I ducked through the scullery to find the kitchen awhirl with preparations for supper. Tess gave orders like a sergeant, sending Charlie and Elsie running every which way. The relief in Tess’s face when she saw me was stark.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Mrs. H., no mistake. There’s been a devil of a row upstairs, and the mistress changed the menu at the very last minute.”

I quickly hung up my sodden hat and coat and reached for my apron. “Did she? Mrs. Bywater knows better than to alter the menu without consulting me. And what row? Goodness, I fear to leave the house.”

As I spoke I tied on my apron and looked over the meal Tess was preparing. The fresh fish delivered early this morning was nowhere in sight—instead a cod, covered in salt, had been brought forth, and was now dressed for the frying pan.

“That woman has no taste at all.” I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, but they slipped from my tongue. “A fresh turbot in wine sauce would be far better than salted cod with lemon.”

Tess snatched up a paper and fluttered it at me. It proved to be the new menu—Tess wouldn’t be able to read it well yet, but Mrs. Redfern or Mr. Davis would have told her what it said.

The cod, a salad, and cold potatoes. No pudding.

“Well, I suppose the staff can enjoy the walnut tart,” I said. I’d prepared it the night before, ready to warm after the meal. “But I doubt her dinner guests will be impressed with this menu.”

“Ain’t going to be no guests.” Tess scowled at the bowl of lettuce she’d torn up. “As I say, a great row. Lady Cynthia has refused to eat with them. She said she’d go out with Lady Roberta and Miss Townsend tonight, and Mrs. Bywater said over her dead body was Lady C. going to gad about in trousers while perfectly good young men she could marry are coming ’round to dinner. So Lady Cynthia said, if she couldn’t go out, she was locking herself in her bedroom. Mrs. Bywater was screeching at her ever so loud, and even Mr. Bywater raised his voice a time or two. Result—Lady C. is barricaded in her chamber, the guests ain’t coming, and the dinner is off.”

“Oh dear.” My misgivings rose to a frightening height.

Mr. Davis glided in to hear the end of Tess’s tirade. “Tess has it right, more or less. Within the last hour. Bloody rude, I say. I’ve already uncorked the reds—they’ll be ruined now.”

Tess perked up. “We’ll drink ’em, Mr. Davis. Have ’em with Mrs. H.’s tart.”

Mr. Davis looked appalled. “You will not, young lady. They want a trained palate, those wines do.”