“Where did you take them from?” Gray asks.
“The, uh, pantry.”
“Exactly where?”
When I don’t answer, he turns to Mrs. Wallace. “I believe Alice gave Catriona the biscuits. I have noticed her sneaking uneaten food from my tray.”
He glances down the hall, as if making certain Alice isn’t there, though he still lowers his voice. “I have spoken to Isla about it, and she says I ought not to comment. Alice has known want in the past, and so it eases her mind to store food in her quarters. It is, after all, unwanted food, and no harm is done. I would prefer to give her some to put away, but Isla does not wish to embarrass the girl.”
“She has food-security issues,” I say with a nod. “Even if she has plentiful meals now, she’ll rest easier knowing she cannot go hungry again.”
“Precisely.” Gray looks from me to Mrs. Wallace. “Have we settled the matter then? Catriona stole nothing. Neither did Alice, who is only caching unwanted food.”
“Like a squirrel,” I say.
His lips twitch. “Like a squirrel. Now, if this is done, perhaps Catriona can have a few moments to dress before I get my breakfast. There islittle rush, though I’ll happily take my coffee as soon as I can get it.” He points to the book. “Are you still reading that?”
I nod. “I got most of the way through before I fell asleep. I’m up to ‘suicides by edged weapons.’”
His brows rise. “You are a quick reader.”
“No, I just stayed up very late, which is why I’m still fully dressed.” I hitch my skirts. “I don’t even want to think what my hair looks like.”
“It could use a brushing.”
“You’re supposed to tell me it looks fine. Lie.”
His lips tweak again, at the same time Mrs. Wallace’s tighten. I’m being overly familiar with the master. He won’t care—the man doesn’t stand on ceremony. But even if Mrs. Wallace doesn’t accuse me of flirting, she’s definitely going to see my easy banter as a sign that I am forgetting my place.
I nod to Mrs. Wallace. “I shall dress as quick as I can, ma’am, and bring Dr. Gray his breakfast posthaste.”
She grunts, sets the book on my dresser, withdraws with Gray, and shuts the door.
I take Gray his breakfast. He’s working in the funeral parlor, and I deliver it there. I’m hoping he’ll invite me to stay, and help, but he barely seems to notice me dropping off the tray. He’s leafing through files and gives a distracted wave with, “Just set it over there,” and I suspect it’ll still be full when I return with his morning coffee. I can see he’s drained his first cup of the day, and crumbs suggest Mrs. Wallace included a biscuit or two, which he’s eaten.
Back in the house, I start into my chores. I’m passing the kitchen when Mrs. Wallace looks up from where she’s making pastries.
“I wish to apologize for my earlier accusations,” she says stiffly.
“I deserved them. I know I have not earned your trust, and I intend to do so.” I pause and add, with a faint smile, “Though I will understand if it takes a while for you to believe I am sincere, and not attempting to earn your trust with the plans of later betraying it in a spectacular heist. I do have my eye on Dr. Gray’s library. Did you know he has a first edition ofMoll Flandersin there? My father—” I cough softly. “I know people who would kill for that. Well, not literally. All right, possibly literally.”
She’s quiet long enough that I realize I’ve misstepped. Too much Mallory, too little Catriona. I’m looking for the way back when she says, “You are behaving very differently these days.”
I sigh, perhaps a bit too dramatically, but that strikes me as something Catriona and I probably have in common. “People keep saying that. Dr. Gray believes it is the bump on my head. Everything is a wee bit muddled. I’m mispronouncing words I should know. I’m using words I never used before. I’m making up words, too. Perhaps it will pass. If it does not?” I shrug. “I shall make the best of it.”
When I turn to go, she says, “Would you like some tea? I’ve a batch of these tarts that didn’t quite turn out, and I’d rather not throw them in the rubbish. Alice says they’re quite good.”
“I’d love some,” I say. “As for the tea, is there any chance I can push my luck and ask for coffee? Or is that all for Dr. Gray?”
“Since when do you drink coffee?”
I shrug. “It smells good.”
“And tastes disgusting. I’ll put on the pot, and you’ll see what I mean soon enough.”
On a ten-point scale from gas-station swill to hand-roasted brew, the coffee rates a three. In other words, yes, it smells better than it tastes, but somehow, I doubt Gray is forcing Mrs. Wallace to buy the cheapest stuff available. While his tastes are far from extravagant, they are solidly good, meaning this must be the best coffee widely available at this time. Or perhaps it’s not the beans but the brewing method, which seems to be a drip pot. I wonder whether I could rig up a decent French press? At any rate, having not had coffee in nearly a week, I’ll raise the score to a solid five and won’t turn down future offerings.
I’m finishing my cup when Alice bursts in.