Carola Dunn (12 page)

“Be damned if I can get the hang o’ flipping them pancakes, sir,” he gasped. “Begging your pardon, miss, I didn’t see you there.”

“Another one in the fire, eh?” Mr Mayhew asked with a sigh. “Bodiham has a fancy to beat the village women in the race next Tuesday,” he explained to Philo. “You may well laugh. I have been living on singed pancakes for days.”

“So have we, though not singed. Mrs Barleyman is in the contest. I persuaded her to teach me the trick of it, but I do not believe I ought to give away secrets to her competitors.”

“Have mercy, Miss Philo! Show him how to do it before I starve to death.”

He was joking, but she remembered her concern that he was not eating enough. With a mental apology to Mrs Barleyman, she agreed.

“Just wait half a tick while I scrape off the one as stuck to the ceiling,” Bodiham requested.

When Philo saw the cooking facilities the servant had to contend with, she suddenly sympathised with his incompetence. There was no range, merely an open grate with a griddle balanced across it, on which he set the frying pan for the pancakes. A hinged hook in the chimney allowed a kettle to hang over the fire. The rock buns must have been a triumph of ingenuity, and she was sorry she had scorned them.

Bodiham quickly picked up the art of tossing a pancake.

“Let me try,” demanded his master, stirring the batter. “Miss Philo, have you any other tricks of the trade to teach him?”

“I’d take it right kindly, miss,” Bodiham admitted.

Philo had never expected to bless Cousin Sarah for making her learn to cook.

With this added excuse, she went daily to the cottage for the next few days. Mr Mayhew was generally busy in the laboratory, but he always popped into the kitchen at frequent intervals to see what was going on.

“After all, cookery is a form of chemistry,” he said. “You heat certain substances together, and the result is something quite different. Take baking powder, for instance.” He explained how heating bicarbonate of potash or soda, with an acid, releases carbonic acid gas, which forms bubbles in the dough and makes it rise.

Philo regarded her ingredients with a new respect.

* * * *

Busy with his new receipts, Bodiham forgot about the pancake race.

“I haven’t reminded him,” Mr Mayhew said as he walked with Philo and Toby as far as the bridge on the Saturday before Shrove Tuesday. “If, under your tutelage, he won, he would probably be accused of witchcraft. You have no idea, Miss Philo, how my life has changed since you have been sharing your knowledge. The stew he made last night was delicious.”

“You like stew, sir?” Toby asked in astonishment. “I hate it. You can’t tell what is in it.”

“That was a sort of goulash,” Philo said, “a Hungarian dish, but it should have had paprika in it.”

“We are going into Lincoln on Monday. Perhaps I can find some there. Shall I see you on Tuesday?”

“I doubt it. I promised Mrs Barleyman to watch the race.”

“Mama says I can go too.” Toby screwed up his face in a horrid grimace. “I hope Mrs Barleyman wins, or she might go on practising
all year
for the next race.”

Philo and Mr Mayhew laughed, their eyes meeting over the child’s head. She found it impossible not to wonder what it would be like to be married to him, to have their own child skipping between them.

* * * *

Shrove Tuesday was a beautiful day for the end of February, sunny and clear, with a promise that March meant to come in like a lamb. Even Aquila condescended to stroll to the village green to watch Mrs Barleyman compete. A number of peddlers had spread their packs on the grass, or even set up stalls. Villagers and farm folk wore their holiday clothes, giving the place a festive air.

Cousin Cressida kept Toby beside her in the crowd. They and Philo and Aquila wandered about examining the peddlers’ wares. Aquila, despite her world-weary air, found a set of buttons she liked. Philo bought some gilt gingerbread for Toby, and was trying to decide between two ribbons in slightly different shades of blue when she saw Robin Mayhew.

Her breath caught in her throat. How would she explain it to the others if he spoke to her? Or if Toby addressed him as a friend?

It was a miracle that the secret had lasted so long—except that looking back she realised it was only two weeks. She felt as if she had known Robin forever. Their first encounter had been unconventional by sheer chance, but the longer she went on meeting him clandestinely, the more impossible it was to confess. If anyone found out, she would never be allowed to see him again.

Meeting his gaze, she tried to convey a desperate appeal with her eyes.

Robin read her meaning easily. Not that he had had any intention of accosting her while she was with Toby’s mother and the elegant young lady who must be her sister. She was alarmingly elegant herself, with a charming hat topped by a curling feather and a high-waisted, pale-grey garment which accentuated her slender figure in a way that made him frown. It did not surprise him that she wanted to conceal her acquaintance with so peculiar a gentleman as himself, though he thought he looked quite respectable today. He was even wearing a hat, which he hated.

All the same, he wanted to talk to her. Catching her eye again, he began to drift towards the row of huge old elms that lined one side of the green. A Punch and Judy show surrounded by noisy children would provide cover for the exchange of a few words.

A few minutes later she stood near him at the back of the audience.

“How clever of you to guess that a puppet show is far beneath Aquila’s dignity,” she said in a low voice, slightly breathless. “Though I fear Cousin Cressida will bring Toby sooner or later.” Then she blushed, looking enchantingly uncertain. “You did want to speak to me?”

“Yes.” He forced himself to tear his gaze from her face, turning back towards the booth where Punch had just whacked a scarlet-clad devil over the head to a great outcry from the children. What was it he had wanted so urgently to tell her? “Ah, yes, I bought a canary in Lincoln yesterday. Will you come tomorrow and tell me how to care for it?”

“I’ll try. Oh dear, here come Cousin Cressida and Toby.”

Robin glanced round and saw his young friend tugging on the hand of his reluctant mother.

“Oh lord, do you think he has recognised me?” he groaned.

“In a hat? Never!” Philomena’s voice was teasing, but he caught an anxious undertone.

“I’ll be off. Until tomorrow.” Hoping his departure looked casual, he moved away.

Philo watched Toby’s approach. He did not seem to have noticed even her presence, his wondering gaze fixed on the puppets. Cousin Cressida had seen her, of course, but had no reason to connect her with the tall gentleman who happened to have been standing nearby.

“Philomena, be a dear and take charge of Toby. Mrs Barleyman is in her altitudes over something or other and I must see if I can calm her down.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Philo took Toby’s hand.

“Angel!” Cousin Cressida hurried off, leaving Philo feeling guilty.

Toby could not be dragged away from Punch and Judy to watch the race, so she did not discover until later that Mrs Barleyman had come in third, and promptly taken to her bed. Philo cooked dinner that night. She hoped it would compensate to some degree for her deception.

* * * *

Guilt or no, as soon as Philo had fed and watered her canaries next morning, she headed for Marsh Cottage.

Toby was thrilled to hear that his friend Robin had bought a canary of his own. In fact, he took it upon himself to instruct the gentleman in the care and feeding of the little bird, the importance of fresh drinking water and a bath two or three times a week.

Robin listened with sober attention, while Philo did her best not to laugh as her own oft-repeated words emerged from the child’s mouth.

“What’s his name?” Toby asked at last.

“Faraday, after a scientific friend of mine.”

After a moment’s thought, Toby nodded his approval. “That’s a good name for a canary.”

The next few times they called, Toby catechised Robin to make sure he was treating Faraday properly. A week passed, however, before he thought of one point he had not mentioned.

“Did you let Faraday out of his cage to fly about?” he enquired. “He will like to stretch his wings, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” he replied, with a questioning look at Philo.

She was about to tell him that Faraday’s cage was large enough to make free flight unnecessary, when Bodiham stuck his head round the door to ask her advice. Robin followed her into the kitchen. She was tasting a fair approximation of what Bodiham described as a “betchermell sarce” when the crash of breaking glass startled her.

Robin leapt for the door to the laboratory. Philo thrust the wooden spoon into the servant’s hand and dashed after him as another crash resounded.

“Don’t move!” shouted Robin.

Toby, standing in the middle of the table surrounded by shards of glass, turned towards him and more equipment went flying.

“Don’t move, Toby,” said Philo, trying to keep her voice steady. “You will cut yourself. Robin will help you down.”

“But I got to catch Faraday. I can’t reach him from the floor,” Toby said tearfully, his mouth quivering. “He’ll get hurt. I thought he would sit on my shoulder like Metternich does, but he flied up there and he won’t come down.”

Faraday was perched on a curtain rail, surveying the catastrophe below with a smug look in his beady eye. He whistled a gay trill.

Robin gave a shout of laughter. “Little devil,” he said, admiring. “Two little devils. Bodiham!”

Bodiham was already there, dustpan and brush in hand, to clear a path through the glass on the tabletop. Robin lifted Toby down, and he ran to bury his face in Philo’s skirts.

“I didn’t mean to be naughty,” he sobbed.

“Of course you didn’t, love,” she said helplessly, stroking his dark head, “but I’m afraid it will cost a fortune to replace all Mr Mayhew’s equipment.”

“Not quite a fortune,” Robin said, still grinning. “And I can well afford it. You are not to worry; it was my fault. I should have known better than to leave the child alone in the laboratory. But first things first. Tell me, Miss Philo, how am I to recapture that cheeky bird without smashing what little is left?”

With Bodiham’s assistance, a hair sieve was fastened to the end of a broomstick. Makeshift bird-net in hand, Philo stalked Faraday, breaking only one more retort as she turned incautiously. Soon the canary was back in his cage, gobbling seed as if he had been starved for a month.

“I believe I shall turn my mind to devising the perfect canary food while I am waiting for the new glassware,” said Robin, eyeing Faraday thoughtfully.

He had succeeded in soothing Toby while Philo recaptured the bird. She decided they had best make themselves scarce before he started totting up the damage. Searching his face as she said good-bye and apologised once more, she could detect no sign of anger. It was hard to believe that would not change once he realised the extent of his loss.

It took considerable courage to call at Marsh Cottage the next day, and in fact Philo was too craven to take Toby with her. In her reticule was the pin money she had saved since they came to the village. Though there had been little to spend it on, it was a small sum, but she was sure he would refuse it anyway.

Bodiham answered the door. He did not look like a servant whose master is in a towering rage.

“Morning, miss,” he greeted her with his usual cheerful demeanour. “Mr Mayhew’s gone to see a farmer ‘bout some different kinds o’ seeds for the bird. He won’t be long. Come on along in and I’ll make a
proper
pot o’ tea while you wait.” He grinned.

Philo hesitated on the doorstep. “Is Mr Mayhew very angry about yesterday?”

“Lor’ bless you, miss, the master reckons it’s a waste of energy getting in a miff. It’s unscientific’s what he says. Here he comes now, he can tell you hisself.”

Robin didn’t tell her anything of the sort, simply because he was too busy showing her the variety of grains he had obtained for Faraday and asking her opinion as to how best to test them. Philo indulged him, though she suspected that, like her own birds, Faraday would eat the seeds he fancied and ignore the rest. A canary’s preferences were no more susceptible to scientific analysis than a human’s.

At least, she doubted that her own preference for Mr Robin Mayhew could be weighed in the balance, as he was now weighing small amounts of seed. She looked fondly down at his bent head, his too-long hair curling over his collar.

“I suppose you will want to weigh him, too, to see how he thrives on different diets,” she said.

He glanced up eagerly. “Do you think we can persuade him to sit on the scale? Dash it, Philo—Miss Philomena, I believe you are teasing me! It’s a good idea, all the same.”

* * * *

Whether because of or in spite of his experimental diet, Faraday throve. The same was not true of Robin.

He had gained weight since Philo taught Bodiham to cook. Now he was losing it again, and his face was pale, with an unhealthy cast. She noted that when they walked together he was ready to turn back sooner than usual. Anxiously she interrogated the servant about his menus, tasted leftovers, suggested new receipts to tempt Robin’s appetite.

He was not exactly ill, but he was far from well, and it hurt her because she loved him. She had even dared to wonder whether the illegitimate daughter of an opera singer was truly an ineligible bride for plain Mr Robert Mayhew of Marsh Cottage. Her father had left her a dowry, nothing to compare with Aquila’s splendid fortune, but enough to help make Robin’s life more comfortable. That was all she wanted.

One warm, sunny day towards the end of March, she stepped into the cottage through the open door to find him clutching dizzily at the edge of the table, his face deathly white.

“Philo...” His voice trailed off.

“What is it? What is wrong?” Rushing to his side, she guided his stumbling steps to a seat. His skin was clammy. He sagged against her, then jerked forward and cast up his accounts on the floor.

“Bodiham!” she cried. “Bodiham, come quick!”