something troubled her. From experience, Miranda guessed the girl had either been recently disappointed in love, or something was not right at home.
A certain relief flowered through her at being able to turn her attention toward someone else’s problems and away from her own. Miranda addressed the girl as she would have done a maid in her own home.
“Tell me at once what is the matter,” she said, her voice calm and implacable.
“No, no, it’s nothing, miss!” exclaimed Harriet, shaking her head so violently the enormous lace cap fluttered like cobwebs in a breeze.
“Harriet,” said Miranda gently, and then waited.
Inevitably, Miranda’s steely will eventually overbore Harriet’s wavering protests. With a faint wail, the little maid buried her face in her hands.
“It’s me mum,” she sobbed. “She’s fell sick real sudden-like last night. Me pa sent a message this morning and said he thought it was the fever. He’s worried the little ones would get sick too, and he wants me to come home.”
“I rather thought it was something like that,” said Miranda, patting the girl sympathetically on the shoulder. “Where is your family?”
“Hampstead Heath,” said Harriet, between sniffles.
“Well, then, why don’t you take a day and go home to visit her?”
“I can’t do that,” exclaimed Harriet, her round eyes widening.
“Mr. Blakewell does not give you time off?” Miranda asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
“Mr. Blakewell?” the maid asked. She stopped sobbing, evidently out of surprise at the question. “Oh, no, miss, I am not part of the club staff. The kitchen staff is employed by Monsieur Leblanc, and he would never permit it!”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “You are not permitted to have a day off now and then?” she asked.
“We ’ave a half-day every week, and a full day every month,” said Harriet. “But my next full day isn’t for another three weeks.”
“Nevertheless, your mother is ill, and you are needed at home,” said Miranda.
“But Monsieur Leblanc would be furious if I’m not around to help with the preparations for supper.”
Miranda considered for only half a moment before she made up her mind.
“I’ll deal with him,” said Miranda firmly.
Harriet looked up at her with watery eyes. “Miss?”
“I will go to the kitchens to speak with Monsieur Leblanc,” said Miranda. “You are to go pack your things.”
“But your lunch, Miss Thornwood!”
“Never mind my lunch,” said Miranda. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”
Harriet continued to protest for some time, but Miranda was firm, and eventually, looking dazed but grateful, the little maid directed Miranda to the kitchen door, though she refused to make an appearance herself.
“He won’t never let me go if he saw me,” she whispered to Miranda.
Before Miranda could respond, the door swung open and another girl burst into the hall, crying hysterically to the accompaniment of shouting from within the kitchen. Miranda waited for her to vanish down the hall before she turned back to Harriet, who looked terrified.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said Miranda calmly. “I’ll settle everything with Monsieur Leblanc.”
The girl curtsied and hurried down the corridor to her room. Miranda pushed the door of the kitchens open and stepped inside. Monsieur Leblanc, looking no less ill-tempered and Gallic than before, stood at his stove shrieking, “The imbecile must think red mullets come out of the sea with my sauce in their pockets! I resign! I resign absolutely! I go to Crockford’s!”
When he saw Miranda, he turned on her in equal fury. “What are you doing here? Out, out!” He swept the kitchen with a malevolent gaze. “Where is Harriet? Where did that fool Polly go? How can I be expected to cook if no one is here to ’elp?”
“I don’t know where Polly’s present location is,” said Miranda, “but I believe I saw her running down the hall, looking very upset. As for Harriet, she is going home to her family. Her mother is very ill.”
She regarded the Frenchman with interest as he turned first red, and then an exceedingly unusual shade of purple beneath his drooping mustache. For a moment, he looked as though the top of his head might explode entirely.
“What do you mean, Harriet is going home to her family?” he managed to shriek at last, before letting loose a string of furious Gallic invectives. “The stupid little blancmange does not have my permission to leave!”
“I gave her permission to leave,” said Miranda.
Monsieur Leblanc’s eyes rolled back a little, and for the first time Miranda felt genuine alarm. If the man should go into paroxysms and disrupt the supper service, Jason would never forgive