“ ’Ead between yer knees,” the cook said practically.
“I in’t gonna faint!” Gracie was defensive, partly because she was not absolutely sure it was true. They were being kind. There was nothing to fight, and she did not know where to direct her emotions. “If ’e in’t ’ere, where’s ’e gorn?” She could not say that he had told no one, because Tilda was supposed to be too ill to know. She hoped fervently that when Tilda had called here asking for Martin herself, she had looked sufficiently distraught to appear on the edge of serious illness.
“We dunno,” Dottie answered before Mrs. Culpepper had weighed her own reply. The cook shot her a sharp glance of warning, but whether it was to guard a secret or to keep from unnecessary hurt, there was no way to tell.
“An’ why should yer know, girl!” Mrs. Culpepper found her tongue. “In’t nuffink ter do wif yer where the master sends ’is staff, now is it?”
Dottie put the tea down in front of Gracie. “You drink that,” she ordered. “O’ course it in’t, Mrs. Culpepper,” she agreed obediently. “But yer’d think as Bella’d know, all the same.” She turned to Gracie again. “Bella’s our parlor maid, and she kinda liked Martin. Nice, ’e were, too. I liked ’im meself… in a friendly sort o’ way,” she added quickly.
“Yer got too busy a tongue in yer ’ead!” Mrs. Culpepper said critically. “If Bella knows where ’e’s gorn, wot’s it she should tell you, eh?”
Dottie shrugged. “I know,” she said without resentment. Then her face clouded. “But I wish as I knew wot ’ad ’appened ter Martin meself.”
“Don’ yer go talkin’ like that, you stupid girl!” Mrs. Culpepper snapped in sudden rage, her face pink. She slammed the bowl down on the table. “Anyone’d think as ’e were dead, or summink ’appened to ’im! Nothin’s ’appened to ’im! ’E just in’t ’ere, that’s all. You button yer lip, my girl, an’ go an’ do summink useful. Go an’ grate them ol’ potatoes ready ter soak. Yer can’t ne’er ’ave too much starch. Don’ stand there like yer was a ruddy ornament!”
Dottie pushed her hair back with her hand, shrugged good-naturedly, and wandered off to the scullery to do as she was told.
“I’m glad nuthin’ in’t ’appened to ’im,” Gracie said with suitable humility. “But I still gotter tell ’im about Tilda.” She knew she was pressing her good fortune, but she had no choice. So far she had learned no more than Tilda had already told them. “Somebody’s gotta know, in’t they?”
“O’ course somebody ’as,” Mrs. Culpepper agreed, reaching for a baking tin and a muslin cloth with a little butter on it. She greased the tin with a single, practiced movement. “But it in’t me.”
Gracie took a sip of the tea. “Tilda said as ’e were Mr. Stephen’s valet. ’As ’e got a new one, then?”
Mrs. Culpepper looked up sharply. “No, ’e ’asn’t. Don’ yer go…” Then her face softened. “Look, girl, I can see that yer upset, an’ it’s awful ’ard ter face someone real sick, as yer can’t ’elp. Gawd knows, I wouldn’t want a dog ter die alone, but so ’elp me, I dunno where Martin’s gorn, an’ that’s the Gawd’s truth. ’Ceptin’ ’e’s a good man, an’ I don’t believe as ’e’d ne’er give no one any trouble.”
Gracie sniffed and blinked, her mind on Tilda and the fear inside her. It had been almost a week already. Why was there no letter, no message? “Wot’s ’e like, Mr. Stephen? Would ’e get rid o’ someone if they ’adn’t done nothin’ wrong?”
Mrs. Culpepper wiped her hands on her apron, abandoned the batter and poured herself a cup of tea. “Lord knows, girl,” she said, shaking her head. “ ’E’s a poor mixed-over kind o’ man. But even on ’is worst days I don’t think as ’e would ’a got rid o’ Martin, ’cos Martin’s the only one wot can do a thing wit ’im when ’e gets bad.”
Gracie tried hard to keep her expression calm, and knew she did not entirely succeed. This was new information, and it alarmed her even though she was not sure if she understood it. She looked up at Mrs. Culpepper, blinking several times to try to disguise her thoughts. “Yer mean when ’e’s sick, like?”
Mrs. Culpepper gave a start and did not reply. Her hand stayed frozen on the handle of her cup.
Gracie was afraid she had made her first serious mistake, but she knew enough not to try to mend it. She said nothing, waiting for Mrs. Culpepper to speak first.
“Yer could say that,” Mrs. Culpepper conceded at last, raising the cup to her lips and sipping the hot tea. “An’ I’m not ’ere ter say diff’rent.” That was a warning.
Gracie understood instantly.
“ ’Course not,” Gracie said demurely. “Nobody says diff’rent. In’t our place.”
“Not that I’m not tempted, sometimes, mind!” Mrs. Culpepper added with some heat, just as the very handsome parlor maid came into the kitchen and stopped abruptly. “You’ve not come for luncheon already, ’ave yer?” Mrs. Culpepper said in amazement. “I dunno where the day’s gorn ter. I in’t nothin’ like ready.”
“No, no!” Bella assured her. “Loads of time.” She looked curiously at Gracie. She must have overheard the last few words of the conversation. “Not that I wouldn’t fancy a cup of tea myself, if it’s hot,” she added.
“This is Gracie,” Mrs. Culpepper said, suddenly recalling Gracie’s name. “She’s come ’cos Martin’s sister’s a friend of ’ers, an’ it seems the poor girl ’as the rheumatical fever, an’ she’s like ter dyin’, so Gracie’s lookin’ for Martin ter tell ’im, which is terrible ’ard.”
Bella shook her head, her face grave. “I wish we could help you, but we don’t know where he is,” she said candidly. “Usually when Mr. Stephen goes away it’s in the middle of the morning, and we all know for days beforehand, but this is different… He just… isn’t here.”
Gracie was not going to give up without trying every avenue. “Mrs. Culpepper’s been very gracious,” she said warmly. “An’ she says as Mr. Garrick really depended on Martin, so ’e wouldn’t a’ got rid of ’im on a fancy, like.”
Bella’s face pinched with anger. “He behaved pretty rotten at times. My ma’d have taken a slipper to me if I’d thrown tantrums the way he does, kicking and shouting and-”
“Bella!” Mrs. Culpepper said warningly, her voice sharp.
“Well, goes on like a three-year-old, he does sometimes!” Bella protested, her cheeks flushed. “And poor Martin put up with it without a word of complaint. Cleaning up behind him, listening to him weeping and wailing about everything you could name, or just sitting there like the misery of the whole world was on his plate. You’d-”
“Yer’d best keep a still tongue in yer ’ead, my girl, or yer’ll ’ave the misery o’ the world on your plate, an’ all!” Mrs. Culpepper warned her. “Yer might be an ’andsome piece, as speaks like a lady, but yer’ll be out in the street in ’alf a trice, wi’ yer bags in yer ’and an’ no character if the master catches yer talkin’ about Mr. Stephen ter strangers, an’ that’s a fact!” There was a note of urgency in her voice, and her black eyes were sharp. Gracie was sure it was not anger or dislike but affection which prompted her.
Bella sat down on the other kitchen chair, her skirts swirling around her, her white lace apron clean and starched stiff. “It’s not fair!” she said fiercely. “What that man put up with is more than a soul should take. And if they’ve put him out…”
“ ’Course they haven’t put him out, yer daft a’p’orth!” a young footman said as he came in. His hair grew up in a quiff on his forehead; his breeches were still a fraction too large for him. Gracie guessed that he had only just graduated from bootboy within the last few weeks.
Bella rounded on him. “And how come you know so much, Clarence Smith?”
“ ’Cos I see things what you don’t!” he retorted. “There’s nobody but Martin can do anything with him when he gets one of his black miseries. And nobody else even tries, when he flies into one of his rages. I wouldn’t try for all the tea in China. Even Mr. Lyman’s scared of him… and Mrs. Somerton. And I didn’t think as Mrs. Somerton was scared of nothing. I’d have put a shilling on her against the dragon, never mind St. George, an’ all.”
“You get about your business, Clarence, afore I report you ter Mr. Lyman fer lip!” Mrs. Culpepper said tartly. “Yer’ll be eatin’ yer supper out in the scullery, an’ lucky ter get bread and drippin’, if ’e catches yer.”
“It’s true!” Clarence said indignantly.
“True in’t got nothin’ ter do with it, yer stupid article!” she retorted. “Sometimes I think yer in’t got the wits yer was born with. Get on and carry them coals through fer Bella. On with yer.”
“Yes, Mrs. Culpepper,” he said obediently, perhaps recognizing in her voice anxiety rather than criticism.
Gracie thought for a moment that perhaps it would be fun to work in a large house, just for a week or two. But of course it was not nearly as important as what she was doing. She watched as Clarence went out to perform his
