PH02 - Do Not Disturb (3 page)
Actually Gertie had done things back to front and left London to work at the seaside, which made her all the more unusual. Although the housekeeper would never admit it to her face, Gertie was a good, reliable worker, and in spite of an abysmal lack of control over her tongue, the Pennyfoot would not be the same without her.
Gertie’s shoulders rose and fell, dislodging a strap of her apron. “It’s Ian,” she said mournfully. “He’s left.”
“Left town?”
Gertie shook her head, and her cap slipped sideways. Pinning it back in place, she said, “Nah. Left the Pennyfoot. Said he didn’t want to be a footman no more. He’s gone to work on that new lighthouse they’re building on Doom Point.”
Mrs. Chubb relaxed. “Ah, well, you’ll still see him, then, won’t you? It’s not like he’s gone back to London or anything.”
“Not the bleeding same, though, is it?” Gertie said, opening the drawer containing the silverware. She dragged out a tray loaded with utensils, then nudged the drawer shut with a solid hip.
Scowling at Mrs. Chubb, she added, “What with him always popping off to London at the weekend, and his day off being different than mine, we hardly get a blinking chance to talk anymore, leave alone do anything else.”
Mrs. Chubb clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I think that’s just as well, my girl. Keep you both out of trouble.”
“Yeah,” Gertie muttered, lugging the tray over to the door. “Bleeding boring, that’s what.”
Before Mrs. Chubb could answer, the door flew open, and Ian stuck his head around the edge of it.
A bony-faced man in his late twenties, in Mrs. Chubb’s opinion he was much too old and much too saucy to be paying attention to Gertie. But what the housemaid did in her spare time was her own business, as long as it didn’t interfere with her work. Much to Mrs. Chubb’s vexation.
“Hallo, love,” Ian greeted Gertie with a cheeky grin.
Gertie dropped the tray on the edge of the huge scrubbed-oak table and answered with a squeal of dismay. “Ian! What’d you do to your face?”
Ian glanced at Mrs. Chubb and winked one eye. The other was already shut, swollen and turning an interesting shade of black. “Got into a bundle down at the George, didn’t I? Full of them bloody workmen it was last night, all kicking and shoving—think they own the bloody place.”
“Well, you’re one of them,” Gertie reminded him, screwing
up her face in disgust. “Blimey, Ian, that ain’t half a shiner.”
“Yeah, but I live here, they don’t. Always trying to pick on the locals, they are. Always looking for a scrap.”
“Looks like you were more than willing to oblige,” Mrs. Chubb remarked. “Let me see if Michel had any of that beef left over. Bit of raw meat on it will take it down.”
She bustled out to the larder, tactfully leaving the two young people alone for a minute or two. Coming back with a slab of meat in her hand, she cleared her throat loudly before pushing open the kitchen door. Even so, Ian sprang smartly away from a blushing Gertie and gave the housekeeper another of his wide grins.
“Now, then,” Mrs. Chubb said, slapping the piece of red meat on his eye, “tell me what happened.”
Ian winced and pinned the beef to his face with his fingers. “I was practicing for the darts match with Dick Scroggins and the rest of the team, minding me own business, when they starts in on us. Well, Dick, being the owner like, was trying to keep it all down, but after a while he loses his temper and lets fly at one of them. Threatened to chuck the lot of them out, he did. Said he was sick of them causing trouble in his pub, and he was going to organize a protest march against the lighthouse project.”
“Oo, blimey, I bet that did it,” Gertie said, her eyes wide.
Ian nodded. “Right. Everyone knows how Dick feels about the new lighthouse, and the men working on it. Them Londoners are all the same, nothing but troublemakers.”
Gertie snorted. “You was a Londoner a year ago, Ian Rossiter.”
Ian reached out a hand and pinched Gertie’s plump behind. “Not anymore, me darling. I’m a country yokel now, just like you.”
Mrs. Chubb sniffed. “Well, all I can say is that you’d better watch your step, young man. You’ll be losing your job if you’re not careful.”
Ian shrugged. “It’s only for a few weeks anyway, then it’ll be finished.” He moved over to the housekeeper and put an
arm around her pudgy shoulders. “Then, me old love, I’ll be back at the Pennyfoot, brightening your days just like I used to.”
“Here, not so much of the old,” the housekeeper protested, but in spite of herself she felt her cheeks growing warm. No wonder he could turn Gertie’s head. With those dark good looks Ian Rossiter could be quite a charmer.
“Well, I’ve got to get on,” she murmured in an effort to hide her disquiet. She frowned at Gertie. “You’ve got half an hour to lay those tables, my girl, or you’re going to be in hot water.”
The housemaid answered with a resigned “Yes, Mrs. Chubb.” She picked up the tray and looked at Ian.
“I got to go, too, love.” He kissed his fingers and touched Gertie’s cheek. “See you tonight.”
Gertie merely nodded, and again Mrs. Chubb felt a twinge of anxiety. Usually the girl was ecstatic at the thought of being with her beau.
She waited until the door had swung to behind Ian’s retreating figure, then took the tray from Gertie’s hands. “Sit down,” she ordered, ignoring the baffled look on the housemaid’s face. “Something is wrong with you, and I want to know what it is.”
To her dismay, Gertie’s face crumpled like a failed soufflé. She sank onto the chair and crossed her arms over her stomach. “I’m bleeding late, ain’t I,” she muttered.
Mrs. Chubb blinked. “Late? For what?”
Gertie lifted her face, her cheeks looking hollow in her despair. “I ain’t come on,” she said, beginning to rock back and forth. “I think I’m bloody pregnant.”
Mrs. Chubb’s jaw dropped. “Good gracious, Gertie, you haven’t … you didn’t … when? No, don’t tell me. Oh, luvaduck, you’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you?”
Gertie promptly burst into noisy tears.
“Now, now,” Mrs. Chubb murmured, pulling herself together. “That won’t do. We need to put our thinking caps on here.” She patted Gertie’s heaving shoulder absently, her mind working on the problem. “Have you told Ian?”
Gertie violently shook her head. “Nah, he’d have a pink fit. I can’t tell him.”
“You didn’t do this all by yourself, my girl. I think you should tell him.”
Gertie screwed up her face again as fresh tears spurted from her eyes. “I can’t, Mrs. Chubb. Not until I’m sure, anyway.”
“There, there, now. Let me think.” Mrs. Chubb gave the problem some more consideration. “How late are you?” she asked at last.
Gertie sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Almost a fortnight. I think.”
“You think?”
Fresh tears spurted from Gertie’s eyes. “I … I don’t … know. I can’t remember.”
“All right, all right. Could be you just missed one, that’s all. We have to find out.” Mrs. Chubb racked her brains, trying to remember remedies she hadn’t used in donkey’s years. “Gin!” she said suddenly.
Gertie heaved a shuddering dry sob, but at least she’d stopped that dreadful caterwauling. “What?”
“Gin.” Mrs. Chubb hurried over to a corner cupboard and dragged it open. “I know Michel keeps a bottle in here somewhere.” She pulled out a bottle of brandy and one of fine Scotch, then reached into the back of the cupboard. “Aha! I knew he’d got one hidden in here.”
She turned, brandishing the bottle of colorless liquid, and found Gertie watching her with great interest. “We’ll do it tonight. A hot bath and gin mixed with ginger. That’ll do it.”
“I’ve got to have a bath in gin?” Gertie looked at the housekeeper, doubt written all over her face. “What good will that do?”
“You sit in the hot water and drink the gin and ginger,” Mrs. Chubb explained.
Gertie looked worried. “Strewth. I’ll get sloshed.”
“Maybe. But if it works, it will be worth it, won’t it? It will stop you worrying yourself silly, that’s for sure.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
The housekeeper sighed. “If it doesn’t, we’ll ask Madeline for one of her potions.”
“ ’Ere, I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry to know I might have a bun in the oven.”
Mrs. Chubb lifted a finger and wagged it slowly in Gertie’s face. “If you have, then sooner or later everyone in the world is going to know.”
Gertie slumped in her chair. “Bloody hell.”
Mrs. Chubb replaced the bottle in the cupboard, then faced Gertie, her fists pressed into her broad hips. “All right, young lady, you can’t sit there moping all day. Get on with them tables now. The more exercise you get, the better.”
Gertie got up and picked up the tray. “Next time I come back,” she muttered, “I’m coming as a bleeding man.”
“Aren’t we all,” murmured Mrs. Chubb.
Cecily found the trap ready and waiting for her when she stepped outside the hotel later that day. Dressed in a soft blue afternoon frock edged with white lace, she’d pinned a modest-sized hat on her head, trimmed with a single blue ostrich feather. Although no longer in full mourning, she wore a wide black band above her left elbow.
Since the sun shone in a clear blue sky, she took along her parasol and the six-buttoned kid gloves James had bought her last Christmas. She felt a quiver of pain whenever she wore the gloves. She couldn’t forget Madeline’s comment when she’d shown her friend the gift.
“Gloves are an unlucky present,” Madeline had told her that cold, wet Boxing Day. “To receive them forewarns of a parting.”
Cecily had paid no attention until a week later when James had taken to his bed with yet another bout of the
dreaded malaria that would not leave him alone. By the end of that month James was dead, buried in the churchyard of St. Bartholomew’s just a few yards from where they’d been married twenty-five years earlier.
Shaking off the depressing memories, Cecily settled back in the trap to enjoy the view. Samuel, the new footman who had replaced Ian, sat stiff-backed in front of her as the horse’s hooves clip-clopped along the Esplanade.
During the height of the Season, people filled the tiny street, gazing into the leaded bay windows of the shops or strolling along the ornate cast-iron railings that separated them from the smooth golden sands.
Now that the summer had faded, only one or two visitors hovered at the edge of the lapping waves, and a half-dozen more ventured along the row of shops.
The trap jogged the length of the Esplanade, then took the slope up to the High Street, where the villagers did their shopping. Here there were more signs of life, as the wives of the farm workers, tradesmen, fishermen, and businessmen bustled in and out of the shops.
Samuel tugged the horse to a stop in front of Dolly’s Tea Shop and jumped down to assist Cecily from the trap.
Smiling, she thanked him, and added, “Please return for me in an hour, Samuel. I should be ready by then.”
The young man touched his cap. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be here at four o’clock sharp.” He climbed back up and with a flick of the reins nudged the chestnut into motion.
Lifting the skirt of her frock with one hand, Cecily stepped across the pavement to the door of the tea shop. A loud bang startled her, and she turned her head. Farther down the street, a bright yellow motor car chugged along, leaving a white cloud of smoke drifting around the red pillar-box on the corner. The driver and his passenger seemed oblivious to the noise as yet another loud bang exploded from the rear of the car.
Cecily looked at the woman seated next to the driver. She had a scarf tied around her hat to keep it on, as the draft in the open-top vehicle had to be horrendous.
Even so, Cecily thought, she envied her. It must be fun to drive at twelve miles an hour down the country lanes. She wondered what it would be like to go twelve miles an hour on a bicycle. Rather hair-raising, no doubt.
Turning back to the tea shop, she ducked her head to avoid the striped awning and pushed open the door.
A bell jingled loudly above the chatter inside, then jingled again as Cecily closed the door behind her. The room smelled of freshly baked bread, which increased her appetite.
A sturdy gray-haired woman she had never seen before stood smiling at her. “Can I seat you, madam?” the woman asked with a little bob of her head.
At that moment Cecily caught sight of an enormous hat the size of a tea tray, adorned with stuffed birds and surrounded by peacock feathers and pink tulle. The owner of the hat looked at her across the crowded room, lifted a gloved hand, and discreetly beckoned.
“I’m joining the lady in the corner,” Cecily murmured, and the woman nodded.
“Yes, madam. If you’d care to follow me?”
Seated at the table, Cecily greeted Phoebe with a smile. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No, I arrived just a few moments ago. I’ve ordered tea for us both.”
Before Cecily could answer, a buxom woman paused at the table. Her laughing brown eyes were almost hidden by the rolls of fat in her face, and her double chins waggled as she spoke.
Dolly Matthews had owned the tea shop for as long as Cecily could remember. The woman had seemed old when Cecily had been taken there with her brothers as a small child. It didn’t seem possible she was still bustling around the crowded tables.
Dolly greeted Cecily warmly and introduced her to her new assistant. “Louise Atkins, she’s replacing Maggie,” Dolly explained, referring to her last waitress who had left to live in Scotland with her new husband.
This woman was much older than Maggie, but looked strong and healthy, Cecily observed.
Louise, it seemed, had come down from London in order to preserve her health. “All that smoke and dirt,” she told Cecily, “it’s no wonder people are dying of consumption every day.”
When Phoebe asked the assistant where she was staying, Louise replied, “At the George and Dragon. Not nearly as elegant as the Pennyfoot, I’m sure, but it’s the best I can afford at the moment, until I can find something more permanent.”
“One of the Hawthorne Cottages has become vacant,” Cecily said, tucking her parasol under the table.