Apprehensive but determined, Bea began by offering her condolences to the housekeeper and insisting she take all the time she needed to recover from her loss. Recalling her comments to Mr. Réjane as relayed by Joseph, she suggested perhaps a visit to her mother.
Mrs. Wallace’s lips tightened at these words, and she clasped her hands together as she stared at Bea from underneath her mob cap, which seemed to engulf her small head. Quietly, she asked, “Are you dismissing me, your grace?”
Horrified, Bea sputtered, “No, no, of course not.” The last thing she wanted to do was unintentionally fire a longstanding member of the duke’s staff! “I am grateful for your efficiency and skill and would never dream of replacing you. If my words or actions have led you to think otherwise, I am sorry.”
The housekeeper nodded with visible relief and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Her respite was short-lived, however, for a moment later Bea asked about Monsieur Alphonse’s proposal and her shoulders stiffened again. A furrow formed between her brows as she repeated the question with an air of disbelief, “Had I expected Monsieur Alphonse to propose?”
Observing the simmering umbrage, Bea wanted to pretend she had not posed the query and put her off with a ruse—to raise her eyebrow archly, for example, and ask with haughty indifference what interest she could possibly have in the romantic dealings of a pair of servants. As absurd as such a ploy would be, it would carry the day easily, for she was mistress of the house now and her whims would be catered to. Furthermore, Mrs. Wallace could not like the topic any more than she and would gratefully follow her lead.
But Bea had asked the question and, refusing to succumb to her embarrassment, staunchly held the course. “Yes, had you realized his feelings for you had advanced to the point of marriage?”
If the housekeeper was outraged, embarrassed or deeply insulted by the question, she gave no hint of it as she replied no, she had not anticipated a proposal from the French chef.
Bea waited for her to say more, perhaps to articulate her surprise at receiving the offer, but Mrs. Wallace restricted herself to answering only the question itself. As the silence stretched to a full minute, Bea grudgingly conceded she would have to ask her why she thought the chef had decided to propose.
Alas, speculating about the motives of anyone, even a former suitor, was a presumption the housekeeper would not dare. “I can only speak to my own behavior.”
As it was a reasonable policy, Bea could not quarrel with her stance, and yet she could not allow the other woman’s scruples to impede her search for Mr. Réjane’s killer. Firmly, she pressed on. “Did it not strike you as a little strange that he would take time away from preparing for a large dinner party to propose marriage?”
Now, for the first time, Mrs. Wallace’s face showed emotion and she said with some alacrity, “It was not a large dinner party.”
Bea could not comprehend the relevance. “Excuse me?”
“Only eight people were expected,” Mrs. Wallace explained, “so one could not describe the dinner party as large. Be that as it may, I cannot say it struck me as strange that he would take time away from preparing for a small dinner party to propose marriage because Monsieur Alphonse made a habit of doing things when he wanted, not when it was deemed appropriate. As Mr. Mayhew’s chef, he had a fair amount of freedom.”
“Did the other servants in the house begrudge him this privilege?” Bea asked, knowing how easy it was to resent another person for having something you lacked. In the past few months, she had often yearned for more liberty in her ability to move around London.
Mrs. Wallace found the question outrageous—as if she had ever given any thought to the resentments of the other servants who lived in the square. She huffed in offense, then realized her faux pas and immediately apologized for forgetting herself. “I am sorry, but I simply cannot see what the thoughts and opinions of the neighbors have to do with me, your grace.”
As her confusion appeared genuine, Bea did not hesitate to explain that she was gathering information to discover who had murdered Monsieur Alphonse. “The more I learn about the situation, the more quickly I will discover the truth.”
But the housekeeper refused to entertain the notion that the French chef had been anything other than a victim of misfortune. “The constable has declared it an accident, and I must abide by his decision.”
Beatrice, of course, was under no obligation and continued to ask questions in hopes of discovering something useful, but having declared her allegiance to the law, Mrs. Wallace declined to be of further help. She was happy to stay as long as the duchess required, however, for although she had other matters to see to, attending to her mistress’s needs was foremost among her responsibilities. “I am sure the shopping can wait indefinitely.”
Patently, it could not.
The shopping, the accounts, the linens—all these tasks were clearly more important to the housekeeper, who could not understand why she had been called away from them to surmise wildly about the neighbors. Her expression remained placid, but Bea could detect annoyance simmering beneath the surface, and although she conceded that it was perfectly justified, she could not allow that to sway her from her course.
Determinedly, she persisted in her questions.
Ultimately, it was to no avail, for the housekeeper’s insistence that she had no light to shed on the topic proved remarkably accurate. She knew nothing of the machinations at number forty-four and appeared to have less insight into her own proposal than the footman who overheard it from the stillroom.
“Was he truly in despair?” Mrs. Wallace repeated quietly. “That is not a determination I can make. All I can do is refer you to his words, and
