Michaels fished about in his apron pocket, came up with a grubby handkerchief, and handed it to her. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder, as a single sob escaped her. “But I wasn’t much of a good influence, now was I? Poor little mites, what will become of them now?”
Chapter 9
After nearly a week of delicious food and a staff that seemed to be humming along with the smooth harmony of a great orchestra, Percival found himself to be in remarkably good humor. He had just seen off the last of a gathering of friends, all of whom remarked upon the excellence of his table. There had been no complaints from the butler or the housekeeper. Even Smithers had mentioned that the meals in the servants’ quarters were remarkably better than they had been.
Amazing what can come from giving someone a second chance. I really should look into doing it more often.
He sat down at his accounts with a better will than he usually did. Ordinarily, a few minutes with ledgers and reports were enough to send him into paroxysms of boredom. But even they seemed to have good stories to tell tonight. His stocks were doing well, the rents had been collected and were being paid in properly. The upper fields on the estate were seeded, and the steward reported that they were showing their first green.
As he read, he realized that a delicious odor was wafting its way up from the kitchens. It was not unusual for the night air to be scented with the aroma of roasting meat, because the large pieces that were needed to feed the household required long, slow cooking. But tonight there was something else. Baking bread? Yes, indeed, it certainly was. Could it be that Miss Bentley was cooking something new?
It seemed as if with every meal, there was at least one novel item. He was not sure where the young cook found them, but she seemed to discover the most amazing dishes. Apple pies with cinnamon spice, of all things, for example. Miss Bentley credited Michaels with that innovation. She said that he claimed it was the common way to make apple pie in the Colonies.
Perhaps she was making apple pies? The scent was not quite right, but it bore investigating.
He corked his inkpot, and wiped his quill clean. No need to hurry, although the delicious aroma was stronger now.
He closed his ledgers and went belowstairs.
I used to never venture down here. It was something like a dungeon to where lost souls are cast out, but of late it has been, well, cozy. I did not realize I was lonely until this week.
As he entered the kitchen, he could see Michaels at his usual task, coaxing the turnspit dog with tidbits. Miss Bentley was just removing a tray of rolls from the oven, and a pan of small pies was sitting ready to go in.
“Good evening,” Percival said jovially. “Are these for tomorrow’s luncheon? The delicious scent is like a siren call. I could not resist.”
Miss Bentley was remarkably flushed as she set the pan on the work table, took up some of the pies, and put them in to bake.
“Er, ah, no, My Lord. Although you may certainly have some if you wish. These are made up from the dinner leftovers to be given to the poor. There are some who stay with Bet, and then there are others who have heard that we will give out food. They are mostly children, My Lord,” she said pleadingly. “Children such as I was. I have been giving the alms in your name.”
“I see,” he said. “You do realize that once word of this gets out, I will have every impoverished child and beggar at my back door.”
“Not quite that many,” Michaels said. “We’ve made it clear that we are only feeding those who live with Old Elizabet, and those who normally frequent this neighborhood.”
Percival sat down at the worktable, picked up one of the rolls, split it, and using a knife that stood beside a tray holding a cube of butter, tucked a dollop of sweet, yellow goodness inside the roll. He bit into it.
Perfect, crunchy crust, white flakey interior, and the butter oozing through the soft interior.
His intense pleasure must have shown on his face, and it was certain that some of the butter must have escaped one corner of his mouth, for Miss Bentley gave a nervous little laugh and handed him a napkin. He chewed, swallowed, and then asked, “How do you know if someone is from this neighborhood? Since this is an affluent neighborhood, I would not have thought that there would be many here who need charity.”
“At the front of the house are the Lords and Ladies, the landed gentlefolk who have come into London for law-making and such,” Miss Bentley explained. “But at the back of the house, there are those who live in such places as they can find. Some of them are day workers, but others are the children who run wild throughout the day, and huddle in such shelter as they can find at night.”
“Where does Old Elizabet live?” Percival asked.
“There is a ramshackle old manor at the end of the next street over,” Michaels put in. “It isn’t much of a place, but no one lives there except the street people who slip in. Old Elizabet keeps it clean and sets the rules. They leave the outside looking rundown so’s no one will notice.”
“Some of them are my little brothers and sisters of the street,” Miss Bentley explained. “Father used to give out all his day-old bread and such like at the end of the day so that it would not be in the bakery attracting mold and getting stale.”
“Better to feed it out than to throw it out, eh wot?” Percival said, reaching for another roll.
“Not too many, My Lord. You will make yourself ill. Here, have a bowl of soup with that.” Michaels left the spit dog walking in its spinning cage on its own for a moment, and ladled out a bowl of soup.
“Are you also giving out soup?” Percival asked.
“Sadly, no,” Miss Bentley said. “I have no idea how we would do that because I do not wish to steal the household utensils.”
“Thank goodness for that. But I think we might be able to purchase an inexpensive pail or two, at least to send to our charwoman’s establishment.”
As Percival watched, Tiffany deftly used a long-handled wooden spatula to remove a tray of bread rolls from the oven. She then, just as deftly, tucked the rest of the small pies in the cavity to bake, and closed the heavy iron door.
