The paring knife Rose held flashed as she sliced fruit into a bowl. The last slice, however, she popped into her mouth, which drew a snort from the woman next to her, who was pummeling a shapeless blob of dough roughly the size of a deflated basketball.
“Wicked girl—ye’ve eaten at least two apple pies by yer thievery,” the woman admonished, wagging a finger dusted with flour.
Rose giggled, apparently unconcerned with the woman’s reprimand. Spotting Kendra, she smiled. “Miss—over ’ere! Cook, this ’ere is Miss Donovan. She’s sharing me room now. She’s a lady’s maid.”
“Ah. Ye’re one of the temporary lasses hired for Lady Atwood’s party, then?”
Kendra judged the woman to be around Mrs. Danbury’s age, but, thankfully, she did not seem to share the housekeeper’s disposition. She was short, with a comfortable figure that filled out her pale blue dress and white apron. Her face was round and pleasant, with pale wisps of light brown hair escaping the mop cap she wore. The dark blue eyes took Kendra’s measure, but without any animosity.
“Yes. Please call me Kendra.”
The woman’s lips curved into a smile as she continued to shape the dough. “Me name is Mrs. Acker, but everyone calls me Cook. Who will ye be looking after then?”
“Um . . . Georgette Knox and Sarah Rawdon.” Kendra wondered if she could ask for a cup of coffee. Preferably one strong enough to wake her from this nightmare.
“Ye’d best have yer breakfast then,” Cook said. “The ladies will be wantin’ their chocolate and tea soon, I expect.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Rose intercepted her glance, and shook her head. “Not ’ere, Miss. You’re to ’ave your breakfast in the upper staff dining room.”
“What about you?” asked Kendra.
One of the other girls nearby giggled. “Ooh, la, Miss Rose. Shall I serve ye tea?”
“’Tis the upper staff dining room for upper staff. I’m a tweeny.”
It was protocol, Kendra realized. She understood the need for protocol, for procedures and practices. Hell, she was an FBI agent. You couldn’t get through the FBI without understanding protocol. But why would her mind separate the upper staff from the lower staff servants? It was crazy.
She was crazy. Or she wasn’t. And for just a moment, Kendra didn’t know which terrified her more.
The dining room was already crowded with people of varying ages. Mrs. Danbury stood ramrod straight near the head of the table, next to an older man who appeared almost as stiff as the housekeeper.
Kendra walked to one of the empty places at the table. Since everyone remained standing, she stayed on her feet as well, aware of the curious eyes that were trying not to openly stare at her. A sharp-featured woman, apparently less polite, appeared at her side, frowning.
“You’ve mistaken your seat, miss,” she informed Kendra with an air of condescension.
“What?”
“Miss Beckett is Lady Atwood’s personal maid, Miss Donovan,” Mrs. Danbury explained in frosty accents. “At Aldridge Castle we maintain the proper hierarchy at our table. As the highest-ranking lady’s maid, Miss Beckett is entitled to sit in that chair. You may sit down the table.”
Protocol, she reminded herself. Like the military. A private wouldn’t sit next to a four-star general during a meal.
Ignoring Miss Beckett’s smug look, Kendra moved down the table to another seat. Mrs. Danbury and the man sat down. Apparently it was a signal, because everyone followed suit.
Conversation was a low murmur around her as porridge was slapped into earthenware bowls. Cream was poured from clay pitchers. Hot cross buns, bigger than a fist and lighter than helium, were passed around the table. Honey, butter, and jam also made the rounds to the tune of clicking spoons and knives.
Kendra sampled the porridge. Although it wouldn’t have been her first choice, she found it unexpectedly delicious, especially with a dab of honey and a dollop of cream. She would’ve preferred coffee, but the tea, she had to admit, was strong and fragrant. And the golden brown bun, smeared with butter and marmalade, was the best she’d ever eaten.
“Where do you hail from, Miss Donovan?” asked the pretty brunette seated on her right.
Kendra hesitated. “America.”
“Where in America, Miss Donovan?” the woman on the other side of the brunette asked, and Kendra found herself again the focal point of everyone at the table.
“I live in Virginia.” Maybe she was there right now, in a psych ward, in a catatonic state. Maybe she’d never recovered from being shot the first time. Maybe—
“I’ve never met anyone from America before,” admitted a young man in footman livery, sitting across from her.
“How’d you ever get to England, Miss Donovan?” inquired a woman seated on her left.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you I flew?”
The woman laughed. Despite the length of the table separating them, Kendra felt Mrs. Danbury’s disapproval like the lash of a whip.