“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Harcourt,” we chorused, like a pair of ten-year-olds.
“Don’t ‘Mrs. Harcourt’ me,” she scolded, lifting a steaming teakettle from the Aga and filling the brown teapot that sat on the oversized kitchen table. “It’s only Mr. Bellamy calls me that, because he’s got it fixed in his head that all cooks should be called ‘Mrs.,’
whether they’re married or not. I’m not married and never will be, because there isn’t a man alive I’d have for a husband, though I might make an exception in your case, ducky.” She returned the kettle to the Aga and gave Kit a roguish wink. “What a pretty face you have, and pretty manners, too. My name’s Henrietta. What’s yours?”
I couldn’t swear to it, of course, but I’m almost certain that Kit’s entire body blushed.
“Kit,” he said weakly. “Kit Smith.”
“And you?” she said, turning to me.
“Lori Shepherd,” I said.
She beamed at us. “Welcome to Aldercot Hall, Kit and Lori.
Put your trotters by the Aga while I set out a few nibbles.”
Henrietta Harcourt’s idea of a few nibbles was as expansive as her personality. The table was soon littered with a savory assortment of meat pies, sausages, cheeses, breads, chutneys, mustards, and pickles. It wasn’t the sort of fare I’d normally serve with tea, but apparently the tea was meant only to warm us, because as soon as we’d downed our first cup, she beckoned us to the table and brought out the beer.
I’m not a beer-drinker by nature, but I’m also not suicidal. I accepted the foaming glass Henrietta offered and refrained from
122 Nancy Atherton
making faces while I sipped it. When she took a seat across from us and filled her plate with substantial portions of everything she’d laid out on the table, Kit and I dutifully followed suit.
“You sound like an American, Lori,” she said, adding a wedge of creamy Stilton to her plate.
“That’s because I am an American,” I said, helping myself to a hunk of cheddar. “I was born and raised in Chicago.”
Henrietta responded to my pronouncement as so many English people before her had responded when I mentioned the name of my hometown, by raising her hands as if she were holding a machine gun and making guttural rat-a-tat noises in the back of her throat.
“Al Capone,” she said brightly, when she’d finished rat-atatting.
“That’s right,” I said. “I never knew Al personally, but his legend lives on. Are you from around here?”
“Heavens no,” she said. “I’m a Londoner.”
My ears pricked up as I recalled Lizzie Black’s ominous words: The DuCarals ordered everything they needed from London . . . including servants.
“How did you fi nd a job way out here?” I asked.
“Answered an ad in the Times, ” said Henrietta. “Miss Charlotte had trouble keeping staff after her mum passed on—except for Mr. Bellamy, of course, and he won’t leave Aldercot until they carry him out feetfirst.” She popped a chunk of sausage into her mouth, but the act of chewing did not in any way impede her ability to speak. “The rest of the old-timers took their pensions and ran, and the new cooks and housemaids disappeared just as fast as Miss Charlotte could hire them.”
I thought uneasily of the humps in the unkempt lawn.
“I wasn’t the only experienced cook to answer Miss Charlotte’s ad,” Henrietta went on, “but I was the only one who liked the look of the place and wanted to stay on.”
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“I suppose the others thought that life here might be too . . .
quiet,” I ventured.
“Quiet’s what I wanted.” Henrietta leaned forward aggressively, still gripping her knife and fork. “I grew up with four brothers and six sisters in a cramped council flat on a dirty, noisy street in a neighborhood the tour buses don’t include in their itineraries. When I was a kid, all I wanted was to live in the country, have a room of my own, and enjoy some peace and quiet. Aldercot suited me to a tee.
I couldn’t wait to move in.”
She sat back and reached for her glass. While she took a long draft of beer, Kit mouthed the words “You’re good ” at me, but I didn’t deserve the praise. Henrietta was too easy. Getting her to talk was about as difficult as getting Will and Rob to ride their ponies.
“It must be a lot of work, though,” I said, “catering to such a large household.”
Henrietta lowered her glass and gave a shout of laughter. “The house may be large, but the household isn’t. It’s just Miss Charlotte upstairs, and me and Mr. Bellamy and Jacqueline downstairs.
Jacqueline took the job for the scenery,” Henrietta explained, smearing mustard on a forkful of meat pie. “She wants to be a nature photographer.” Her green eyes swerved abruptly toward Kit. “You’re not saying much, ducky. I can tell you have a brain behind your pretty face, so what’s the problem? Cat got your tongue? Or are you the strong and silent type?”
Kit’s face flamed red again. “I’m . . . um, er . . .”