CHAPTER 9

The next morning, Frances studied her maid for any kind of a smile, but Mallow was her usual brisk and efficient self. Frances decided to draw her out.

“Has there been any mention downstairs about Lord Gareth?” asked Frances, trying to sound very offhand about it.

“My lady, I do not gossip about you, your friends, or the family.” Mallow was deeply affronted.

“Of course not, Mallow.” You could never be too direct with Mallow. She had been too well trained. “But I am sure you have seen Lord Gareth call for me, and I wondered what you thought of him.”

“You are asking for my opinion, my lady?” It was like their discussion about Mr. Wheaton. Again, any lady would ask for an opinion about clothes, but Lady Frances wanted insights on people. About someone she seemed to be falling in love with, if Mallow was any judge of her ladyship’s behavior.

“Yes, Mallow. Your frank opinion.”

“Then I would say, my lady . . .” Frances watched her look for the right words. “I would say that Lord Gareth cuts a fine figure, my lady.”

Frances laughed. “Well said, Mallow.” But she wondered what Mallow would’ve thought of Gareth’s manners last evening.

Mallow busied herself brushing Lady Frances’s hair and fixing it up for the day.

“I forgot to ask, Mallow. On your recent afternoon off, did you have a nice tea at the Ansons’ next door?” Mallow had been invited to take tea in the servant’s hall in the neighboring town house. More specifically, she had been invited—with the butler’s permission—by Mr. Gregmon, valet to Sir Simon Anson.

“Very nice, thank you, my lady. Cook baked a cake and scones, and there was marmalade sent up from the country.”

Frances turned and smiled. “And Mr. Gregmon? He was pleased to introduce you to his friends?”

Mallow blushed, and Frances turned away.

“I am sorry, Mallow. I was prying.” Mallow’s mother insisted that servants were allowed their privacy. Whatever they did on their own time was their business, as long as their behavior brought no disgrace to the household. One may show some guidance for an inexperienced and young maid or footman, but a senior servant like a lady’s maid would be allowed wide latitude.

“Quite all right, my lady,” said Mallow cheerfully. Indeed, she would welcome Lady Frances’s opinion. “Mr. Gregmon and I have enjoyed walks in the park. Only very respectable outings, my lady. But he is looking for a new position.” Mallow sighed.

“Sir Simon always seemed like a good master,” said Frances.

“Oh, yes, my lady. Mr. Gregmon much admires him. But he would like to be a butler. He says he may find such a position in the country. And butlers—especially in the country—well, my lady, they can get married. Valets are expected to remain unmarried.” Just like maids.

Frances felt a pang. Would she lose Mallow? “Has he made you an offer of marriage?”

“No, my lady.” Mallow began pinning up Frances’s hair, and they were silent for a few moments. “And I would not say yes if he did. He is very nice and will make his way in the world. But I do not love him.”

Now it was Mallow’s turn to feel anxious. Would Lady Frances tell her she was a fool not to even consider a man who would make a good husband?

Frances turned and looked her in her eye. “Then if he asks, you should not marry him, Mallow.”

“That is what I thought, my lady.”

Mallow was glad to hear Lady Frances agree with her. Frances was pleased her maid was being sensible—and relieved she would not lose her, even though she was honest enough to admit that was a selfish thought.

“Marriage is a noble institution, Mallow, but it changes many things, and I am very satisfied with my lot in life right now.”

Mallow thought about being married to a butler in the country. It would not be very interesting, stuck in an estate miles from anywhere, and she would lack the prestige that came from being a lady’s maid to an aristocrat.

“I am satisfied with my lot as well, my lady. Now would your ladyship be so good as to hand me more of those pins?”

Mallow chose something brisk and businesslike for Frances’s trip to Hal’s law office. She had been consumed with curiosity about what he could tell her about the Colcombe manuscript.

It would be odd seeing him in his office—the first business visit after their friendship had developed. If it was just a friendship. She thought about the secret portrait and was sorry she had pried. But it could have been perfectly innocent: he wanted to paint a young woman and had no idea how to hire a model or maybe felt it wouldn’t be respectable. So he painted a woman he knew from memory. She was merely convenient.

But his sister was attractive. Hal knew her even better and had photographs to work from—why not paint her? Frances frowned and shook her head. This would bear watching.

She arrived a few minutes early, but a clerk quickly showed her into Hal’s office.

Hal stood up and walked around his desk, smiling at her as he folded his gold spectacles and put them away. He signaled over her shoulder, and an office boy came in with a tray of tea and biscuits, which he put down on a small table. Then the boy shifted two chairs around the table and left. The clerk began to leave as well, and Hal called to him, “Mr. Waller—”

“Yes, Mr. Wheaton?”

“We are not to be disturbed or interrupted for any reason. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.” He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

When they were alone, Hal showed Frances into a seat. With mock annoyance, she said, “I thought that you had serious business for us to discuss. But this was just an excuse to have tea with me.”

“Tea with you would always be a delight, but as what I have to discuss with you is not only serious and legal but also very personal, I thought this would be best.” He paused and smiled again, this time wryly. “But I’m still wearing my black coat.”

“I owe you so many apologies. That was very childish and unkind of me to tease you.” She felt silly for having spoken like that. Hal just waved it away. “But I will still call you Hal, and you will still call me Franny, even in this office, as long as your staff isn’t within hearing distance. Very well . . . now I shall pour.”

She filled their cups, each sipped, and then Hal leaned back as he ordered his words in his head—Frances was sure he had rehearsed it. And then he began to speak.

“I wasn’t going to say anything. But I know you would keep going until you found her. So I communicated with a woman who lived in the south, on the coast. It was Major Colcombe’s secret, but hers too. She gave me permission. And so I have a story to tell you.”

Hal explained that his firm had never acted for the Colcombe family, but he had known the name because Lord Seaforth had mentioned his close friend Daniel to Hal on several occasions. One day, Daniel Colcombe showed up in the office on Lord Seaforth’s recommendation. Colcombe needed some special legal work done, and he wanted it done apart from, and unknown to, his old family firm.

Frances realized she was about to learn something significant, even shocking, and had to hold her tongue and not ask him to hurry up with the story. She had to let Hal tell it in his own way, in his own time.

It seemed that Colcombe was not in the best condition when he came home from South Africa. The bullet wound wasn’t healing as fast as the doctors would like, but more than that, his nerves were shot and his health was broken. Something happened out there—he had done something rather extraordinary, although Hal never knew what, and it had taken its toll.

Frances knew the details about Danny’s great heroism, of course, but she didn’t want to interrupt.

The family hired a nurse to take care of him. Colcombe’s physician recommended Nurse Dorothy Jones—they called her Nurse Dot—most highly. She had experience tending wounded soldiers and was trained in the tradition of Florence Nightingale. “You are aware of Nightingale, of course?” asked Hal.

Naturally, Frances knew of her. Another Crimean War reference: Nightingale had been the heroine of that war, her nursing saving countless men, and she had professionalized nursing. She was still alive, and Frances had even been introduced to her once.

Well, from the first day, Nurse Dot was a credit to her mentor and to her training, according to all accounts. Gradually, Colcombe improved. The wound healed. He could sleep again, and his mood improved. He had been skeletally thin when he returned, but now he was eating well and putting on some badly needed pounds. And then he showed up at the Wheaton offices.

Hal now looked very uncomfortable. He finished his tea and looked away. “This is a hard story to tell to anyone. Especially to a lady. Especially to a lady who is my friend. You see, Franny, Daniel Colcombe came to me to help him set up some financial arrangements, take care of the complex paperwork under the required laws . . .”

He’s spinning this out, trying to avoid getting to the point, Frances realized.

“In short, Franny . . . in short, Nurse Dot was carrying Daniel Colcombe’s child.”

And then Hal quickly poured himself another cup of tea to cover up his embarrassment while Frances tried to sort out her emotions. Handsome, outgoing, and flirtatious, Danny had been linked with any number of women over the years. But it had never occurred to Frances things would’ve gone that far with any of them. He must’ve been . . . broken. There was no other explanation for Danny doing something so brazen. She badly wanted to think this wasn’t really Danny, that something had unhinged his mind in South Africa . . .

“It must be upsetting to hear something like this about a close friend,” Hal said softly, and Frances nodded.

He continued the story. Colcombe said he had offered the young woman marriage, but she had refused. Now he wanted to make sure financial provisions were made for Dorothy and their child. Hal told him he would draw up papers, but he had to bring her as well. He returned a week later with Dorothy. She seemed to be a smart, sensible woman—but you’d have to be to have been a military nurse, Hal said. Colcombe pressed her to marry him again, in Hal’s presence, but she wouldn’t discuss it.

“That would’ve been the easiest solution. Certainly the most common one,” said Hal.

“And Lord knows that wouldn’t be the first time a marriage started this way,” said Frances. Hal looked up, and she was afraid she had embarrassed him by mentioning that. But he looked at her quizzically for just a moment and then relaxed. You did not talk about such things with a typical lady. But Frances, he had realized, was not a typical lady.

“Would it shock and appall you if I said a substantial part of my practice is handling problems like that? Mostly wretched servant girls in households with persistent young lords, but a fair number of well-born women too.”

“I am not shocked, Hal. Merely saddened.”

“At any rate, I helped them make the necessary arrangements. Nurse Dorothy didn’t much care about herself but didn’t want the shame of illegitimacy to touch her child, so she changed her name to her mother’s maiden name, Tregallis, in order to start a new life.”

“That’s a Cornish name. But Kat Colcombe said she knew no one from Cornwall.”

“Good detective work,” said Hal. “Her father was from the Lake District, and that’s where she was raised, so no one would’ve known her Cornish ancestry from her accent.”

“She had no family left in Cornwall? Or among her father’s people?”

“She told me she had no close family left. So Colcombe bought her a cottage by the sea in the south and arranged for a regular income as well as help for the birth and support afterward. She told everyone she was the widow of an officer on a merchant ship.”

She gave birth to a healthy boy, and Colcombe came down regularly to see his son, saying he was a cousin looking out for her. He always stayed in the inn and never visited with her after dark, so no one suspected anything odd.

“And here’s the point. Mrs. Tregallis, as she now called herself, and Colcombe got on rather well. My understanding was that there was no romance anymore but a comfortable friendship and a mutual delight in their child. Colcombe shared many things with Mrs. Tregallis. He found her easy to talk to, probably one of the things that made her such a good nurse. And apparently, he hoped one day to be able to openly claim parentage of the child.”

Frances wanted to cry at that, the thought that Danny could have a family and his mother a grandchild to remember him by.

Hal was put in a terrible position when he found out Colcombe had died. Dorothy wrote to him saying she didn’t believe he had had an accident and suicide was unthinkable for him—he had been happy. She wrote that she thought he must’ve been murdered based on things he had told her, but it was just supposition. Hal had nothing to take to the police. But then he had heard about Frances’s interest and suggested to Dorothy that the two meet and that Dorothy share her suspicions based on her talks with Colcombe. Dorothy was very enthusiastic—especially as she already knew Lord Seaforth.

“My brother knows about this? But of course Danny wouldn’t have kept it from him. I wish he had told me.”

Hal smiled. “Of course. In fact, with Colcombe’s death, he became the trustee of the inheritance for Mrs. Tregallis and her son. But the secret was never his to tell. Indeed, Franny, it isn’t yours either.”

She nodded. “But may I tell my brother I know?”

“Yes. But it wouldn’t make him happy. He’d be embarrassed you knew. Annoyed at Mrs. Tregallis for dragging you into this. He might even be upset I told you, even though I had Mrs. Tregallis’s permission.”

“Then I won’t, of course. Charles doesn’t like my involvement in the manuscript search anyway. He’s very worried about my safety.”

“An older brother’s prerogative,” said Hal.

“I am surprised you have suggested this. Aren’t you worried about me?” She said it teasingly, but Hal frowned.

“Of course I’m worried. I almost didn’t tell you or communicate with Dorothy Tregallis. But you are . . . you are my friend, Franny. A woman of intelligence and good sense. It would’ve been unfair, even disloyal, of me to assume I know what is good for you better than you do yourself.”

Hal was surprisingly good at giving very sincere compliments. “Thank you,” she said.

“I have the particulars here for you. You can take an early morning train and leave that evening. Mrs. Tregallis said she is always available and eager to speak with you. If you wish to stay overnight, she has a spare room and is happy to put you up.”

Frances had one more question: could she assume that Danny’s mother and sister knew nothing of this?

“Nothing at all. Apparently, they don’t have a very suspicious nature.”

“It didn’t excite any comment when the nurse departed? I imagine she left rather quickly.”

“She did, but I don’t believe it caused undue commotion.” He paused. “It was clear Major Colcombe was back to perfect health.”

Frances looked at Hal closely—was that a thin smile? Was that last comment a bit of dry lawyerly humor? She wouldn’t have thought it of Hal, but he was full of surprises . . .

“I will wire Mrs. Tregallis and arrange to visit as soon as possible.” She reached over and put her hand on Hal’s. “I owe you many thanks for this. I will be off now, but we’ll speak soon. Meanwhile, please give my regards to Mrs. Wheaton.”

“I will—when I next speak with her. My sister and brother-in-law have invited her for a stay, and she will be leaving in the morning. She and Edwina—my sister—have always been especially close, and both are looking forward to it.”

“I am glad for them, but you’ll be all alone in that big house.”

“Yes. It will seem odd dining by myself at the dining room table. Perhaps . . . might you be free to join me one evening?”

And Frances said she would.

She had time to go home before her next meeting but instead went directly to Mrs. Elkhorn’s house. She’d be early for the league meeting, but she wanted to request Mrs. Elkhorn’s help.

“Frances, happy to help, of course. You can help me arrange the chairs while we talk.”

She briefly outlined the search for the Colcombe manuscript and its background with the Boer War. It had become a bigger problem than she expected, and she needed allies, especially those with connections.

“My brother gave me a name, but I think it was just to tease me. This man could potentially help me, but Charles said he’d never let me over his threshold. However, you know everyone, even members of the Conservative Party.”

“Even them,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ve tried to build bridges everywhere. And if that wasn’t possible, there was at least some advantage in knowing one’s enemies. But whom do you want to meet?”

“Lord Ashton Crossley.”

“Oh my. Your brother did set you a challenge. He’s a man of great power, although largely retired now. He’s . . . he hasn’t been well. But we do know each other. And I will write you a letter of introduction.”

“So you’re friends?” asked Frances.

“Oh no. We loathe each other. But there’s a mutual respect. And he may see you, if for no other reason than he’ll be curious as to why I am recommending you. But I warn you, Frances. Even sick, he’s a very cunning man. Give him your respect but not your trust.”

Frances nodded.

“That’s an enormous help. Thank you so much,” she said. Ha, she thought. Charles challenged me and I beat him. Thoughts chased themselves around her mind as she helped Mrs. Elkhorn set up.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” asked Mrs. Elkhorn. “You’re not just interested in your late friend?”

“It may sound foolish, but I keep thinking of those men who died on the South African veldt, sacrificed for the stupidity and selfishness of the men in power.”

“Is that all?” asked Mrs. Elkhorn. “No wonder you do so well here. Nothing seems to daunt you.”

Frances glowed with the praise. “You’re the one who keeps telling us that this will be our century.”

“And it will be.”

The other women showed up, and the meeting began. Through Mrs. Elkhorn’s introduction and the committee sessions that followed, Frances felt strong and optimistic thanks to her mentor’s help and enthusiasm. Afterward, she went home and caught up on correspondences and other club and committee commitments. She wired Dorothy Tregallis, asking which day would be good to visit.

And before she knew it, it was time to for her and Mallow to head to the Seaforth home. One generally didn’t take a maid for just a dinner visit, but Mallow enjoyed a chance to visit her old friends from her days as a housemaid.

As Frances expected, Charles questioned her about the Colcombe manuscript over dinner, concerned that she was involving herself in something dangerous, or at least unwise. Frances had to deflect him with half-truths about mild inquiries among old civil servants to see if anyone knew anything. Charles felt that the manuscript was still in some drawer somewhere, or perhaps Danny had destroyed it before he died, and his sister Kat had just become confused.

Over port in the drawing room after dinner, Charles moved to another topic.

“I hope you two ladies can help me. I ran into Aubrey Laverton today. He’s member of Parliament for some district down in Suffolk and asked me if I could help get his niece involved in various activities, political teas, volunteer committees, and so forth.”

“Of course,” said Mary. “Who is his niece?”

“I think you know her—I saw you talking to her the other night at the Moores’. The Honorable Miss Claire Chillingford . . .”

Both Mary and Frances giggled.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” said Mary. “Of course we’ll help. It’s just that Miss Chillingford, well she isn’t—we know her somewhat, and I didn’t think that she would find such activities to her taste.”

“You mean she’s rather dim?” asked Charles ruefully. “That’s what Laverton indicated. But perhaps there is something that she could do?”

Mary said she would certainly extend an invitation to next week’s luncheon—several other political wives would be coming, and even if Miss Chillingford could not contribute much, she’d learn something by listening. Charles thought that a splendid idea.

Meanwhile, Frances offered a place in the London Children’s Improvement Society. “We arrange wholesome trips for poor children into the country. Healthful meals and country air. I think helping pick sites for day trips from London should be well within Miss Chillingford’s ability.”

And Charles said if Frances could arrange that—without the sarcastic comments—he would be most grateful.

“Why the sudden interest in improving Miss Chillingford?” asked Mary.

Charles looked very self-satisfied. “It seems I have a piece of society gossip that even my wife has failed to pick up. It’s not official and still very secret, but according to Laverton, it seems Miss Chillingford is to be married and so will enter political circles. And this will entertain you particularly, Franny. Remember at the Moores’, you spent most of the evening with Lord Gareth Blaine? I’ve always found him too outrageous, but he seemed to amuse you.”

Mary closed her eyes, but Frances didn’t get it right away.

“What does Lord Gareth have to do with Miss Chillingford’s future husband?”

“That’s whom she’s marrying—Lord Gareth. I wonder if she’ll be as sympathetic a listener as you were, Franny.”

Frances felt herself getting dizzy and thought she’d faint. It couldn’t possibly . . . it was too ridiculous. All she knew right then was that she had to be alone. “Will you excuse me? I overindulged in the venison. Aunt Felicity always said game meats were unwholesome for young women. Just let me lie down for a few moments.”

As Charles looked on with concern, Mary practically carried Frances to the room that was still kept as her bedroom for when she stayed over. Frances managed to make it to the bed and wait until the door was closed before bursting into tears.

“How could he have . . . the things he said and promised and told me . . .” It seemed like some great cosmic joke that she had met the only person in London who she felt could fully appreciate her, only to have that dream yanked away by Claire Chillingford.

“What he did was unspeakable,” said Mary. “Charles said he never quite trusted Lord Gareth, and now we know why. To do that to anyone, but especially you, dear Franny . . .”

Every conversation, every word they had exchanged, was nothing but a temporary amusement for him, and the kisses were just base lust, Frances realized. She was disgusted with herself for not seeing through the charade.

Charles rapped on the door.

“I’ll be fine. Tell him it’s just a woman’s problem.” She smiled through her tears. “Men never want to hear about that.”

Mary slipped out the door and tried to keep her voice down, but Frances could still hear them. It wouldn’t take Charles long to figure out that this wasn’t about eating too much venison.

“It’s that Lord Gareth, isn’t it? He played with Franny’s heart. As soon as I mentioned his name—”

“Charles, Franny may have become emotionally tangled with him. The man is charming. Don’t overreact. I’m sure Franny will recover in a day or two.”

“Did he make promises to her? Because I will publicly horsewhip him.” Then the old argument started. “If Frances lived at home, like a young woman should, I would’ve seen this coming and headed it off. There are jokes around the club about all the ladies he’s romanced. What could anyone expect? If I had been around while this developed—”

But Mary broke in, unusually sharply for her. “Frances has made the decision to lead her own life, with the triumphs and defeats that come with such a choice. And so far, the former far outnumber the latter. And if I know Franny, she’ll turn this defeat into a victory too. The last thing a girl wants right now is a brother saying, ‘I told you so.’ Go back downstairs and have another glass of port and a cigar.”

And with that, Mary turned away from her astonished husband and reentered the room.

“I’m afraid you heard all that,” she said.

“If you can give speeches like that, you should be in Parliament,” said Frances. “Thank you.”

“You flatter me. Would you like to spend the night here?”

“That’s sweet of you. But I have plenty to keep me busy tomorrow. It’s another soup kitchen tomorrow night.”

“Can’t someone else take your place? Give you a quiet evening?”

At that, color came into Frances’s cheeks. She felt something else pushing away the hurt, at least for now. The Seaforths didn’t wallow in emotion, she remembered. “It will do me good. Down at the hall, everyone’s heart is broken. Perhaps I need reminding there are worse things in life than being courted by a cad.”

At that, Mary hugged Frances. “You really are the best person I know.”

Mallow was summoned from downstairs to help her mistress rearrange herself before leaving. Seeing the remnants of tear tracks, Mallow guessed what had happened but said nothing direct.

“I am sorry you are unwell, my lady.”

“It’s not really that. I had some bad news about Lord Gareth Blaine.”

“I hope he has not come to any harm, my lady.”

“I hope he has,” said Frances with some warmth. “He was toying with me. That’s all I have to say about that.”

Mallow was upset for Lady Frances, but she had always thought there was something a little too cocksure about him. At any rate, there was only one thing to say.

“Yes, my lady.”

Charles dispatched a footman to fetch a hansom after Frances refused his offer of the family car and chauffeur to take her and Mallow home. Frances just tucked herself into a corner of the cab and said nothing. Mallow considered some advice Miss Garritty had given her about taking care of one’s lady during “emotional disturbances.” The ability to soothe a mistress in trying times was what separated the merely competent lady’s maid from the superior lady’s maid.

Mallow cleared her throat, and Frances opened her eyes. “If I may suggest, my lady, you might feel better if we didn’t go directly home.”

“Where do you suggest we go at this hour? Tell the driver to take us round and round London?” Lady Frances had never been impatient with her like that.

“I have an idea, my lady.”

Frances’s eyes got wider, but she said nothing. Her ladyship was too curious to say no. Mallow stuck her head out. “Driver, I have a new address for you.” And she rattled it off.

“Very good, miss,” said the driver.

“Soho,” said Frances. “That address you gave is in Soho, isn’t it? I’ve been there, and I can’t imagine what I would like to see at this hour.”

Of course Lady Frances had been there. It was the raffish haunt of writers and artists, and Mallow was sure her ladyship had met with residents there who would never be admitted to the drawing rooms in Belgravia and Mayfair.

But she was equally sure her ladyship had not been where they were going tonight.

“I trust you will find our trip entertaining, my lady,” said Mallow, and Frances smiled despite her sad feelings. She had sprung enough surprises on Mallow; she would be inclined to allow a surprise in return.

Mallow had some reservations about what she was doing. It was taking a bit of a liberty for a lady’s maid. She felt even more nervous when the cab stopped, at her direction, in front of a rather seedy-looking tea shop. It had seemed so fine when she was a little girl, before she had taken up residence in one of London’s great houses.

“Mallow—”

“Please, my lady, I am sure you will like it,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. She watched Frances climb out of the hansom, her face full of curiosity. Mallow peered in through the shop window and rapped sharply on the door.

“We’re closed,” came the muffled reply.

She rapped again, and now the door opened to reveal a plump, older man, who was already speaking as he opened it. “. . . and if you bother me again I’ll have the police . . .” Then he peered into the dark street and broke into a smile. Mallow answered him with a smile of her own. The shop hadn’t changed over the years, and neither had Mr. Pennystone.

“Bless me, it’s little Junie. What are you doing here? But come on in, you’re always welcome.”

“I brought someone with me,” she said. “My lady, this is Mr. Abel Pennystone, manager of Ely Street Tea Shop and great friend to my late father. Mr. Pennystone, please meet my mistress, Lady Frances Ffolkes.”

“Well, don’t stand in the street. Junie—and my lady,” the man gave a brief bow, “I am pleased to welcome you.”

Mallow felt a shiver of delight in seeing the wonder on her ladyship’s face as they entered. The tea shop was indeed closed, with chairs put up on the table and the floor a little damp after a mopping. But two men in waiters’ uniforms, half undone, stood up and, at Mr. Pennystone’s direction, placed two chairs at table. They smiled briefly but said nothing. The tea shop often employed immigrant waiters, Mallow remembered.

“Now what can I get you, my lady, Miss Mallow?” said Mr. Pennystone grinning.

“Don’t tease me. You know very well,” said Mallow a little coyly. “And you of all people may call me Junie.”

“You’re maid to a lady,” he said. “And so I will call you Miss Mallow.” She felt herself turn pink as Mr. Pennystone headed behind the counter.

“Mallow, what is this place?” asked Frances.

“Just a tea shop, my lady. Mr. Pennystone was an old friend of my father’s and helped out after he died. He’s managed this shop as long as anyone can remember, and for special days, there were special treats here for me and my sisters. As you will see.”

One of the waiters deposited a plate with plain biscuits, and a moment after that, Mr. Pennystone came around with two frothy pink drinks in tall glasses.

“Pink lemonade,” said Frances.

“The very best in London, my lady. In all of England,” said Mallow. Now was the test. Had she judged right? Her ladyship was used to the very best wines and sherries. Mallow took a sip and felt her body practically dissolve in bliss as the sweet-tangy taste slid down her throat and spread throughout her body. But her eyes never left her ladyship’s face.

Frances took a long drink and then leaned back.

“I have never tasted anything like this,” said Frances. “Do you share the recipe?”

“An absolute secret, my lady, but I thank you for the compliment and for taking on little Junie here. We were so thrilled when we heard, back in the neighborhood, that our June Mallow was maid to a titled lady. She’s done us proud.”

“She has done herself proud indeed, Mr. Pennystone. A fine maid . . . and, apparently, full of surprises.” Mallow felt transported at the compliments from Mr. Pennystone and Lady Frances.

“Well, the lads and I will finish tidying up. No rush. Enjoy your drinks.”

Mallow now saw the Ely Street Tea Shop as her mistress must have as she watched her ladyship’s eyes dart all around. The English pastoral scenes she adored as a child were nothing like the oil paintings in great houses. The glassware and china that seemed so elegant back then were chipped. The chairs rocked. Lady Frances liked the drink, that was clear, but what would she think of this place so dear in Mallow’s childhood memories?

“When I was ten, our cook made me the loveliest walnut cake for nursery tea. That was the last time I felt like I do right now.”

Mallow completely relaxed. “Do you feel better, my lady?”

“Oddly, I do.” She toyed with the spoon in her glass. “Do you know, Mallow, he used me—that is, Lord Gareth. His true affections were engaged elsewhere.”

“He was a cad, my lady. He was not worthy of you,” said Mallow. Just let Lord Gareth call on my lady again, thought Mallow. He’d better pray I’m not around to receive him.

“It was more than that. You know I’ve been working to find the manuscript for the Colcombe family. You helped me at the Colcombe’s house. Lord Gareth is part of a group of friends, and they want the manuscript, too. Lord Gareth clearly had other motives. It is very dark, Mallow. I do believe Major Colcombe was killed because of what he wrote.”

Wide-eyed, Mallow just nodded. She had seen a bit of life since going into service, courtships and infidelities, tenderness and fights, protestations of friendship and nasty wit. But at the end of the day, she thought of Society—with a capital S—as one group. They would sleep with each other’s wives—that she knew. But such sordid crimes as theft and murder . . .

They sat in silence for a while, quietly finishing their pink lemonade. The only sounds came from Mr. Pennystone and the waiters cleaning up.

“You look very thoughtful, Mallow.” Her ladyship raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t understand why the major was killed, my lady. Whatever he wrote, why would anyone care?”

“It’s not about money. It’s probably power. People want to be in charge. What was in that manuscript would end someone’s political career. Maybe a lot of people’s political careers.”

Mallow frowned. She wasn’t sure what a “political career” was. These were men who already had houses and servants and all the food they could ever want.

Her ladyship broke into her thoughts. That was a spooky thing about her—she seemed to know what people were thinking. “You’re wondering, what is a political career, and why is it worth so much? It’s not worth a man’s life. Indeed, it may not be worth anything at all.”

“Yes, my lady.” Her mistress now looked restored. The pink lemonade would do that. She looked full of purpose again.

“Do you remember the reception for the French ambassador—when I was home from college? I slipped out to go to my very first suffragist meeting, counting on my mother to not notice among all the people that I had gone. But she did. What did you do, Mallow? You were still just a housemaid then, but what did you do?”

“I lied, my lady,” said Mallow quietly. She remembered. She had never been so scared. “I lied to your mother, Dowager Marchioness of Seaforth, and told her you were in bed with a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed.” It had hurt to do it. She had kept secrets from Lady Frances’s mother before, but this was the first time she had told her a bald-faced lie. The marchioness had been good to her, but Mallow, for reasons she could not articulate, had developed a closer loyalty to her daughter, Lady Frances.

“You weren’t concerned that I was doing something foolish, even dangerous, and that my mother and brother should know about it?”

“I trusted you, my lady.”

“Yes, Mallow. Trust and loyalty. I believe I will need all of your trust and loyalty in the days to come.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Seeing they were done, Mr. Pennystone came back. Frances realized they were there as guests, not customers, so did not insult him by offering to pay. Mallow was glad Frances had accepted the lemonade as a guest.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Pennystone. This has been delightful.”

“You’re welcome anytime, my lady. A friend of Junie’s is a friend of mine.” He then realized his gaff—Lady Frances was not June’s friend but her mistress. He frowned and said, “Beg pardon, my lady, I only meant—”

Frances felt terrible for Mr. Pennystone, who seemed so embarrassed at his error.

“I know what you meant. And there is nothing to apologize for. Thank you again.”

And that was worth everything to Mallow.

Smiling again, Mr. Pennystone dispatched one of the waiters to walk them to a cabstand. He was from somewhere in East Europe—Poland, perhaps—as were so many of the workers in Soho. But his lack of English skills didn’t prevent him from being respectful and attentive, and he saw them into a hansom on the main road.

“Thank you, Mallow. You anticipated my needs, and only the very best lady’s maids can do that.”

“I do my best, my lady,” she said. And then Lady Frances started to laugh out of nowhere.

“Remember Miss Pritchard, my mother’s maid, the one you called the tigress? Can you imagine her bringing my mother to Mr. Pennystone’s for a pink lemonade?”

Mallow knew a proper maid did not show undue emotion in front of her mistress. But there was no helping it—a moment later she was laughing too.