The end of the hall opened into a wide room with long tables—a servants’ hall, I surmised. Plenty of men and women, young and old, surrounded the tables, busy polishing spoons, mending mounds of clothing, or scrubbing small shoes.

One of the older women, a plump personage with a broad bosom, darned socks with quick efficiency. She glanced up and caught sight of me and Grace.

“She’s a bit old for you to shove off on us,” the lady said, and chuckled. “What you want, love?”

5

Is Mrs. Compton about?” I asked, giving the name of the cook Elsie had mentioned.

“Not in here, dear,” the darning lady said. “She’ll be in the kitchen, won’t she? Yonder.” She pointed a thick finger at a door on the other side of the busy servants’ hall. “Won’t have time for a chat, I’m thinking.”

“I’ll just pop in,” I said. “May Grace sit with you a moment? Kitchens are dangerous places.”

“That they can be. Grace, is it? A lovely name, child. Sit yourself down.” The lady dragged a stool from under the table with her foot and patted it. “Sure you’re not after leaving her behind, missus?”

Grace sat down, unworried. “My mum just wants to see your kitchen. She’s a cook, the best one in the world.”

The woman regarded Grace with wide brown eyes. “Well, ain’t you a cheeky one? Nice to see a gel what hasn’t had all the spirit knocked out of her. Go on.” She waved at me with the gray sock.

The others in the room alternately stared at me in curiosity or got on with their work, uninterested. I crossed the room, not without a qualm at leaving Grace behind, and entered the largest kitchen I’d seen in my life.

The vast room ran the length of the building, with tables, stoves, and sinks filling every space, plus shelves upon shelves of crockery, pots, and roasting pans. Cooks and their helpers, male and female, dashed from cupboard to tables to stoves and back, some of them lads and lasses only a little older than Grace. These last were dressed in black or gray, like the boys I’d seen in the courtyard, the girls’ dresses covered with white pinafores.

I remained near the door but off to one side, so I would not impede those hurrying in and out.

One of the maids rushing about was the one who’d splashed water on her dress when she’d nearly run into me. “It’s you, is it?” she demanded. “I told you—stay out of the way.”

“She wants Mrs. Compton.” A lanky youth who’d been polishing boots in the servants’ hall had followed me. “She’s a cook.”

“She ain’t doing much cooking I can see.” She glared at me with angry dark eyes. “Just standing.”

“Shut your gob, Bessie, and fetch Mrs. Compton.”