The young footman lifted the dish and carried it upstairs.
Mason made his way into the kitchen. Pearl stood over the pot of vegetables that were supposed to be steaming—but no steam issued from the pot below.
"You know what they say," he joked. "A watched pot will never come to a boil."
Pearl gave him such a crestfallen look he wondered if she actually believed him. "Oh! Well that explains it." She at once took her eyes off the pot and avoided looking at it while she fussed around something else.
Pearl opened the oven. "Mason, could you help me with the roast? I can't quite lift it."
The two servants dragged the blackened pan out of the oven.
Pearl regarded it anxiously. "Is it supposed to look like a lump of coal?" She asked. Without waiting for an answer, she seized the saucepan. "Oh well, we'll just cover it with gravy and they'll never know." She laid the thick, brown goop over the dish, effectively coating the blackness. Once on the platter, Mason did acknowledge that it really didn't look any different at this point than one of Mollie's roasts.
Charlie clattered down the stairs.
"Is the main course coming anytime soon?" He asked. "They finished the soup a good while ago." He nodded to the steady squeaking in the corner. Pearl followed his gesture to behold the mound of soiled dishes that had just been delivered by the waiters in the dining room. Her stomach flipped. Was this why Mollie never ate till long after the others retired for the night?
"Almost ready," she assured the footman, springing into action.
Mason watched as the ladies' maid transferred the large chunks of barely-blanched vegetables from the pot to the serving bowl.
"Pearl, are you quite sure those are cooked?" He asked.
She nodded emphatically. "Oh yes, they've been steaming away for a good while, I'm sure of it."
"But you're lifting them out with your fingers!"
Pearl drew herself up primly and cast a withering look at the man. "My hands are clean, thank you!" She scooted to one side as Charlie seized the serving bowl and left Mason to bear the roast.
"Oh wait, Charlie!" Pearl snatched up the saltcellar and gave the mound of chunks a liberal dusting. "There! That's all right." She watched the men retreat up the stairs, and sighed with relief as the door closed behind them.
When she turned around, Dot stood behind her, regarding her carefully.
"You told old Mason a fib just now," she observed, wagging a finger at her. "You know good and well why poor Mollie won't set foot in this kitchen." Dot nodded to the gaping hole in the wall. They had cleaned up the brick and mortar, but the exposed safe still have everyone the jitters.
"And who would blame her?" Pearl huffed, setting the saltcellar down—next to the other saltcellar. Pearl glanced between them. No, that couldn't be right; one was the sugar bowl, and the other was the saltcellar—so then which one had she used on the vegetables?
Her heart sunk down to her knees.
"Dot?" She asked slowly. "Did you happen to see which of these dishes I was holding just now?"
The other maid shrugged. "Sure, and I was just about to ask you what you needed the sugar for."
Pearl felt her head swimming. Sugar! On the vegetables! Oh the horror!
The Dalton family sat around the table, vainly attempting to make the most of what could only be termed as a terrible meal.
For the Lord and Lady, "making the most" involved copious amounts of wine. Agatha and Tom had to settle for eating very carefully, and taking small bites. The vegetables had been dusted with sugar, and were undercooked and nearly raw, while the bread and the roast both had been fried into oblivion. The rain pounded the window as Agatha felt the gritty crunch of meat reduced to charcoal between her teeth.
Her mother giggled; too much wine with not enough food had made Lady Dalton very chatty, showing a whimsical side usually curtailed by her innate decorum.
"So, Aggie dear," she chirruped, "have you something to tell your father and I?"
Agatha welcomed this distraction from the sorry meal, but she was not so sure about the topic. "What do you mean, Mother?"
"Oh come!" Lady Dalton took another sip. "The other day when we were in town, I saw you talking at length with Cordelia Williams' son!"
"James?" Agatha grimaced. "Ugh, no! He accosted me; I was just trying to be polite, Mother, there is nothing between us!" she shook her head.
Lord Dalton beckoned to Mason. "Is Mollie in the kitchens, perchance?" He asked. "Run and fetch her for us."
Mason winced ever so slightly. "Um, sir, I am afraid Mollie isn't feeling well—"
Lord Dalton glanced at the table of utter failure and muttered, "So we have noticed."
"—she begged leave to have the night off and retire to her room once dinner was served, sir. I am afraid she is not able to present herself."
His Lordship sighed. "Yes, well, you can inform the poor girl that she needn't worry about preparing our meals until she has recovered from her... ordeal, as we will be taking our meals in town until she is… ready to resume her duties."
Mason nodded. "Yes sir."
Lady Dalton overheard the hushed conversation, and made no attempt to be discreet about it. "Oh, is that why the meals have been so bloody awful since the robbery?" She whined. "Such a shame, Mollie has always been such a wonderful cook, I wonder what's come over her!" She turned back to her daughter. "Now Agatha, James Williams might not appeal to you, and that's quite all right—but what about Sir Martin's son? A squire would not be a bad match for us. He’s got plenty of land, and a good income."
Agatha wrinkled her nose. "Jacob Martin is obsessed with his possessions and I have no desire to be one of them!"
"What about the governor's son, out in Hampshire? I hear he's very good looking."
"Hmm,
