My mum let me handle the afternoon tea, which was not a particularly hard task compared to many of our other duties. I knocked on the door of the lady of the house, waiting patiently as I heard rustling on the other side. The door swung open, and Mrs. Holmes ushered me in, her hair perfectly coiffed and round pearls hanging about her aristocratic neck.
"Oh, is it tea time already?' She took the tray from my hands and slid it onto her desk. She took a sip and made the appropriate noises of appreciation. "Very good, Mary." She sat at her vanity and regarded me. "How has your day been?"
"Just fine, ma'am."
She gave me a knowing look.
"Well, honestly," I admitted, "it's been a little difficult, but I can manage."
"I can see your hands have suffered."
I looked down at the offending things, wrinkled and red from the hot water of the laundry.
"Come over here," she ordered.
I obliged and she took my hands in her own, applying a creamy and pleasant-smelling lotion from a jar upon her vanity. "That should help; you're much too pretty to ruin your hands in this work." I smiled like a child as she rubbed in the serum, feeling foolish and special at the same time.
"I play the piano quite a bit, and I've learned to never underestimate the importance of lotions to keep your skin soft," she told me. She turned one of her fingers to me, showing me a slight callous. "The marks of our activities are unavoidable, but we can minimize them. Never feel like you have to ask for anything, Mary. What's mine is yours."
I buoyed down the stairs on a cloud of delicate vanilla to retrieve Jane's tray and then made my way back up to her room. I needed to discover an easier way to accomplish this, without making four trips up and down the stairs. I passed the son's room and slowed without thinking. As far as I knew, he had not returned since the incident at the breakfast table, and I had left his tray on the counter until he decided to make himself known.
I hurried to Jane's door and knocked softly. She permitted me entrance in a tone that could only be called ringing, and I hefted the tray onto one arm to turn the door handle. I entered her airy and open room to find her seated at her writing desk, reading a woman's popular periodical on fashion. She placed it gingerly down and folded her hands in her lap. She sat with her back to the large bay window and in the midst of the sunlight, all I could see was her outline and the loose curls of her hair falling down stylishly around her face.
"You are late." It was a polite voice, but an accusation was branded through it.
"Yes, I underestimated the amount of time it takes to assemble four tea trays." I smiled in a soothing manner, "It will not happen again."
She laughed and rose, her cuirass bustle was gathered into beautiful folds of striped pink and purple. I had the strange urge to lie down on it and go to sleep.
"No worries," she interrupted my sleep-filled thoughts, "I did not suffer much in my wait. I will overlook it, considering I haven't had a good cup of tea since we had to let go of the maid over a fortnight ago."
I smiled as I set the tea pot on the table next to her settee. "Why did you have to let her go?" I inquired, trying not to sound too interested. The last thing I needed to do was make a name for myself as a busybody.
"She developed a condition."
"A condition?"
"A delicate condition. We couldn't have such a person running about our house. I hope nothing like that occurs ever again." I was quick enough to catch her condescending tone and decided to ignore it.
"Who was the father?"
"Who's to know? She tried to stake a claim on a gentleman a little south of here, but I'm not totally convinced she was even sure of the father's identity. Really, wouldn't have mattered anyway, as if a gentleman could be bothered to support her over such a trifling matter. She threw herself into one of the waterfalls a few miles from here."
She sat delicately and took a small bite of the scone with clotted cream and jam. Despite her careless tone, I knew she was right. I thought of all the poor women I'd encountered in Whitechapel with an infant attached to their hip, no man in sight. I wondered how many of those young children were the offspring of gentlemen, discarded and left to fend for themselves. I also knew she had relayed this information to me off-handedly specifically to threaten me if I stepped out of line.
I tried to stifle the tremor of violent emotion that went through me at the thought of the girl's fate and watched Jane take a few dainty nibbles. I stood with my hands clasped, respectfully waiting to see if anything was to her displeasure.
She nodded at me while chewing, gesturing that it was very good. She then took a sip of her tea to wash it down. She scrunched up her face in distaste.
"This is very bad tea, Mary."
I opened my mouth as she set the cup down and continued to make a contorted facial expression.
"I am very sorry, miss. What exactly is the matter?"
She stood and walked back to her desk, dismissing my arrangement of food. "It's dreadful. You must bring it back tasting like real tea." I stepped forward to pick up the tray, not so sure how to do as she asked since I was not aware of what she disliked about it.
"You must forgive me." I stammered.
She looked in the vanity mirror and patted her hair, "No matter. You're forgiven."
I bent over and picked up the tray.
She reached over to the small table circled by her divan and picked up a paper. "Sherlock loves newspapers, so they are always littered all over the house. I don't always see the appeal of scouring through these things for the banal problems of the lower classes, but the humour section sometimes has something of passing entertainment. Take for example this," she raised the paper and read in a sing-song voice, "A gentleman observing an Irish servant girl who was left-handed, placing the knives and forks on the dinner table in the same awkward position, remarked to her that she was laying them left-handed. 'Oh, indade!' said she, 'so I have – be plased, sir, to help me turn the table round'." She dropped the paper back onto the table and laughed.
I felt a warm blush of rage flare up on my face, but managed to keep my head. It was difficult for me; years in Whitechapel had sharpened my tongue and emboldened me in a way not fitting for this setting. To survive there one must be willing to scratch and fight, but to survive here one must be willing to bite their tongue. "I will go fix this at once, miss," was all I said.
I slammed downstairs furiously, my booted feet thumping against the carpeted steps. I hefted the still-full serving dish and mumbled to myself as I entered the kitchen. I slid the tray onto the counter and stood there, pressing my hand to my forehead in hopes of heading off the incoming headache, cursing to myself.
I poured some more milk into her cup, at a loss as to what else to do, and hefted the tray once more. I turned around and slammed the edge of it firmly into the middle of a broad chest. My victim didn't move or seem to react at all, but I jumped back and wobbled, the tray slipping precariously out of my hands. He snatched it in time, lifting it above my head without effort.
"Hello," he greeted as the tray swung high above my range of sight, and his grey eyes smirked at me.
"Why were you standing right behind me?" I asked as he settled the saved item back onto the counter. The breathlessness of my reply softened the sound of the irritation I was feeling, thankfully.
He continued to smile at me as he went to sit at the servant's table. In the short time I had been gone, he had settled in there with some of those papers Jane had mentioned. I felt uncomfortable with him here in what I had come to consider my space.
"Sorry, I did not mean to startle you."
I bit back an impertinent reply and thought of the best way to answer.
I settled on a noncommittal, "Quite all right, sir," and turned back to begin fiddling with the cups merely to occupy my hands. I knew he was still there. I gestured to his tray, which sat on the counter. "Would you like your tea?"
He shook his head and rolled a cigarette, moistening it with his lips. "No, thank you." He smoked for a bit before addressing me again, "I saw you conversing with James outside."
"We were not conversing, sir; he was merely passing by," I lied, hoping he wasn't observant enough to see through me.
"There's nothing wrong with conversing, miss. But I would tread carefully around my cousin. Do not give her anything to use against you," he advised bluntly.
"Why would she want to use anything against me?"
A vaguely sympathetic look passed across his dark features before he answered, "Jane likes to have something to use against everyone. You might as well know that now so that you can guard yourself." It was the most I'd heard him say; his voice was somehow strident and low at the same time. I imagined he could affect different moods without changing his tone much at all.
"Thank you for your concern." I paused for a moment, "Jane is your cousin?"
"That's right. Darling Jane is not my sister, as unfortunate as that is." He gave me a conspiratorial wink. "She is my father's brother's granddaughter. My uncle and her parents are deceased. We are all that is left of her family." He paused. Then, "I would also advise that you keep any other secrets about you, or your mum, quite close to the vest."
I stared at him for a long while, measuring. He stared back with the same look. "You know my mother cannot see well, sir?" I was startled by my own pluck.
"Yes." His voice held no sympathy.
"It's not serious," I rushed to tell him, "She is quite capable and whatever she cannot do, I can handle. You will not tell your mother or father will you?"
He shrugged, grinning, his smile bright and sharp like a knife glinting in a dark alley. "It matters not to me."
"You will not tell?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it does not really matter to me whether our furniture is free from dust or whether my cousin's tea is to her liking."
"But you are my employer."
He shook his head happily, devoting his attention back to the paper in front of him. "No, I am not, thankfully. You are paid from my father's pocket which I have no claim to, so I am free from the burden of examining your work."
He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and then continued jovially, "So, my dear lady, I, in no way, am responsible for you or the quality of your performance and couldn't care less how well you do your job. I guess it would be my duty as the nice good son that I am, to inform my mother or father if your skills were lacking but I do not desire to get involved in, well, anything that they do."
"Thank you," I choked out, surprised by the mood he was in which was so different from the morose and quiet boy I had first met.
He shrugged.
"Are you sure you do not want your tea?"
He shrugged again but held out an elegant hand; I noticed it was all scarred over, and there was a piece of plaster wrapped around one finger. I guessed his meaning and passed him only his cup, watching closely as he drank. He made absolutely no reaction to imply he either liked or disliked the tea.
He tapped the paper and commented, his voice nearly a murmur as if talking to himself. "This is interesting."
It felt rude not to respond. "And what is that, sir?"
He looked up, either startled that I was still there or at the title of respect, but then cocked his head as if appraising me.
"Warren Carey died yesterday of heart failure." At my look of confusion, he clarified, "He's from a nearby family. I knew him personally from a club I'm involved in. I would wager he was in perfect health…" He trailed off, his gaze turning inwards. I fancied I could see the cogs and gears turning in his mind.
"You believe the doctor is mistaken?" I asked nervously after enough time had passed that I was fairly certain I would not interrupt his train of thought.
"Hmmm," he mumbled. "Just seems odd. He was a childless widower, and recently remarried. His wife would inherit his whole estate."
"That's quite an imagination you have, sir," I commented wryly before I could restrain myself.
He glanced sharply at me before amusement transformed his face. "Indeed, I can see why it may appear that way from your perspective."
I did not think he meant it as an insult, but it stung as if it were.
He was already back in his own world, so thankfully he did not notice my reaction. He was reading the brief article to me. "At his residence in York, on the 24th of February last, in the 38th year of his age, WARREN CAREY, suffered heart failure, leaving a wife to mourn her irreparable loss. The deceased was a native of London, but relocated to Yorkshire at a later period of life after a long career engaged in mercantile pursuits."
"Did you know him very well?" I inquired gently.
"Well enough," he answered but with no trace of emotion in his voice.
"Well," I stammered, unsure, "I'm sorry for your loss."
He looked blankly at me for a moment before folding his papers and rising, securing them under his arm.
He stepped towards me and looked down into my face. He was rather over six feet tall, and the top of my head only reached to his chest.
His proximity was unnerving. He seemed to read my thoughts and leaned away from me. Giving me a quick once-over, he then blessed me with a lightning-fast and stunningly charming smile that almost knocked me over. Taking a step back, he stole a biscuit from his unwanted tray and gestured toward it idly.
"You can take this for yourself, if you wish."
"But I do not think I'm allowed."
"You are allowed if I say you are." An authoritative tone seeped into his voice. I stood stupidly, not sure what I was supposed to do.
He graced me with a humorless smirk, but that captivating smile I had been privy to was well hidden. He sauntered off towards the hall.
"Pardon, sir, but might I ask you something?"
He turned to face me with one dark eyebrow raised, sliding a hand nonchalantly into his pocket.
"How did you know my mum was losing her sight?"
He shrugged in explanation and began to turn from me. "By the way," he stopped, "Jane does not like very much milk in her tea - it is a bit too Irish for her taste."
He wandered off.