, but I retained my composure. “Exactly what I said. We will gather our dishes and make our way to Portman Square.”

“Won’t all the things we made be ruined?”

“Possibly.” I squared my shoulders. “We’ll just have to do our best.”

“You was going to save a bit back for Mr. McAdam,” Tess reminded me.

I did remember this fact, ever so painfully. We’d known we could not be together for Easter dinner, it being a workday for me, but Daniel had promised to visit my kitchen later for a portion of the feast.

Scraps and leftovers only, of course. I’d never steal foodstuffs from my employers to feed my beau, no matter how tempted I was.

Before I could answer Tess, Mr. Davis strode into the kitchen, his slim frame animated, his hairpiece slipping from the bald spot atop his head.

“Mrs. Holloway, that bloody woman has just told me to pack up all the bottles we’ve chosen and send them off with you,” he raged. “She cannot mean to cart off all my wine.”

“I am afraid she does, Mr. Davis.” I did not want to deal with his fury, no matter how justified, as I was having enough trouble with my own. “It is our duty to comply, whether we like it or not.”

Mr. Davis stared at me, as though surprised I wasn’t waving my knife and declaring a mutiny. I gazed steadily back at him until he calmed a fraction.

“The master will hear of this,” Mr. Davis said darkly.

Mr. Davis did not mean Mrs. Bywater’s husband, who I wagered didn’t fancy spending his Easter in the home of a stuffy marquess any more than we did.

He referred to Lord Rankin, Mr. Bywater’s nephew-in-law, who held the actual lease on the London house—he lived in seclusion in Surrey, allowing Mrs. Bywater to play lady of the manor in his Mount Street home.

Lord Rankin paid the salaries of all the staff and also the wine merchants’ bills. If Lord Rankin objected to Mrs. Bywater giving away half the carefully selected wine cellar, she’d be accountable, not Mr. Davis or me.

“I will return what I do not use,” I offered.

Mr. Davis threw up his hands. “It will not matter. Once the bottles are opened and exposed to air, they will be useless if not drunk immediately. You might as well pour them into the cistern.”

He stalked away after this pronouncement, in high dudgeon.

Mr. Davis exaggerated, though only slightly. I’d tote the half-empty bottles home, and he and Mrs. Redfern could enjoy their contents during their late-night chats in the housekeeper’s parlor.

For now, Tess and I had much work to do.

The cakes and pastries would fare the best, if we were careful.

We wrapped them in clean cheesecloth and laid them into small crates, ensuring that the heaviest cakes were on the bottom.

I had to assume the Portman Square kitchen would have cream I could whip and other fresh things I couldn’t tote.

I put the strawberries into another crate along with root vegetables and fruits I would prepare tomorrow.

Their staff should have gotten in greens and other produce, I reasoned, though not any I had picked over.

The ham, in its roasting pan, went into another small crate that I covered with paper and cheesecloth, as did the mutton shank and the quail, ready to be dressed.

The stock I’d been reducing for my sauce would have to remain.

I’d inspect the other kitchen’s stocks and broths once I got there and adjust them to my taste.

I briefly considered bringing my own knives, as a cook grows as accustomed to them as she does her own hands, but declined. I didn’t want to risk one getting lost in the commotion or an unskilled undercook ruining a blade.

Mr. Davis unbent enough to lay the bottles of wine into a few more boxes, cushioning them with straw. He carried these upstairs himself and set them into the waiting cart, admonishing the driver, who listened with a disagreeable frown, not to jolt them in any way.

Tess and Mr. Davis helped me lug out the rest of the crates, fitting them carefully into the cart. Once we were finished, and Tess had climbed up to ride with the driver, I realized there was no room for me.

“I can walk, Mrs. H.,” Tess declared, preparing to descend.

“No, indeed.” Tess was slim enough to perch on the small space on the driver’s seat, but my plump body would be too tight a fit. “It is a fine day for a stroll. Just mind that no one squashes the goods if you begin to unload before I reach the house.”

The driver, who apparently concluded we’d lingered long enough, started the large horse. Tess, clearly unhappy, gazed back at me as they rolled away.

Mr. Davis had already retreated to sulk, so I descended one final time to the kitchen, folded a clean apron into a basket to which I added a few sealed pots of spices, and donned my coat and hat.

The most direct route to Portman Square was west along Mount Street to Park Street—one over from the sumptuous Park Lane—and then straight north until I reached the square.

I had just crossed Oxford Street when a delivery van pulled by a large draft horse rolled to a halt beside me. “Mrs. Holloway,” came its driver’s cheerful call. “Can I be of assistance? I can save your feet, if nothing else.”