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I turned to Mary, who had her hands wrapped nervously in her apron. “Why won’t Mrs. Morgan allow you into the larder? What exactly do you do in the kitchen?”

“I sort things and stir what Mrs. Morgan tells me to stir,” Mary said. “Mostly I scrub what dishes she’s done with.”

“Don’t you have a scullery maid for that?” I asked in surprise. Lord Babcock was a marquess, who ought to have a servant for every conceivable task under the sun.

“I were a scullery maid. But Mrs. Morgan said she needed more hands, so I was brought into the kitchen. I still have to do the scullery work. Jane is more of the under-cook. Mrs. Morgan lets her chop the vegetables. She won’t let me near a knife, except to wash it.”

“I see.” I was glad I’d stood up to Mrs. Bywater and brought Tess along.

“Do you have any idea where Mrs. Morgan keeps her vegetables? In the kitchen itself?” The larder was a much better place for storage, as it was generally always cool, free of drafts, and not heated by the stove, but I’d already seen that this kitchen was not very efficient.

“Don’t know.” Mary looked troubled. “Sorry, Missus. Mrs. Morgan don’t show us much, only expects us to do what we’re told.”

No wonder Jane wore a perpetual scowl while Mary existed in a state of bewilderment.

“It is no matter, Mary,” I said. “We’ll muddle along.” I’d found nothing in the larder I wanted to use and gestured her out. “Let us see what she’s begun in the kitchen for tomorrow’s dinner.”

“Not much, I think.” Mary trotted after me, still trying to be helpful. “Mrs. Morgan’s been so very ill.”

“Nothing contagious, I hope,” I said as though I wasn’t worried, but truth to tell, I was. What had laid the cook so low, so quickly?

“Mrs. Seabrook says no,” Mary said. “Just an ailment. Her ladyship has been nursing her ever so kindly.”

“Huh.” Jane heard her as we entered the kitchen. “Her ladyship is likely trying to pry the old besom out of bed. I’m surprised her ladyship let you come at all, Mrs. Holloway. She don’t like those she don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t talk about the mistress like that.” Mary darted a glance behind her as though someone would overhear and report directly to Lady Babcock. And possibly, they would. Servants in unhappy situations sometimes strove to better their lot by telling tales on others.

Tess, who’d put herself on the opposite side of the table from Jane, frowned in agreement with Mary. Tess always had plenty to say about the family she worked for, but I had the feeling she’d be contrary to anything Jane uttered.

“I’m certain her ladyship is doing all she can,” I said firmly. “Where are the vegetables, Jane? I want to sort what I need for tomorrow.”

“Some tatties over there.” Jane pointed with the tip of a knife to a crate in the corner. “Some cabbages too, but they don’t look nice.”

“I see.” I bit back sharper words. “What has Mrs. Morgan planned for the meat? Ham? Roast lamb? Capons for one of the courses?”

“She hadn’t gone to the butcher’s afore she fell sick,” Jane informed me. “So, I don’t know, do I?”

“Well, what were you planning to give the upstairs for Easter dinner?” I demanded. “Boiled rice and old cabbage?”

“Don’t ask me, missus,” Jane returned. “I’m a kitchen maid. If you don’t need me help, then I’m off.” She started to untie her apron.

“No, you will stay right here.” The time for friendly cajoling had passed. “Fortunately, I brought plenty of my own foodstuffs. You will help Tess sort it, and I will go to the markets and find what I can, though there won’t be much left by now.”

Jane glared at me defiantly, but after a time under my stern gaze, she took her hand from her apron ties. “Yes, missus,” she said sullenly.

“Mrs. Morgan went to the market yesterday morning,” Mary offered, her voice faint. “But I don’t know what she did with the things.”

Tess shook her head at me. I guessed she’d had a poke about the kitchen in my absence and found nothing of use.

I peered into the back of the room. “Tess, if that is broth on the stove, will you make certain it’s hot? I will take a cup upstairs to Mrs. Morgan and ask her. I’m certain she’ll not want his lordship’s dinner to be an absolute disaster.”

The quirk of Jane’s lips hinted she wouldn’t mind a disaster and possibly would find it diverting, but I could not risk my reputation in such a manner. Also, I had enough respect for those I fed to not want them suffering through a terrible meal.

Tess moved the stockpot to another burner and checked the firebox beneath, tossing in a small piece of wood. She stirred the stock, which soon began to steam.

I fetched a bowl from the dresser, which I was happy to find clean. Mary might not know her way around a kitchen, but it was clear she did her scrubbing job well.

I found a ladle and filled the bowl with the hot broth and set it on a plate, laying this on a tray with a spoon. It would have been nice to add a heel of fresh bread or a cup of tea, but neither of those were at the ready.

“Carry on with the sorting,” I told Tess and Jane. “Have Mary help with what she can. I will take this up to the cook, and then I’m off to the shops.”

Mary nodded readily, but the other two only watched me go unhappily.

I carried the tray down the hall to the backstairs. As I passed what I’d deduced was the door to the butler’s pantry, a small but plump and red-faced man in a black tailcoat popped from it.

“You the new cook?” he demanded in a thick east London accent.

“I am Mrs. Holloway,” I said, ignoring his bad manners. “You are Armitage?”

“I am.” He pointed his finger at me. “You won’t touch any of me wines. A cook what wants wine for her sauces is only looking to have a go at the bottle herself, am I right?”

By the redness of his face and the broken veins on his nose, I would guess that Mr. Armitage “had a go” fairly often himself.

“That is not entirely true, Mr. Armitage. Now, if you will excuse me.”

I turned my back on him to mount the staircase. I felt him watch me go, but at least he didn’t say anything further.

I hadn’t assured him I’d brought my own bottles, because I didn’t want him absconding with them while I was away from the kitchen.

Mrs. Seabrook’s order that I save some to bribe the footmen told me what sort of household this was.

Even if the footmen preferred a good ale to a fancy wine, they could make a few quid selling the bottles on.

Lady Babcock truly needed to review her staff and pay attention to what went on below stairs. Mrs. Bywater was apt to give us too much attention, but I decided now it might be the lesser of the evils.

I then wondered why Lady Babcock didn’t bother herself.

Most aristocratic women were sticklers about their household running smoothly, because a badly run one was talked about and reflected poorly on them.

I supposed she might have been brought up to leave everything to the housekeeper and butler, but that only worked if the senior staff were competent.

Even the most honest domestics would soon take advantage of a slack mistress, once they’d learned they could.

I reached the main floor then continued to the upper ones, balancing the tray as I climbed the steep staircase. I hadn’t asked where Mrs. Morgan’s bedroom was, but most of the staff in townhouses slept at the top, so there I headed.

This house had four floors below the attic, and I was puffing by the time I reached the top story, the tray growing heavy.

The attic held a narrow hallway, which was obviously a recent addition, leading past the servants’ bedrooms. In earlier centuries, the female staff usually slept together in one large chamber, the male staff in another, often three and more to a bed.

Senior servants—cooks, housekeepers, butlers, and valets—could have their own cubbyhole somewhere or they might bunk in with the others.

At some point in my lifetime, employers decided that servants should be separated from one another and so built partition walls in the attics with doors to close off the rooms. Whether that was out of kindness or fear that we’d cause more trouble lumped together, I wasn’t certain.

Mrs. Morgan had a room rather like mine, small with whitewashed walls that contained a bed, a night table, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, and a small bureau.

I’d added a few things to my chamber over the years, such as a framed picture of flowers Joanna had given me and trinkets I’d purchased here and there, as well as several secondhand books.

Mrs. Morgan had nothing like that in view.

She lay on the bed, her face as gray as her hair, obviously so miserable that my testiness evaporated.

“Mrs. Morgan?” I spoke in a gentle voice. “Do not be alarmed. I am Mrs. Holloway, who will be cooking in your stead. I’ve brought you a bit of broth, which will give you strength.”

Mrs. Morgan heaved a rattling breath. She was neither startled nor angered by my presence, and she did not try to sit up. “Glad you’ve come,” she said wearily.

I set the tray on the dresser and used my handkerchief to take up the hot bowl of broth and carry it to her. I would likely have to spoon-feed her, but I didn’t mind helping the poor thing.

Before I could begin, the door opened behind me. “Now then, Mrs. Morgan,” a soft voice proclaimed. “I’ve brought you another cup of tea—oh.”

I turned to see a small-statured woman, with a face that showed she’d been a stunning woman in her youth and was pretty still in middle age.

Her dark hair, which bore only a few threads of gray, was coiled and curled with the vigor of the latest fashions.

She wore a gown so ruffled and frilled I feared she’d tear it simply walking through the corridor outside.

The lady regarded me with ingenuous blue eyes that held faint puzzlement, and I curtsied the best I could while balancing the full bowl of broth.

“Ah.” Mrs. Bywater, who entered behind her, promptly took command of the situation.

“This is my cook, your ladyship. I told you she’d come along and save you.

” She skewered me with her cool stare. “I suppose you are here to nurse Mrs. Morgan, but there is no need. We are taking great care of her, aren’t we?

” She added this in a nursery-maid tone to Mrs. Morgan, who regarded her limply.

Lady Babcock seemed in no way aggrieved that Mrs. Bywater was so obviously currying favor with her. “I am so pleased you came,” she said to me, her voice rather childlike. “You can return to your kitchen. Your mistress and I have charge of Mrs. Morgan now.”

Lady Babcock did not wear the expression of someone impatient with another’s illness, so I decided Mary had the right of her motives, not Jane.

“Make sure she takes all the broth,” I said, setting the bowl on the night table. “It will do her much good.”

Mrs. Bywater pointedly held the door open for me. “Off you go then, Mrs. Holloway.”

I still needed to know how the kitchen was supplied, but Mrs. Morgan did not seem up to discussing her inventory with me. I’d have to go to the markets and buy whatever I needed, telling the grocers to put the purchases on Lord Babcock’s account.

A shaky but surprisingly strong hand caught my wrist. I looked down to see Mrs. Morgan gazing up at me imploringly. “Stay,” she whispered.