“Here. I have it, along with the extra key to the bakery. I hid them in my corset, along with the last of the money. The money is long gone, but it lasted a while. I was able to pay the doctor for my medicine until just a week or two ago.”
Medicine. Well, that answered one question. Somehow Mrs. Bentley had kept enough money back to dole it out slowly. It must have been quite a sum to have lasted for two years, even living in the poorhouse.
Mrs. Bentley fished around in her bosom and unpinned a small pocket that she withdrew. From it, she produced two keys. One was a large brass key, the other was a small gold key.
“Your father wanted you to have the items in the hidden drawer. You’ll have to ask him how to open it. He never showed me the secret.”
With that statement, Tiffany realized that Mrs. Bentley was slipping back into the foggy mental state she frequently exhibited.
“Thank you for telling me, and giving me the keys,” Tiffany said. “It means a lot that he meant for me to have the bakery. Life does not always go as we could wish.”
“No,” Mrs. Bentley said mournfully. “It does not. Would there be more of those delicious little strawberries?”
“I have five more,” Tiffany said. “Would you like one?”
“I would.”
Slowly Tiffany fed the little berries to Mrs. Bentley, completely unmindful of the tears running down her face. Precisely why she was crying, she could not have said. But it seemed that a wellspring of tears had opened and she could scarcely stop.
After the last berry, Mrs. Bentley gave a little sigh.
“Those were so good,” she said. “I think I’ll sleep a little while now. Will you sit with me?”
“I will,” Tiffany said, struggling to keep her voice steady. In the dark of the underground room, she held Mrs. Bentley’s frail, boney old hand while tears washed down her cheeks. But she didn’t make a sound lest she wake the older woman.
Chapter 45
Percival stared at the maid—Sophie, he thought her name was. She stood in front of his desk twisting her handkerchief between her hands.
Kenault and Quentin were in the library, amusing themselves with looking at the great globe there. He could hear them planning fantasy voyages, and the occasional spinning of the ball.
“Why do you wish to give notice, Miss?”
“I . . . need to see about something. Yes, that is it. I have business I need to take care of.”
“Do you not have a father, brother or some other male relative who can take care of it?”
“Oh, no, My Lord. There’s just me.”
“You have business that will take more than your half-day to care for?”
“Yes, please, My Lord. I do. I need to travel out into the country and spend some time.”
“Are you in a family way?” Percival asked bluntly.
“No! Oh, no . . . tain’t that. I just need to go away, far, far away.”
She wrung the handkerchief so severely, Percival feared she might rip it in half.
“Do you need references?” Percival asked, reaching for his inkstand.
“If you please, My Lord. It would be most helpful.” She switched from wringing the handkerchief to rolling it in a ball between her hands.
“Very well. If you would refresh me with your name?”
The maid nodded. “Sophie Turner.”
Percival dipped his quill into the ink. “I have heard nothing unexceptional, so I do not mind giving a reference. I am sorry to hear that you wish to leave. We are short on staff as it is.”
