“But how did it happen?”
I stared at her, unable to concoct a plausible excuse. Instead, I changed the subject. “What did Mrs. Crossey say?”
Frustration clouded her sky-blue eyes, but she let it go. “She sent me to fetch you. Just after Mr. MacDougall pulled her into his office for a private word. He didn’t look happy, and neither did she when she came back. Are you in trouble?”
“I don’t know.” And truly I didn’t. “Did he say something?”
“Not to me. They don’t tell me anything.”
I gnawed my bottom lip. Would she tell me if she could? I had no reason to think so.
“I’d have a care if I were you,” she added. “It isn’t wise to test Mr. MacDougall’s patience, not unless you… you know.” She pulled her thumb across her neck and stuck out her tongue, mimicking a corpse.
“I know.” I also knew if Mrs. Crossey couldn’t convince him otherwise, it wouldn’t make a shred of difference whether I returned to the kitchen quickly or not.
“Then, c’mon,” she said. “Before he notices we’re both gone.”
Why was she trying to help me? Why was she taking any notice of me at all? This was all very strange. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To get me back to the kitchen?”
She tensed and her smile faded. “Of course, it is. If you’re let go, who knows who they’ll stick in this room. My last roommate snored. I don’t want to go through that again. Now, are you coming or not?”
The smart thing to do would be to go with her, but still I held back. What if she asked more questions? What if I let something slip?
“You go ahead,” I said. “I need to change.” I brushed at the dirt along my side, but it didn’t do any good.
Her nose wrinkled. “I guess an apron can’t even hide that. Don’t take too long, though.”
When she closed the door, I breathed more easily, though I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. I still had to face Mr. MacDougall.
CHAPTER SIX
I entered the Great Kitchen to find Mr. MacDougall standing at the center of the room, announcing the evening assignments. We were all expected to attend these daily meetings—from the head chef, to the legion of cooks, bakers, and confectioners who reported to him, to the kitchen and scullery maids, including myself.
I bent my head and kept to the perimeter, weaving past the long row of stoves and worktables until I came to the corner where I helped Mrs. Crossey prepare the servants’ daily meals.
She was standing over a tall copper pot, pouring in a stream of pearl barley with one hand and stirring with the other.
“What did I miss?” I whispered when I came up beside her, catching the scent of her savory soup.
“A bit of drama, to be sure,” she whispered back. “The Royals want a private dinner alone with the children. Chef is beside himself.”
It was no secret the head chef, a Frenchman with an affinity for fussy meals, had been working on a welcome home feast for well over a week. Pears and plums had been soaking in barrels of imported rum for days, molded cakes and pies were being assembled in the pastry room, and a beef shank was turning on a spit in the largest of the kitchen’s hearths.
The man was pacing in front of it, spewing an angry stream of foreign invectives.
“Of course, I share your disappointment.” Mr. MacDougall stood to his fullest height and stared down his nose at the chef. “But do not forget, we serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not the other way around. Perhaps some of your delicacies might be reserved for the masquerade ball?”
The man wheeled on the House Steward. “Bal masqué? Quel bal masqué?”
Mr. MacDougall swallowed, making his Adam’s apple dance. “Surely, you’ve been consulted, Chef. It’s to be held Friday next.”
“Mon dieu!” The Frenchman turned on his heels, threw up his hands, and spewed a fresh stream of French insults at the roasting carcass. Then he stormed out of the room, nearly splitting the swinging door in two as he went.
It wasn’t the first time those in charge of the kitchen hadn’t been apprised of an important event. Though the Lord Chamberlain and his staff planned and organized most of the castle’s ceremonies and special occasions, orders to the kitchen staff and servants were handled by the Master of the Household, who delegated the duty through a long line of underlings. Sometimes the pertinent information was relayed in timely fashion, sometimes it was delayed, and other times it never trickled down at all.
Cynics blamed territorial grudges and strategic undermining, but it was easy to see how information could slip through the cavernous cracks of the castle’s convoluted hierarchy.
Truly, it was no wonder Prince Albert wanted to simplify the mess with his efficiency campaign. It was just unfortunate that so far the only simplifying was dismissing the maids, pages, and footmen who merely took the orders, and not the legion of managerial deputies and assistants who gave them.
But if that particular injustice had dawned on Mr. MacDougall, he didn’t show it as he smoothed his wiry eyebrows before turning and scanning the room, meeting every eye, daring anyone to speak. He stopped when he saw me.
“Jane Shackle,” he growled. “Where have you been?”
I looked at Mrs. Crossey. She looked away. I searched for Marlie two tables away. She was absorbed in removing a bit of grime from under her fingernail, conveniently ignoring my distress.
I was on my own.
“Me, sir?” My voice cracked and I hid my hands to hide the gloves that, despite my efforts with water and cloth, still bore the signs of my earlier struggle. “I’ve been right here.”
I might have flushed at the lie, but I’d done so much of it today, I was growing rather used to it.
Mr. MacDougall frowned. “I will have a word with you in my office. Now.”
I sent Mrs. Crossey a pleading look.
She nudged her chin forward ever so
