Mrs Hannah looked up. ‘Miss Evangeline. And what might we do for you this morning?’
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ I said, in my most timid voice, ‘but I was just on my way out and Mother has asked me to pass on a message.’
‘Why ever didn’t she ring down?’
‘She knew you were busy, I expect,’ I said, gesturing at the table laden with vegetables.
‘Well, she’d be right,’ Mrs Hannah agreed, ‘and if Mercy leaves, like she’s saying, things will soon get even busier.’
I glanced at the scullery maid, who was on her knees with her head in the grate, and lowered my voice. ‘Poor Mercy. She was never happy here, was she?’
‘Ideas above her station, should you ask me,’ the cook opined, not bothering to match my discreet tones. If Mrs Cavendish had heard she’d certainly have given her one of her special “Head-Housekeeper” looks that usually sent the recipient scuttling away, although Mrs Hannah always ignored them. I liked Mrs Hannah.
She was looking at me now, knife paused mid-chop. ‘The message then, Miss Evangeline?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, you know how mother has given you that recipe for the loaf her grandmother used to make?’
‘The fruit loaf, yes.’
‘And you know how she specifically told you to follow it to the letter?’
‘I do.’ Mrs Hannah’s eyes narrowed, but I kept my expression carefully blank.
‘Well, it appears she made a little mistake. Where it says dates, it should say raisins. And where it says half a cup of sugar, she has asked me to make it particularly clear that she meant to write one whole cup.’
‘I see. Is that all then?’
I pretended to think for a moment. ‘There was one other thing, now you mention it. You’ll see Mother has specified almonds to be laid along the top?’
‘I expect you’ll be saying she didn’t mean that either.’
‘She didn’t, no.’
‘Would she have meant glazed fruit, do you think?’
I beamed. ‘Exactly. And it’s most important you don’t forget about the sugar, Mrs Hannah.’
Mrs Hannah raised an eyebrow and favoured me with a rare, amused little smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to follow the instructions to the letter.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure if she meant to follow the original instructions, or my own amendments; only time would tell, but I had done my best. Mother’s cake ideas always looked wonderful on their plates, but it was best they stayed there if the illusion of perfection was to be maintained. I paused on my way out, and turned back to make sure Mrs Hannah was absolutely sure about the swapping of dates for raisins, but was distracted by a knock at the side door.
Ruth, the kitchen maid, hurried into the hall to answer, and returned followed by two men. I recognised Frank Markham, the local butcher from Breckenhall, but behind him stood a young man I had never seen before; an attractive boy of around twenty, with tumbled brown hair and a faintly bemused look on his face. He was bowed under the weight of a large wooden box.
‘Morning, Ruth. Mrs Hannah.’ Mr Markham ushered the young man forward. ‘This is Will Davies, my new apprentice. He’ll be helping with deliveries from now on, so don’t you ladies go giving him a hard time.’ He winked at Ruth, who ignored him and greeted the apprentice with a good deal more enthusiasm than was proper; I saw Mrs Hannah roll her eyes, but she said nothing and went on with her work. I hoped someone would take Ruth aside one day soon, she was becoming quite the little madam from what I’d heard.
Will staggered to the table to relieve himself of his burden, and as he stood upright again his eyes found mine. It was hard to see what colour they were from this distance, but they crinkled when he smiled, and a dimple deepened in his cheek. I blinked in surprise at the casual nod he gave me, then realised he wouldn’t know I wasn’t just another of the kitchen staff, wearing my plain outdoor coat as I was. It was an interesting notion.
I watched as the apprentice went through the delivery order, enjoying the way he kept stealing glances my way, and that dimple kept reappearing. But before someone could address me by my title, and ruin the fun, I slipped back out into the corridor and up the stairs to the main front door, exploring the unexpected tingle I had felt when our eyes had locked. I’d quite liked it.
A week into the new year I saw the apprentice again, and this time there was no hiding who I was. I was wearing my best coat this time, and getting into the car with Mother and my younger brother Lawrence to go to church, when the butcher’s van rattled up the drive. Will was seated beside Mr Markham, wearing a fixed look of terror at the older man’s driving, and I hid a smile in my glove as I pictured how much paler he’d look if I was behind the wheel; the illicit lessons I begged whenever I went to stay with the London family were going well, but I tended to pay little attention to the words of caution that came with them, and people were starting to find urgent business elsewhere when they saw me approaching them with a hopeful expression.
Will’s eyes widened slightly on seeing me, and I saw realisation slip into place, then he grinned at me and winked. The tingle woke up again, stronger this time, and I was unable to prevent an answering smile from crossing my face. Just before I turned my head away I saw his expression soften, and he settled more happily back into his seat, all sign of nerves gone as the van pulled to a stop by the back gate. I glanced at Mother, but she was accepting the footman’s assistance into the car; neither the butcher nor his apprentice held any interest for her. It already felt like a rather delicious secret.
I found my thoughts straying to him more and more often. I’d look out for the van from my window and suddenly find some reason to be downstairs, or wandering along the drive, and when we glimpsed each other the smiles were quick to come, slow to fade, and warmer every time. Then one bright day in early March, the day before I was due to leave for London for two months, my mother’s maid and I were in Breckenhall, buying last-minute gifts for the London family.
Behind us was the open-air market, full of tantalising smells and sounds, brightly-coloured clothing, and bric-a-brac and old books. I compared it to the imminent wait in the stuffy post office while Alice bought stamps for about a hundred thousand letters, and eyed the busy stalls longingly.
Then I stiffened my backbone. ‘I’m going to just walk around by myself for a little while thank you, Peters.’
Peters was used, by now, to my impatience to be off alone, and it never seemed to ruffle her rather elegant feathers when I suggested it. But she had her orders. ‘Of course we’ll visit the market, but Lady Creswell told me I must stay with you.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t mean you’re to be glued to my side,’ I protested.
‘No, of course not, but –’
I reminded myself of the difference in our positions, although I felt guilty doing it. ‘Just ten minutes,’ I said firmly. Then my façade slipped, and I reverted to the child I had been and, in her eyes at least, still was. ‘Please, Alice? After tomorrow I shan’t have a single minute to myself what with all those boring parties and dinners. People fussing over me morning, noon and night, dressmakers measuring –’
‘All right! Ten minutes.’ She looked resigned, but wore a reluctant smile. ‘I’ll be waiting by the cake stall.’ I was already walking away, and she raised her voice to call after me: ‘Just don’t tell your mother you were able to talk me into it!’ As if I would give Mother any reason to stop me coming into town.
After a happy few minutes spent enjoying the freedom, and sampling breads at a particularly delicious-smelling stall, I rounded a corner and saw, just ahead, a small boy standing alone. He looked to be around five