Rose exchanged one quick look with Kendra before bobbing a curtsy, and, list in hand, leaving the room. Mrs. Danbury waited until the door snicked shut before turning those cool, appraising gray eyes on Kendra.
“Well, Miss Donovan . . . you’ve certainly put me in an awkward position. His Grace is under the impression that you are at Aldridge Castle as a lady’s maid. Of course, we have several lady’s maids currently under our roof, but most arrived with a Lady. Did you arrive with a Lady, Miss Donovan?”
Even though her heart had begun thudding, Kendra looked the woman in the eye and managed to say calmly enough, “No . . . ma’am.”
“I could attribute your presence here as being part of the temporary help,” she went on. “As you may know, several lady’s maids were hired to accommodate our guests who were not fortunate enough to bring their own. However, as I was the one who hired the temporary lady’s maids, this leaves me baffled, Miss Donovan. I do not know you. I did not hire you. If you did not arrive with a Lady, and I did not hire you to be a lady’s maid, how did you come to Aldridge Castle? It fairly boggles the mind.”
“You can say that again.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have an answer for you, Mrs. Danbury.”
“Indeed.” The housekeeper’s lips tightened. “And yet you had an answer for His Grace last night. You insisted that you were hired as a lady’s maid.”
“I was hired as a lady’s maid.”
The expression in Mrs. Danbury’s gray eyes turned even more glacial. “That is not possible, Miss Donovan. As I have stated, Mr. Kimble gave me the responsibility to hire the temporary female staff. And I did not hire any Americans. I did not hire you.”
“I was hired by another woman.”
“No other woman has that authority! What is her name—this woman who hired you?”
Kendra thought of the woman from Stark Productions. “Mrs. Peters.”
“There is no Mrs. Peters at Aldridge Castle.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? Because she could offer no other explanation—how do you explain the unexplainable?—Kendra remained silent, staring at the housekeeper.
Mrs. Danbury studied the young woman who met her eyes so brazenly. If it had been her decision, she would have sent the bold creature packing—without references. But earlier, Mr. Kimble had knocked on her door with orders from the Duke himself that Kendra Donovan was to stay. It was galling, simply galling.
“Miss Donovan, I do not believe you. Moreover, I do not trust you.” Noticing the grains of sand across the desk, she swept her hands over its surface, clearing away the letter-making debris. “I shall, however, give you a temporary reprieve. As it so happens, we do have two ladies staying with us who could use your assistance. Miss Georgette Knox and Miss Sarah Rawdon. You will attend breakfast, and then see to your duties.”
Relief loosened the tight knot of fear inside her chest. Whatever was happening, Kendra knew that she couldn’t leave the castle. This was ground zero. “Thank you, Mrs. Danbury.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “I shall be watching you, Miss Donovan,” she warned. “That will be all.”
Dismissed, Kendra moved out into the hall. There she paused and pressed a hand to her stomach. Her present emotional state appeared to be swinging between incredulity and full-on fear. She straightened when she heard someone coming: a young maid, no more than nine, carrying a bucket. The little girl gave her a curious look as she passed.
Composing herself, Kendra made her way to the kitchen. The room was much larger than the dining area, with high ceilings and high windows that allowed natural light to flood in. A chandelier, its tapers unlit, hung from the center of the ceiling on chains as thick as a man’s wrist. Below the windows, long shelves carried the gleam of pots and the soft sheen of cookware.
It reminded Kendra of a hotel kitchen, albeit one placed squarely in what she understood to be the early nineteenth century, with at least a dozen helpers busy in several workstations. There were two fireplaces, both lit, the flames heating the blackened bottoms of bronze cauldrons hanging within. A monstrosity—a black cast iron range—took up a good portion of the other wall. An iron grid above the stove dangled with copper pots, big and small, and an assortment of utensils. A small, dark-haired man wearing a chef’s hat was stirring two large pots simultaneously, muttering angrily in French. From the snippet she overheard, Kendra ascertained that the changes in the menu had not, as Rose predicted, gone over well.
Kendra spotted Rose at one of the tables, peeling, coring, and chopping apples. Moving in her direction, she caught the scent of sizzling meat steeped in savory spices. Overlaying that was the strong yeasty smell of baking bread. Kendra realized suddenly that she was hungry. Could you be hungry in a delusion?