“New housemaid?” Mary turned her head. “Why, what’s become of Yvette?”
“She has not come today, but claims an illness and has sent her sister in her place, together with a note of explanation that has little satisfied our Cook.”
“How do you know all this?”
He smiled. “I know our new maid’s name is—”
From the kitchen below stairs Cook bellowed, “Christiane!” and Jacques paused only briefly before finishing his sentence. “Christiane. The rest I’ve pieced together from Cook’s mutterings, for she has done the better part of serving me my breakfast.”
“Could not she use the boy? He’s served us once before.”
“Ah. Well, the boy, you see, is ill as well, although his illness is the kind that comes when lads of his age who imagine themselves men do overestimate their tolerance for drink. To his credit he did come this morning, but in such a sorry state that Cook dismissed him with a lively lecture which I no doubt could recite to you. So we are left with Cook and—”
Cook called “Christiane!” more forcefully, and Mary sought to hide her smile and nodded.
“Christiane,” she said.
“Just so,” said Jacques. He looked robust this morning and well rested, as though what had passed last night had left him unconcerned. But Mary, when he asked if she’d slept well, felt bound to answer him with honesty.
“I did not, sir. That man, the one who stopped the thief—you saw where he does lodge?”
“Across the street, yes.”
“In the very house where lives the man I fear is watching us. The man of whom I spoke to you before.”
He met her gaze with one intended to be comforting. “But surely I did put those fears to rest for you? And surely it was Providence to send us such a neighbor at an hour when we had need of him, for had I been the only man defending you last night, my dear, your gloves would be long gone and sold already for a pretty coin, to grace another’s hands.”
She might have pressed her case with more persuasion had the door not opened just then to admit a woman Mary took to be their temporary housemaid, Christiane, who looked to be a little older than the sister she’d been sent to take the place of, though she had the sort of face that having once begun to show its age now made it rather difficult to judge if she were in her thirties or beyond that. In youth, thought Mary, she would have been beautiful—pale-skinned, large-eyed, and delicate. But time with all its drudgery had left her simply pretty, with a hardened edge that showed now in the tight line of her mouth.
On seeing Mary at the table, the maid fetched a new plate from the sideboard before offering the breads and cheeses, fruit preserves and pâté. Mary, having little appetite, took only bread spread thinly with sweet butter, and not relishing the prospect of cold tea asked, with a nod towards another silver pot still on the sideboard, “Is that chocolate?”
With a silent nod the maid moved to retrieve it.
Jacques said to Mary, “Your dog is not under my feet, as he usually is of a morning. Whatever has happened?” His feigned concern was meant to make Mary smile, and it did. There at first had been little love lost between Jacques and Frisque, and although they had since warmed to each other, the dog sometimes curled himself under Jacques’s chair where he seemed to await the best moment to suddenly let out a bark.
“Frisque has stayed abed with Madame Roy, who had a slight headache last evening and wanted the rest.”
“Ah. He’ll be the very cure for her, no doubt. He—” Breaking off, he swore a sudden oath as Christiane behind him stumbled, lost her hold on the small pot of chocolate, and sloshed steaming liquid down the sleeve of his fine velvet coat. As with the thief the night before, surprise made him forget he was supposed to speak in French. “Faith, woman, have a care!”
To Mary’s great relief it seemed the English words were lost on Christiane, who was already flustered past the point of noticing such trifles, dabbing with her apron at the dripping splotch until Jacques shooed her off in irritation, whereupon she scurried altogether from the room as though she knew no other course to take in such a situation.
Mary said, “Come, let me see it,” for she had been witness to an accident of this kind with her cousin only last September, though it had been coffee then, not chocolate, and the coat involved had been plain wool, not velvet. As Jacques held his arm towards her for inspection, she reminded him in quiet tones, “You must take greater caution, sir, when something does surprise you. You have spoken English twice now, and such lapses could prove dangerous.”
“I know, I know.” He had recovered now, though he still frowned. “Can it be put right, do you think?”
He meant the coat, she realized. “Yes, I do believe so. But it must be sponged before the stain takes hold. The maid will likely melt in tears if you descend upon her,” Mary said, “but I can take it to her, if you like.” She took the coat from him and left him sitting at the table in his shirt and stock and waistcoat while she went where Christiane had gone, down by the narrow back stairs to the kitchen.
Cook was grumbling and preparing to go out, her cloak already firmly tied around her shoulders. “I’m sure I do not know, madam,” she said when Mary asked her where the housemaid was. “But if you find her, you may freely keep her. I have errands I must run, else we will have no food for dinner.” And with that she went out by the servants’ entrance at the back, into the shabby-looking courtyard that connected by an alley to the street.