She gathered up the items she had brought and stuffed them back into her pouch. She turned to me again.
“Close the fireplace behind yourself, if you would.” She gazed up to the tops of the towering shelves and grabbed the rolling ladder. “I’ve a bit more work to do here.”
~ ~ ~
The morning of the ball, I found Mrs. Crossey in our usual corner of the Great Kitchen, staring into her porridge pot.
“The cellar master says there’s no need for firewood in the Queen’s sitting room this morning as she’ll be breaking her fast in her own room.” I had intended to keep the irritation out of my voice, but there it was, ringing out like the clang of a copper pan slamming to the floor. It was childish to sulk, but I couldn’t help it.
I had risen before the early bell to see the Queen and her ladies preparing themselves, to be part of the festivities—even in that ridiculously small way.
Mrs. Crossey ignored me.
“You might have mentioned it last night and saved me the trouble,” I added, looking for some response.
Still nothing.
“Mrs. Crossey?”
Finally, she turned. “Oh, good. You’re here. I wanted you to do something for me, now what was it…” She tapped her lips and glanced around.
I stared at the mountain of apples on our table. “Peel the apples?”
She looked at me, and I pointed to the bowl.
Her eyes widened as though she were seeing the ruby red fruit for the first time. “Yes. Apples. Exactly. If you could just give them a good coring, that would be grand.”
She went back to staring at her pot without another word. Not about the firewood or the needless trip to the cellar. Nothing. I sighed. Best to let it go. I searched through the collection of knives. Not finding the one I wanted, I turned back to her. “What happened to the paring knife? It was here last night when I cleaned.”
“The paring knife?” She frowned. “It must be there. I set it beside the bowl.”
I looked again. “I don’t see it.”
She wheeled on me, a deep crease between her eyebrows. “Open your eyes, girl. I put it right… Oh.” Her gaze drifted to the edge of the stove, where the paring knife lay. Her anger disappeared. “I don’t remember putting it there.” She handed it to me.
“Are you all right?” I took the handle and studied her face. Fat red blood vessels shot through the whites of her eyes and her eyelids drooped.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Not enough sleep, I suppose.”
How long had she stayed in Fayte Hall?
“Oh, you won’t need to collect the firewood this morning. The Queen and her ladies will be breakfasting in their own rooms.”
“I know I…” I stopped mid-sentence. It didn’t matter. I stepped closer to her and lowered my voice. “But shouldn’t I check on things up there? See that everything’s all right? With the Queen, I mean.”
And to be sure Mr. Wyck wasn’t wandering the halls again, though I knew better than to mention it.
She turned back to her porridge, took hold of a giant wooden spoon, and stirred. “Let’s just keep to our plan.”
Our plan. Of course.
Discouraged, I picked up an apple and used the slender paring knife to shave off the shiny red skin in long thin strips.
For hours we worked in silence, until Mr. MacDougall came around the corner, scowling as usual and holding a freshly starched parlor maid apron in his grip.
“Jane, please report to St. George’s Hall. You’ll be helping with receiving duties this evening.”
There was a definite frown on his face, as though my assignment was not of his choosing nor his preference.
“Thank you, Mr. MacDougall.” Mrs. Crossey gave him a keen look that made him look away.
He sneered as he set an apron on a clean space on the table and moved down the aisle to set another in front of Marlie. Addressing her, he said, “You will be assigned to reception duties as well.” He didn’t even look her in the eye before moving on to talk to a young cook overseeing the roasting of a pheasant turning on a spit.
“You heard him. Off with you now,” Mrs. Crossey said.
I glanced at the clock overhead. It read a quarter till four. “It’s still early. The ball is hours away.”
“The time will pass quickly, I assure you. Use it wisely.” She gave me a knowing look and I could almost hear her thoughts: Use the time to find the menace.
It hardly seemed likely that someone plotting against the Queen would be hanging about the cloak room, but I knew an argument would get me nowhere. I gathered up the crisp, ruffled apron.
Mrs. Crossey moved closer.
“There’s a footman stationed in the Grand Vestibule,” she whispered. “An older gentleman. Chester is his name. Marlie knows him. You can trust him.”
She turned back to the stove to stir her savory beef stew, steeped in the fragrance of rosemary and thyme. “Remember, you’re only collecting information. If you sense something—anything—you find me or Mr. MacDougall. No one else. Do nothing else. And for goodness’ sake, don’t forget the…” She patted her chest to indicate the Faytling.
I swallowed hard and tried to calm the butterflies that had taken hold of my stomach. “I know. I can do it.”
At least I hoped I could.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Garlands of white hydrangeas, peach roses, fuchsia tiger lilies, and sprigs of deep green foliage adorned the wood-paneled walls of St. George’s Hall. At the center, a bouquet on a round table towered over the tallest men, and ivory silk hung in wide ribbons from the ceiling to the walls, intersecting the colorful coats of arms belonging to the Knights of the Garter. The sight of it all stopped me cold.
“Don’t let Mr. Bailey see you gawking like that, or we’re done for,” Marlie whispered, referring to the Chief Deputy of the Household. “We’re already late.”
And so we seemed to be. A veritable army of footmen and maids had formed a line
