Cooks generally remained anonymous in the kitchen, which I preferred, but every once in a while were summoned to the dining room, where the master or mistress, or her guests, could thank her for the meal. Or, dress her down for her shortcomings—either could be the case.

I disliked these rare summonses above stairs, preferring to remain in the kitchen to get on with my job. But the mistress decided whether I kept my employment or was turned out, so I sighed, removed my apron, and tried to smooth my hair.

Another reason I disliked being summoned to the dining room was that cooking left me sweaty, grimy, and mussed. I brushed off my sleeves as best I could and straightened my cap.

“Wait.” Tess grabbed me, wet her thumb in her mouth, and rubbed at a smudge on my cheek. “There,” she proclaimed. “You’re perfect. Maybe one of them will give you a vail.”

Guests did sometimes hand a servant who pleased them a coin. These tokens I did not mind—an unmarried woman with a growing daughter cannot turn up her nose at an extra bob or two. But to stand in front of company while they scrutinized me was not to my taste.

Once Tess released me, upstairs I went.

The back stairs emerged in the rear of the house, the door opening to a wide hall leading to the front. The house had once been two, the walls knocked out by a previous owner to create one great mansion.

Guests thronged the house tonight, filling the hall and moving between rooms. Few noticed me appear, and those who did gave me no acknowledgment or even curiosity. A domestic was hardly worth a glance.

Mr. Davis spied me and beckoned me into the dining room. The dining table had been turned into a sideboard, filled with food that guests could take to other parts of the house.

Mr. Davis’s dark hair shone with pomade, his hairpiece perfectly aligned, his swallow-tailed coat an example of excellent tailoring. He addressed Mrs. Bywater, who hovered with a cluster of guests near the table, the remains of my feast, including the roast duck, upon it.

“Mrs. Holloway, ma’am,” Mr. Davis announced.

Mrs. Bywater, who prided herself on dressing like a prudent matron, wore a plain maroon gown and a sort of bag on her head that was meant to be a turban. Her friends were rather more fashionably dressed, a few in the black or gray of mourning or half-mourning.

“Here is our cook,” Mrs. Bywater declared. “Responsible for our excellent meal.”

The group around her burst into polite applause. I curtsied, trying to look grateful, hiding my discomfort.

One of the ladies, her gray hair in tight ringlets, lifted a lorgnette to peer at me. “It must be a frightful expense to employ her.”