she looked every inch the housekeeper she wished to portray.
The butler who answered her knock seemed to feel the same, for he did not even question her status. His demeanor was one of pedantic pleasantness, exacerbated by a round jolliness customarily encountered among bakers or butchers not butlers. He sported a stout neck and a head of wildly bushy white hair that called to mind nothing so much as a cauliflower.
“Good afternoon,” said Alexia, bobbing a curtsy. “I heard your establishment was in need of new staff, and I have come to inquire about the position.”
The butler looked her up and down, pursing his lips. “We did lose our cook several weeks ago. We have been doing fine with a temporary, and we certainly don’t wish to take on someone in your condition. You can understand that.” It was said kindly, but most firmly, and meant to discourage.
Alexia stiffened her spine. “Oh, yes, sir. My lying-in shouldn’t be a day over a fortnight, and I do make the best calf’s-feet jelly you will ever taste.” Alexia took a gamble with that. The butler looked like the kind of man who liked jelly, his shape being of the jelly inclination already.
She was right. His squinty eyes lit with pleasure. “Oh, well, if that is the case. Have you references?”
“The very best, from Lady Maccon herself, sir.”
“Indeed? How comprehensive is your knowledge of herbs and spices? Our gentlemen residents, you understand, are mostly bachelors. Their table requirements are simple, but their extracurricular requests can be a tad esoteric.”
Alexia pretended shock.
The butler made haste to correct any miscommunication. “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. They simply may ask for quantities of dried herbs for their experiments. They are all men of intellect.”
“Ah. As to that, my knowledge is unequaled by any I have ever met before or since.” Alexia was rather enjoying bragging about things about which she knew absolutely nothing.
“I should find that very hard to believe. Our previous cook was a renowned expert in the medicinal arts. However, do come in, Mrs. . . . ?”
Alexia scrabbled for a name, then came up with the best she could at short notice. “Floote. Mrs. Floote.”
This butler didn’t seem to know
It was like no kitchen Alexia had ever seen. Not that she had spent much time in kitchens, but she felt she was at least familiar with the general expectations of such a utilitarian room. This one was pristinely clean and boasted not only the requisite number of pots and pans, but also steam devices, one or two massive measuring buckets, and what looked like glass jars filled with specimen samples lining the counters. It resembled the combination of a bottling factory, a brewery, and Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber.
Alexia made no attempt to disguise her astonishment—any normal housekeeper would be as surprised as she upon seeing such a strange cooking arena. “My goodness, what a peculiar arrangement of furnishings and utensils.”
They were alone in the kitchen, and it was just that time of the afternoon when most household staff had a brief moment to satisfy their own concerns before the tea was called for.
“Ah, yes, our previous cook had some interest in other endeavors apart from meal preparation. She was a kind of intellectual herself, if you would allow such a thing in a female. My employers sometimes encourage aberrant behavior.”
Alexia, having spent a goodly number of years immersed in books and having attended many Royal Society presentations, not to mention her intimacy with Madame Lefoux, could indeed allow such things in females, but in her current guise forbore to say so. Instead, she looked around in silence. Only to notice a prevalence of octopuses. They were positively everywhere, stamped onto jar lids and labels, etched into the handles of iron skillets, engraved onto the sides of copper pots, and even pressed into the top of a vat of soap set out to harden on a sideboard.
“My, someone certainly has an affection for cephalopods.” Alexia waddled over, all casualness, to examine a row of very small bottles of dark brown glass and mysterious content. They were corked up, each cork boasting a small glass octopus pressed into it in a range of colors. Otherwise, there was no mention made of the content.
She reached to pick one up only to find that the butler, in the silent manner customary to the breed, had sidled up next to her. “I should not, Mrs. Floote, if I were you. Our previous cook had an interest in rather more hazardous forms of distillery and preservation as well.”
“What happened to the good lady, sir?” Alexia asked with a forced lightness in tone.
“She stopped. If I were you, I should take particular care with that yellow octopus there.”
Alexia moved hurriedly away from the whole row of little bottles, suddenly feeling that they were precariously placed on their shelf.
The butler looked her up and down. “There are many stairs in this house, you understand, Mrs. Floote? You will not be able to remain in only the kitchen. How am I to be convinced you are capable of your duties?”
Alexia seized upon this as a perfect opportunity to further her investigations. “Well, I am interested in seeing the accommodations, should you choose to engage my services. If you would be so kind as to show me to the staff quarters, I can demonstrate my mobility.”
The butler nodded and gestured her toward a back staircase that wound up through the house to the attic apartments. The room he eventually shepherded her into was a tiny, cramped cell that still contained some remnants of its previous occupant, just as Alexia had hoped. More small brown bottles and a few curious-looking vials lay about. A handkerchief was spread across the windowsill, upon which bunches of herbs lay drying.
“Of course, we will clear out these quarters prior to new occupation.” The butler curled his lip as he looked around.
Small cloth-bound notebooks were scattered here and there; several were quite dusty with neglect. There were also bits of scrap paper and even what looked to be some kind of ledger.
“Your previous cook was literate, sir?”
“I warned you she was peculiar.”
Alexia took another look around and then, thinking rapidly, maneuvered toward the small bed. “Oh, dear, perhaps those stairs were a tad much given my present condition. I seem to be feeling rather overstimulated.” She collapsed onto the bed, leaning back dramatically and almost overbalancing. It was a paltry performance.
Nevertheless, the butler seemed convinced. “Oh, I say, Mrs. Floote. This simply isn’t on. Really, we can’t consider anyone who—”
Alexia cut him off by groaning and clutching at her stomach significantly.
The man blanched.
“Perhaps if I could have a little moment to recover, sir?”
The butler looked like he would prefer to be anywhere else but there. “I shall fetch you a glass of water, shall I? Perhaps some, er, jelly?”
“Oh, yes, capital idea. Do take your time.”
At which he hurried out.
Immediately, Alexia lurched upright, an exercise that made up in efficiency what it lacked in dignity, and began searching the room. She found very little memorabilia with regards to the occupant’s personality, but there were even more notebooks and mysterious bottles tucked away in the bedside drawer and the wardrobe. She tucked anything that looked to be secret or significant into the stealth pockets of her parasol. Then, knowing she must limit herself, she took what seemed to be the most recent notebook and one that looked to be the oldest and most dusty, along with a neatly printed ledger and bundled them up in Felicity’s shawl. The parasol was clanking slightly and drooping from its excess load, and she thought the knitwear bundle must look very suspicious, but when the butler returned, he was so overjoyed to find her recovered he didn’t notice either.
Alexia decided to make good her escape. Saying she felt weak and had best hurry home before nightfall, she moved toward the door. The butler led her downstairs, declining to offer her the position, despite her calf’s-foot jelly, but suggesting she call round in several months when she had recovered from her inconvenience, jelly apparently being quite the alluring prospect.
He was just letting her out when a voice stopped them both in their tracks. “Well, gracious me. Miss Tarabotti?”
