“Aye, miss.”
In the kitchens, two maids were scouring and black-leading the enormous stove. Fires were already lit in the fireplaces, heating up giant tubs of water. Monsieur Anton was muttering in French, casting the footmen loitering nearby an evil eye. It was pleasantly cool now, but by mid-afternoon, Kendra knew, the room would be boiling hot and more crowded than the Pennsylvania Turnpike on a holiday weekend.
Again, Kendra felt eyes turn in her direction as she followed Rose to the lower staff dining room, where a buffet-styled breakfast was offered—trays of cold meat, fresh bread, and pots of tea and—hallelujah—coffee. A few maids and footmen were already seated at the long pine table. They stopped their conversation, and stared at Kendra. It gave her a twitchy feeling, as she followed Rose to the buffet and filled a plate with cold cuts and two buns. She poured coffee into an earthenware mug, the fragrance alone making her happy.
“Do you know what’s happening with the murder, miss?” a young footman asked her as soon as she sat down.
“Aye,” another man put in. “D’ya know who did it?”
“Who was the chit?” a maid asked. “We ’eard she mebbe was a light-skirt from London.”
“Oi ’eard she was from Glasgow.”
Kendra drank her coffee, and nearly sighed at the much-needed caffeine jolt. “We don’t know anything yet.” She surveyed them over the mug. “Has this ever happened before? An unknown young woman found in, say, the last ten years?”
Like Rose and Molly yesterday when she asked that question, she saw the shock in their eyes, the automatic denial. “Nay! Never!”
“Me da says she was probably done in by gypsies,” a young girl whispered, eyes round. “Ye know that the Duke lets them camp on the south side of the forest.”
“Ooh—the devils will slay us all if we don’t do somethin’!”
“They’re a bunch of ’eathens!”
Kendra recognized the rising hysteria in the room. Really, it was no different than what she’d encountered in City Hall meetings, where citizens were quick to point the finger at a drifter or stranger in town. Better to think a murderer was a vagrant than a neighbor, someone they probably sat next to in church, or had coffee with at the local diner.
“Gypsies didn’t kill this girl.”
“’Ow d’ya know?” One of the footman squinted at her.
“Aye. Why should we believe you? We don’t know you.”
Hysteria and hostility. They went hand in hand.
Kendra picked up her knife and fork, slicing through the ham in a controlled motion. “True. You don’t know me. But you know the Duke. He doesn’t strike me as a fool. Am I wrong? Is he a fool?” That evoked a strong reaction, as she’d known it would.
“’Is Grace ain’t no fool! ’Es got strange ways—but the gov ain’t a fool.”
She chewed the ham and waited for the furious mutterings to end. Then she said, “The Duke trusts me.” Please let that be true. For all she knew, Aldridge could have second thoughts today and toss her out on her ass. Her stomach knotted at the possibility, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral. “He trusts that I have some expertise in this area. You’ll have to trust me as well.”
Although she could see that wasn’t going to happen—their expressions remained suspicious—she didn’t think they’d be picking up the pitchforks and torches to go after the gypsies. Yet.
Just another thing to worry about.
Sighing, she forced herself to finish her breakfast. Not easy when you had a dozen pair of eyes on you. It was a relief when she could push herself away from the table and follow Rose back to the kitchen, where Cook gave her a knife to peel and slice potatoes into an enormous copper pot.
For a second, Kendra stared blankly at the knife. Only then did it occur to her that she’d never peeled a potato in her life. For as long as she could remember, her parents had employed housekeepers, so they could concentrate on their work. And later . . . well, she lived in a time of takeout, prepackaged microwave dinners, and restaurants. In her world, the culinary arts were a desire, not a necessity, and like her parents, she’d poured her time and attention into her work, not the kitchen.
Yet how hard could it be, really? It was a damn potato. She’d graduated magna cum laude with a fistful of degrees in psychology, criminology, and computer science from Princeton when she was only three years older than Rose.
Twenty minutes later, she discovered that peeling potatoes was a lot like styling hair—it looked easier than it was. For every freshly skinned potato that she managed to plop into the giant pot, Rose did five, her hands almost a blur as she peeled and chopped. And Rose’s potatoes were the same size post-skinning, whereas Kendra’s own were whittled down like the after picture in a weight loss commercial.
Who knew that peeling a potato could make you feel inadequate?