Seven Dials - Anne Perry [52]
“Oh?” the cook said, fixing her with boot-button eyes. “An’ what ’ave we got ’ere, then? We don’ need no more maids, an’ if we do, we’ll get our own. Yer look like a twopenny rabbit anyway. Don’ nobody feed yer?”
A thoroughly sharp rejoinder that would have put the cook in her place in a hurry rose to Gracie’s lips, but she bit it back. Tilda would owe her for her forbearance.
“I in’t lookin’ fer work, ma’am,” she said respectfully. “I got a position as suits me very well. I’m maid to a lady and gentleman in Keppel Street, wi’ me own ’ouse’old, an’ two children to care for.” That was a bit of an exaggeration—there was only the cleaning woman under her instruction—but it was not an outright lie either. She saw the look of disbelief in the cook’s round face. “I came ter give a message,” she hurried on.
“A friend of ’ers is dyin’, Mrs. Culpepper,” Dottie added helpfully. “Gracie’s tryin’ ter tell ’er family, all there is of ’em.”
“Dyin’?” Mrs. Culpepper said with surprise. It was obviously not at all what she had expected, or fully believed. “Wot of?”
Gracie was prepared for that. “Rheumatical fever,” she said without hesitation. “Terrible poorly, she is.” She allowed her real fears for Martin, which were now gnawing deeply inside her, to invest her expression with pain.
Mrs. Culpepper must have seen it. “I’m sorry to ’ear that,” she said with what looked to be a genuine pity. “Wot is it yer want ’ere? Don’ stand there, Dottie! Fetch the girl a cup o’ tea!” She looked back at Gracie. “Sit down.” She pointed to a hard-backed kitchen chair on the other side of the table.
Dottie went to the stove and pushed the kettle over onto the heat. It began to whistle almost immediately.
Mrs. Culpepper did not miss a beat with her wooden spoon. “Now then, missy . . .” She had already forgotten Gracie’s name. “Wot is it yer want ’ere? ’Oo’s this message for, then?”
There was no more time for prevarication. Gracie watched Mrs. Culpepper’s face intently. Expression might tell her more than words. “Martin Garvie,” she replied. “ ’E’s ’er brother. She’s got nob’dy else. Their ma an’ pa died years back.”
Mrs. Culpepper’s face was unreadable, the slight sadness remained exactly the same, and her hand did not hesitate in the beating of the batter.
“Oh . . .” she said without looking up. “Well, that’s a pity, ’cos ’e in’t ’ere no more, an’ I dunno where ’e’s gorn.”
Gracie knew there was a lie in that somewhere, or at least less than the truth, but she had the strong feeling that it was unhappiness rather than guilt which prompted it. Suddenly very real, sharp fear gripped her and the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen with its hot ovens and steaming pans swam around her. She closed her eyes to stop it swaying.
When she opened them Mrs. Culpepper was staring at her and Dottie was standing on the other side of the table with a cup of tea in her hand.
“ ’Ead between yer knees,” the cook said practically.
“I in’t gonna faint!” Gracie was defensive, partly because she was not absolutely sure it was true. They were being kind. There was nothing to fight, and she did not know where to direct her emotions. “If ’e in’t ’ere, where’s ’e gorn?” She could not say that he had told no one, because Tilda was supposed to be too ill to know. She hoped fervently that when Tilda had called here asking for Martin herself, she had looked sufficiently distraught to appear on the edge of serious illness.
“We dunno,” Dottie answered before Mrs. Culpepper had weighed her own reply. The cook shot her a sharp glance of warning, but whether it was to guard a secret or to keep from unnecessary hurt, there was no way to tell.
“An’ why should yer know, girl!” Mrs. Culpepper found her tongue. “In’t nuffink ter do wif yer where the master sends ’is staff, now is it?”
Dottie put the tea down in front of Gracie. “You drink that,” she ordered. “O’ course it in’t, Mrs. Culpepper,” she agreed obediently. “But yer’d think as Bella’d know, all the same.” She turned to Gracie again. “Bella