Cynthia ceased pacing and gaped at me. “You are serious. If so, you’ve run mad. My family will never let me marry a penniless academic, one of Greek origin, I might add. I must marry a pale lordling with colorless hair, no chin, and a fortune, whose ancestors were here to greet old William when he decided to sail over from Normandy. Not a man whose grandfather had to flee Constantinople in the night.”

“It doesn’t matter. We will manage it.”

Cynthia’s cool hand landed on my forehead. “You are burning up. I knew it. What I wish is that I could live independently, never mind my family. I’d have a nice cottage where I could put my feet up or tramp about in boots and trousers, and you could come cook for me. With your daughter. Wouldn’t that be fine?”

It would be. I closed my eyes, imagining it.

I must have slipped into sleep, because the next thing I knew, Cynthia was touching a light kiss to my cheek. “You have a rest, Mrs. H. Tomorrow, we’ll think of something. And you will tell me everything you and Mr. McAdam have been getting up to. Elsie let slip you are looking into something at the Foundling Hospital. I won’t cease until you admit me to your adventures.”

*   *   *

In the morning, my throat was tight, my head aching—the natural consequence of being out too long in the cold and rain—but the fever I’d experienced in bed the previous night had lessened. I only hoped I didn’t begin sniffling.

I washed my face and hands and dressed in my work frock, going down to the kitchen. I did not know what to expect, but it was my duty to go, and so I went.

This was Friday morning, and Tess was already working, her cheeks pink but her countenance dour. She had changed her day out to Saturdays earlier this winter—I suspect because Caleb, the constable of this street, had Saturday afternoons off. Therefore Tess was now hunkered over the table, though working without her usual cheer.

Charlie shoveled coal into the stove, brushing his face with the back of his hand and leaving a black streak on it. Elsie, who had no dishes in her sink yet, peeled potatoes while Tess had bacon frying.

Mrs. Redfern, who must have been waiting to see whether I’d come down, rustled in behind me, the keys that hung at her side softly clinking. “Lady Matthew Baird needs a cook, I’ve heard. She has a house in Brook Street, though she spends a good part of the summer in Lincolnshire. As her cook, you’d travel with her.”

I could not take the post then, as I needed to stay in London all year. I’d put up with the heat and stink of the city to be a short omnibus ride from Grace.