CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

A Disruption at the Dinner Hour

“It is unwise for the old to forget they were once young.”

 

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

“Have you heard anything from Miss Thorne, McGowan?”

“Not yet, madam,” mumbled Amelia around her mouthful of hairpins.

Mrs. Fitzherbert sat at her dressing table, staring into her mirror. Amelia stood behind her, brushing her silvered hair.

Mrs. Fitzherbert had lovely hair—thick and lustrous, illuminated by its streaks of silver. Amelia found herself grateful for her experience dressing Miss Thorne’s unruly, voluminous mane. By comparison, Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hair was easy as pie.

It was evening and nearing six o’clock. Mrs. Fitzherbert had declared that dinner would be at half seven, which meant—owing to the peculiarities of etiquette around even family dinners—that Amelia should have all three ladies dressed and fit to be seen by seven at the latest.

“Perhaps it is over,” Mrs. Fitzherbert was saying. There was no need to wonder what “it” was. “Perhaps it truly has been destroyed, or, better, it was found to be worthless, and I am an old fool, who imagines herself to be of more importance than she is.” She paused, waiting for Amelia to say something reassuring. Amelia found herself stymied by a particularly stubborn lock that refused to remain in place.

“You have heard nothing among the staff?” Mrs. Fitzherbert prompted. “Seen nothing?”

“Nothing useful, madam.” Amelia pulled the pin out and replaced it, more carefully this time.

It was not for lack of trying. While Mrs. Fitzherbert and her daughters had been occupied with receiving her callers, Amelia had taken a heap of mending and ironing downstairs to the sewing room. She had spent the midday and much of the afternoon alternating between genuine work and talking with the rest of the staff.

She quickly found that the Fitzherbert household was as much a hive of gossip as any other house where she’d ever been employed. Despite recent events, many of the occupants enjoyed having a new ear to listen to old stories.

She had learned all about Mr. Holm’s no-good brother and Mrs. DeLupe’s worries about what would happen to them all if madam left for the Continent permanently. She’d learned that the youngest chambermaid, Catie, was sweet on Tom Faller, and that her older counterpart, Belinda, was trying in vain to reason her out of her daydream. The head footman, Peters, drank too much on payday; and the undergroom, Wilson, sold extra feed on the sly. Cook had a follower who came by early Sunday mornings. Molly in the scullery was rumored to have a baby, whom she kept with her sister in Camden.

Faller, of course, took his sweeteners from the young ladies and anyone else who needed a favor. Belinda hinted that she thought he might be doing more with them than just passing love notes. Catie gave her a pinch and told her she had gone too far.

All of them agreed it was just too bad that Burrowes had to be dismissed. The debates about whether she’d actually committed the theft were fierce and—at least at the time Amelia was there to witness this—ended in Mrs. DeLupe declaring the subject off limits.

But no one had so far suggested an alternate possibility among the staff. Mr. Holm had apparently taken the theft very personally and patrolled the house every hour on the hour to make sure all was as it should be.

“What about Faller?” Amelia asked. “He seems . . . Well, I wouldn’t trust him to mind the henhouse, if you see what I mean.”

“I should think not!” Belinda bit off her thread. “That one’s out for whatever he can get. You know the kind.”

“I most certainly do,” murmured Amelia.

“He’s got a bit on the side, too. Thinks nobody knows, but he’s always running off to see her.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Catie stoutly. “He goes to visit his sister. He told me so. She’s poorly.”

“Poorly sister, is it?” Belinda’s tone told Amelia exactly what she thought of that. “How kind of him. Probably where he is now, I shouldn’t wonder.” She glanced at the doorway. “Mr. Holm sent him out on an errand an hour or more ago, and he ain’t back yet.”

And he still wasn’t back when the big wall clock in the servants’ hall ticked over to four, signaling the end of visiting hours. Nor was he back at half past, when Amelia gathered her mending and climbed back up to be ready should Mrs. Fitzherbert need her before it was time to begin getting changed for dinner.

Now here it was, with the clocks chiming six and the church bells outside beginning their ragged chorus over the rooftops, and as far as Amelia knew, Faller was still gone.

“If you like,” said Amelia to Mrs. Fitzherbert as she settled the lace cap in place, “I can make an excuse to go out and see if Miss Thorne’s learned anything new.”

“No, it’s getting late, and it would look odd for you to be running an errand for me at this hour,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Besides, I need you to help keep an eye on my girls. I hardly like to ask a member of my staff to spy.” She gave a small laugh. “But then, that is the point of your being here, isn’t it?”

Amelia shared her smile, but it did not last.

“Has Minney said anything in your hearing?” asked Mrs. Fitzherbert anxiously. “About her plans? About Captain Dawson?”

“No, madam.” Amelia carefully set aside the memory of two silhouettes in the garden. She knew what it was to love someone when the world disapproved. She would not give away Minney Seymore’s secrets unless she absolutely had to.

Mrs. Fitzherbert’s face grew pensive. Amelia took a deep breath.

“Madam, I’ve been with Miss Thorne for a little bit now, and I’ve seen the way things work. Sometimes, it’s necessary to let events unspool, if you see what I mean, in order to find out what’s really going on, and sometimes that’s very hard.”

“Yes, I believe I see what you mean. But in the case of an impetuous young woman, too long a leash can only lead to disaster. Even when there are no . . . additional complications.” Mrs. Fitzherbert gazed into her mirror for a long moment. Her hand strayed to the miniature she wore at her throat. Then she turned abruptly, angrily, away. “You may go and see to the girls now, McGowan. I have some additional letters that must be written before the evening post leaves.”

“Very good—” began Amelia, but she was interrupted by a scratching at the door. When the door opened, it was Mr. Holm at the threshold, looking unusually hesitant.

Mrs. Fitzherbert frowned. “What is it, Holm?”

The butler was a tall, stern man, perfectly capable of looming over most of the footmen and underbutlers. But now he looked as if he were trying to shrink down inside his own coat. “I beg your pardon, madam, but it seems . . . Faller has gone missing.”

Amelia’s shoulders stiffened.

“Faller?” Mrs. Fitzherbert frowned. “The footman? How has he gone missing?”

“I sent him out this morning with an order for more of Fontane’s silver polish. It should not have taken him more than an hour. He has not returned.”

Amelia remembered just that morning, when she’d met Faller on the stairs, his box on his shoulder and his face tight with disappointment. She remembered him sitting slumped in his room. She’d thought he was done with . . . whatever it had been.

Now it seemed she’d been wrong.

Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand was trembling where it lay on her dressing table, but her voice remained clear.

“What a disappointment,” she said coolly. “If he does return, bring him to me. I will listen to his explanation. It may be he has met with some mischance.”

“Yes, madam.” Mr. Holm bowed and showed himself out, his manner much more assured than when he had entered.

Amelia resisted an urge to sniff. Worried she’d scold him, I shouldn’t wonder, and glad she didn’t.

But Amelia set this aside, too. She had more urgent matters to consider.

“Madam?” she said. “We should let Miss Thorne know about this.”

But Mrs. Fitzherbert hesitated. “Yes. I’m afraid you’re right. It is possible Faller has met with some accident, or he may have gone somewhere to get drunk, although he’s never shown any tendency to that before.” Her hand trembled again. “He has never done anything . . . He has always done his work well, never been subject to discipline . . .” Clearly, she was trying to remember what she knew of the young man—when he’d been hired, how he’d come to her and why—and was finding she could not.

Which was the way of it, even in a good household. Most of the servants were unknowns, until they became difficulties.

Amelia took a deep breath. The ironclad rule against carrying tales from belowstairs to abovestairs was difficult to break. “There is talk that he’s been taking extra money on the side where maybe he shouldn’t.”

“Do you think Faller is the thief?” asked Mrs. Fitzherbert.

Honesty wrestled briefly with conscience, but it was duty that decided matters.

“I think it’s possible,” she said. “Or maybe helped the thief. I don’t have proof, but . . . now . . .” She found she didn’t have a satisfactory way to finish that sentence.

“Yes, now.” Mrs. Fitzherbert rubbed her brow. “Do let Miss Thorne know. I’ll go check on the girls, and then you can get them ready for dinner.”

Make sure the girls are staying put, Amelia translated.

“Yes, madam.”

* * *

Amelia left via the door to her own room. She stood there a moment, considering what she should do. Then she hurried out into the corridor and down the servants’ stairs.

Everybody who was still belowstairs seemed to be talking in whispers. Mr. Holm was in his pantry, engaged in hushed and urgent conversation with Mrs. DeLupe. The whole brotherhood of footmen was in the hall, whispering and snickering. Amelia hurried past them all, apparently unnoticed.

The corridor to the men’s quarters was empty, and the door to Faller’s room was unlocked. Amelia slipped inside as quickly as she could and closed the door behind her.

She looked under the bed first. His box was there, and a trunk stood at the foot of the narrow bed. Even more telling, his dressing table still had its brushes and combs, not to mention a good razor was beside the basin.

Wherever Faller had gone, he planned to return. No man would leave his razor and comb behind if he was doing a midnight flit.

At least not if it was planned.

Amelia bit her lip. She also slipped back into the corridor. It would not do to be caught in here.

She made her way back to the kitchen. There she found her luck was with her. Belinda was helping Cook assemble a tray of biscuits and tea.

“Is that for the young ladies?” she asked, all casual, as she walked in.

“’S right,” said Belinda. “Her Young Highness decided she must have her tea, even with dinner almost ready.”

“I expect they’re bored silly after sitting all day in the drawing room and just want something to do with themselves,” said Amelia. “I can take it up if you like. Miss Seymore’s in a temper.” Which was also a guess, but seemed likely, given her situation. “No need for you to have to take the brunt of it, and I’ve got to get them ready for dinner, anyway.”

“Thanks, McGowan,” said Belinda. “She really can be a terror that one.”

Amelia smiled and took the heavy tray.

Going up a narrow stair with a tray and not spilling or rattling the contents was an art form. So was pausing at the door long enough to manage the delicate process of shifting the tray just so one could knock. It could take a while, and, if managed correctly, it tended to allow one to hear bits of any conversation happening on the other side of the door.

“What have you done, Minney?” Mary Ann demanded.

“Nothing! Nothing new. It’s all fine, Mary Ann.”

“It is not! Minney! Do you know where Faller’s gone?”

“No, of course not. Why would I? Why are you even bothering your head about it?”

“Because he could be off on one of your errands.”

“Well, he’s not,” she snapped, but her tone immediately grew much more conciliatory. Amelia could picture Miss Seymore taking Miss Mary Ann’s hand. “Everything will be fine. I’m sure he’s just late. Or with his lady friend. And why shouldn’t he be?”

Movement caught Amelia’s eye. A door down the hall opened, and Catie emerged with a load of linens in her arms. Amelia scratched at the door and nudged it open.

“I’ve brought your tea,” she announced, trying to sound genuinely cheerful and not disappointed at being forced to interrupt this extremely interesting conversation.

“Thank you, McGowan,” said Miss Seymore, but she kept all her attention on her sister. “You can put it here.” She waved vaguely in the direction of the tea table.

Another skill one picked up in service was watching out of the corner of one’s eye. Amelia set the tray down, careful not to rattle or splash, all the time watching how Mary Ann slowly wilted under her sister’s determined glower.

“Is there anything else you need?” Amelia asked.

“No,” said Miss Seymore.

“Miss Mary Ann?” Amelia prompted.

Mary Ann glared at her sister. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, I shall be right here.” Amelia paused. “You might do well to remember that.”

That caught Miss Seymore’s attention. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, miss,” Amelia told her. “Except that madam is worried, and you are under watch.”

Miss Seymore’s eyes narrowed. “By you?”

“I didn’t say so, miss,” replied Amelia. “But if I was you, I’d drink my tea and find where I put my patience, so madam can relax again. Miss.” She bobbed a curtsy. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be back in time to get you ready for dinner.”

She turned and made as if to breeze out of the room, but as expected, Miss Seymore stopped her before she reached the door.

“McGowan. Wait a minute.”

“Minney!” groaned Miss Mary Ann. “What are you doing?”

Miss Seymore ignored her. “Faller said you are a friend. Are you my friend?”

“I should hope so, miss.”

Miss Seymore bit her lip. “Even if . . . even if I should ever need your help, and I needed you not to tell Mama?”

Amelia let her gaze slip from Miss Seymore to Miss Mary Ann. “I should not like to be involved in anything wrong, miss.”

“Minney, stop it,” said Mary Ann. “You’re only going to get yourself into more trouble!”

“No, I’m not, because McGowan is going to help us. Aren’t you, McGowan?”

“I’m sure I’m always glad to help, miss.”

“There, you see?” But Miss Seymore’s gaiety was forced. She also went to her dresser and pulled out her reticule. She brought out two sovereigns and laid them in Amelia’s hand.

“And there’s to show you I don’t forget people who help me.” She closed Amelia’s hand around the coins.

Amelia made her curtsy and her escape.

Once in the corridor, Amelia hesitated. Then she hurried back to her room, tossed the coins onto her dressing table, and opened her trunk. She’d packed away some writing supplies when she left, and now she pulled out pen and paper and a carefully stoppered bottle of ink. She wrote furiously, trusting that Alice would be able to translate any mistakes. There was no time to be careful.

The letter finished, she made herself walk casually down to the servants’ hall. No one took special note of her. Preparations for dinner were well underway, and even with Mrs. Fitzherbert dining en famille, there was still a great deal to be done.

Amelia slipped out the side door and climbed up the area stairs into the warm summer evening.

“Miss.” Jim Geery, who’d greeted her when she first arrived, was on watch. He was just as saucy as he had been that other day, but sober and fairly sharp, if Amelia was any judge.

“I’ve a message that’s got to get to Orchard Street quick as can be.”

She waited for him to ask questions or demand his own sweetener for the job, but he just pocketed the note and raised his hat. “Your servant, miss.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. But as she turned away, Amelia froze, the hair rising on her neck. She was certain she had seen movement, that someone was watching. But Geery was already jogging across the street, without a glance behind.

Amelia made herself turn, made herself look into the shadows between the house and the mews again.

But there was no one there.