I FOLLOWED ROSS all the way through to the front hall just in case, but he managed to look quite proper as he opened the front door. “Mr. Warland. Welcome. Mr. Carrollton is serving sherry in the drawing room.”
Mr. Warland was paunchy, stuffed into a suit that was too small, with too much massacar oil in his hair and cigar ash on his lapels. “Not brandy? But better than nothing I suppose. I’ll show myself there.” He shed his coat as he crossed the entryway. Ross tried to catch it but ended up gathering the coat up from the floor. He hung it in the closet, and I thought I saw him grab a flask from the pocket of a green mackintosh, but before I could be sure, the bell rang again.
This time it was a couple, both a bit mousy, he with blond hair plastered to his head with rain, she cleaning her glasses as she squinted at Ross. Ross went to help the man with his coat. I stepped forward to take the woman’s.
“Sherry in the drawing room, Mr. Ainsworth.”
“Very good, Ross. Where is Belmont?”
“Under the weather, sir.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And James?”
“The same, sir.”
“I hope Mrs. Pomeroy is all right.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll eat well.” He started patting through his pockets. “I need to call the office and see if the Clawton file went out.”
I was hanging the woman’s coat while she was adjusting her hair in the mirror. “I sent it out with Mr. Riley when he went home.”
“Excellent, Mrs. Delford. But I should still telephone about the Ryan file.”
“I locked that up before I left.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. Did you bring the file from my desk?”
“The papers you put in your pocket?”
He patted his jacket. “There they are. Is Mr. Carrollton in the drawing room?”
“No, sir. I believe he is in the office.”
“Then I’ll bring these to him.”
Mrs. Delford started to follow him down the hallway.
“You don’t need to bother, Mrs. Delford. Go warm up in the drawing room. It will just take a minute.”
“If you’re certain you don’t need me to take notes—”
Mr. Ainsworth was already halfway down the hallway, leaving Mrs. Delford no choice but to go up to the drawing room.
I saw Ross edging towards the closet. There was no reason for him to sneak over like that if all he was going to do was hang up Mr. Ainsworth’s coat, so I snatched the coat from him and hung it up myself, along with Mrs. Delford's. I was about to go through the mackintosh’s pockets when the doorbell rang again.
This time when the door opened, the wind caught it and slammed it into the wall. Ross grabbed at the knob, ready to force the door shut as soon as the new guest came in, bringing the wind and rain and dust and leaves in with him.
“Mr. Sharma, good evening.”
The man put his shoulder to the door and helped Ross slam it closed. “Beastly weather. Like the monsoon season but freezing cold.”
“Welcome to England, sir.”
Mr. Sharma smiled. “So I should expect this?”
“Not every day, sir. There’s sherry in the drawing room.”
“Then I’ll go warm up there.”
Mr. Sharma shed his coat and looked around for someplace to hang it. I recognized that lost look; I’d had it often enough. Not used to servants, I diagnosed. I stepped forward and took the coat from him before Ross realized what he was doing and used it as an excuse to get at the bottle in the closet.
Mr. Sharma smiled, a relieved smile. I also knew that well, and he gave me half a bow before he realized that might not be proper.
I covered for him by saying, “Do you know where the drawing room is?”
“Yes, thank you.” He turned to the stairs. I brought his coat to the closet.
Ross locked up the front door. “That’s the last of them.”
“I thought there were six places at the table.”
Ross went to the closet and pushed all of the coats around until he liked their spacing. This time I was certain he had a bottle hidden in there, but he answered, “Miss Carrollton is the sixth. Mr. Carrollton’s niece. She’s already here, in the drawing room upstairs. You’d better see if Mrs. Pomeroy needs you. I’ll sweep up the leaves.”
I could see his hand twitch towards the mackintosh pocket again, but he was right; Mrs. Pomeroy might need me, and I wasn’t sure if the storm would have some effect on the preparations. Besides, I didn’t want to have to deal with the remains of the storm in the hallway if Ross was willing.
~ * ~ * ~
When I got back to the kitchen, Mrs. Albright was unmolding the salmon mousse. “Grab a plate, Cassie and help me with this.” She glanced around the kitchen until she saw that Mrs. Pomeroy was busy at the oven before she whispered, “Why she made individual ones when she knew she’d be short-handed I don’t know, but she didn’t make any extra, so I don’t know what we’ll do if one breaks.”
I was going to answer when Mrs. Pomeroy came back with a stack of plates. “Just unmold them onto these. But give me that one.” She snatched one of the molds from us and turned it onto the plate. She rapped the back sharply with the end of a knife, then lifted the mold away, revealing a perfect fish. “That’s how it’s done.” She took some parsley from the asparagus platter and arranged it on top.
Mrs. Albright and I both tried her tapping method. The center of mine fell out in a shapeless glob of mousse; Mrs. Albright’s stayed firmly in the mold. I hurriedly spooned the lost mousse back into place. “I’ll get a warm knife to smooth it,” Mrs. Albright whispered. “They’ll never notice.”
Ross came past and saw what we were doing. He grabbed my mold and the plate together and banged them on the table. When he lifted the mold away, he also had a fish. Then he stumbled away.
Mrs. Albright returned with a thin knife and ran it along the edge of her mold. It wasn’t quite as neat as Ross or Mrs. Pomeroy, but it seemed like it would give us the most consistent results. “Did you want parsley on them?” Mrs. Albright asked as we went on to our second set.
“Only on the one, Agnes. Cassie, would you get the platters set out there,” she pointed to the side table, “then I can plate this up when it comes off the heat.”
I left the rest of the molds to Mrs. Albright and went to the cupboard where poked around until I found the platters that looked like the soup tureen near the stove. I was extracting them from the jumble of other plates on the shelf when I heard footsteps that could only be described as tripping down the stairs.
“Mrs. Pomeroy. How is my favorite chef?”
“Mr. Ainsworth, how is my favorite guest?”
I got a better look at Mr. Ainsworth now. He was older than his steps suggested, with greying blond hair still slicked back with rainwater. He smiled at all of us and glanced into the pots as he passed them. Mrs. Pomeroy handed him a spoon and let him taste the various things that were simmering on the stove.
“Delicious.”
“Did you just come down here to steal my dinner?
“Of course not, I wanted to see you. And I did have one very small favor to ask. Would you have a minute to sew on a button?”
“I always have a minute for you, Mr. Ainsworth.” She left the stove and went into her parlor. As she came back with her sewing kit, the pot on the stove for the potatoes began to boil roundly. Mrs. Pomeroy turned away to deal with it. “Miss Pengear will help you.”
I took the sewing kit Mrs. Pomeroy held out and nodded to the chair beside the table. Mr. Ainsworth sat down and held out his button. I realized he expected me to sew it on when he was wearing the shirt. I threaded a needle and asked, “Where does this go?”
Mr. Ainsworth pointed to a loose thread where the third button down from the collar had been. “Sorry to be such a bother. And it’s a brand-new shirt too.”
Looking at the expanse of pure white, I could believe it. I slid my hand under the button band, pulling it as far away from his chest as I could.
Mr. Ainsworth ignored me as I slid the needle through the fabric. “So what are we having for dinner besides the marvelous soup, Mrs. Pomeroy? Your infamous boeuf Bourguignon?”
“Not tonight. A simple poached whitefish with salmon mousse. Just the thing in this humidity.”
I tried to hold the fabric steady while avoiding both touching Mr. Ainsworth and stabbing him in the chest.
Ross came through from the storeroom. “I opened the new wine, Mrs. Pomeroy.”
“And sampled it, no doubt.”
From Ross’s wobbly gait, I suspected the same, but he said,
“Just the crate. Just the crate.”
“Got a stash somewhere, then?”
Mr. Ainsworth chuckled and I clutched at his shirtfront, trying to keep the button in place and avoid scratching him, which was tricky since I had just passed the needle inside the fabric.
Mrs. Pomeroy stopped with the knife halfway through a potato. “We already have the wine for dinner. You said you opened the crate? You mean the Bordeaux? Who told you to open the Bordeaux?”
“Mr. Carrollton told me to.”
“With fish? Have you lost your mind, or is it just pickled?”
Mr. Ainsworth was still laughing. I made the best knot I could and got my needle away before I stabbed him with it.
“Mr. Carrollton did tell me to open it.”
“Just get the decanter for the Vouvray.”
Ross shuffled to the cupboard.
Mr. Ainsworth pulled a pipe out of his pocket.
“Not in my kitchen!” Mrs. Pomeroy snapped at him.
“I’m not lighting it, just putting it in here.” He put the pipe in his inner jacket pocket. “See, it buttons so it won’t fall out.”
But I saw him slip a packet of matches back into his side pocket.
Mrs. Pomeroy shook her head. “Smell up my kitchen so I can’t smell my own cooking, not to mention taste it properly.”
Mr. Ainsworth edged towards the stairs. “Thank you, Miss Cassie. Mrs. Pomeroy, I look forward to the salmon mousse.” He put his foot on the first step. “And he’s hiding it in the teapot.” He ran up the stairs without waiting to see the result.
Mrs. Pomeroy snatched the teapot from the shelf behind the stove and looked inside.
Ross saw Mrs. Pomeroy with the teapot in her hand and left the decanter on the table. He made for the stairs.
“Probably has another one stashed in the pantry.” She sighed. “Cassie, you’ll have to help him serve.”