Tess and I cut the finished dough to fill small tart pans, and I added a good helping of raspberry jam to each. We filled the rest with a mixture of butter, almond flour, and curd cheese, with a dusting of mace. More tart dough covered the tops, and in they went to the oven, fueled by Charlie.

Thinking of the children yesterday, I gave the boy an impulsive hug, promising he’d always have a home here. Charlie gave me the puckered frown of a ten-year-old not understanding what an adult was on about, but tolerated the hug. He knew I did daft things from time to time.

Tess ran a finger through the empty filling bowl, scooping up the remnants of cheesy custard and popping them into her mouth. I pretended I didn’t see her but assigned her the washing up, as Elsie was out.

I kept several of the tarts back for us when I sent up the evening meal. Elsie returned after the February night had fallen, and I lit the lamps.

“She wants to see you, Mrs. Holloway,” Elsie said as she tied on her apron to make a start on the supper dishes. “Bessie, I mean. She’s worried about something but wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Thank you,” I said to Elsie. “I will arrange something. Any more word on the children?”

“No.” Elsie pumped water into a tub and carried it to the stove to heat. “But no one seems alarmed. It’s very strange.”

“It is indeed.”

I would simply have to speak to Bessie, and soon, though I could invent only so many excuses for wandering about London. I pondered what to do the brief time I lay in bed before I fell into deep slumber, and the next morning, I decided to recruit help.

Mrs. Bywater had sent down instructions with Mrs. Redfern that I was to prepare a special tea for her gathering of female friends this afternoon. Mrs. Bywater had enjoyed the maids of honor at supper last night, and wanted more of those, plus petits fours, scones, sandwiches, and the like. It was a long list. I’d be preparing the feast all day.

I dropped word with Sara, the upstairs maid, to ask Lady Cynthia to step down to the kitchen whenever she had a moment. Not a quarter of an hour later, Cynthia strode into the kitchen in all eagerness.

“What is it, Mrs. H.?” she asked. “Thanos told me all sorts, and so did McAdam when he stopped at the pub on Bedford Square yesterday.” The pub had an upstairs room where writers and scholars, many of whom studied at the nearby British Museum and library, gathered to talk about art, history, poetry, and novels. Bluestockings were welcome, and Cynthia could meet Mr. Thanos there without courting scandal.