destitution.”
“Instead, I’ll be the one who’s destitute.”
“Your own doing, Mrs. Scrope. Be off the premises within the hour.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll need a good character from you.”
“You’ll get no reference from me. Good day, Mrs. Scrope.”
“Good riddance to you as well, madam. The stink downstairs is intolerable anyway, and you’ve not seen fit to do anything about it.”
Mrs. Scrope stomped back down the stairs. Violet stood at the dining room window, waiting until she finally saw the woman who she’d thought was a godsend exit from the basement door, a worn tapestry bag in each hand, containing all of her belongings.
Were the bags gifts from a previous mistress, or items Mrs. Scrope thought her employer could do without? Violet knew she should insist on searching the bags, but was anxious for the whole sordid mess to be finished.
Mrs. Scrope paused outside, unsure where to go, then finally marched down Grafton Terrace, out of Violet’s life forever.
Violet put her forehead to the windowpane. Not again. Not another round of referrals, advertisements, and interviews to find an honest servant. She’d have to try something different this time. She had no idea what to do about her servant problem, although one thing was certain: Violet wouldn’t be sending Edith Scrope to Mary Overfelt.
She turned to more immediate matters in the kitchen. Everything Mrs. Scrope had purchased had to be put away. Well, at least the woman had thoroughly organized everything, making it easy to figure out where it all went. Violet stored the purchases away, except for one last item that sat on the table. There was nowhere to put it; it had to be prepared and eaten right away, for it would spoil quickly.
Good Lord, would she have to prepare the fish herself?
Luckily for her, Graham was in more of a mood for reconciliation than she was and came home that evening with a gift, a cameo pin surrounded by tiny seed pearls. He apologized for his boorish behavior and begged Violet’s forgiveness.
She in turn kissed him, apologized herself, then told him the sorry news of Mrs. Scrope’s departure.
Graham merely shook his head and smiled. “My wife has the worst luck with domestics. I’ll miss her stewed veal, but it’s not worth having the place cleaned out, is it?”
“You’re not angry with me for making such a poor hiring choice?”
“Servants are difficult in the best of circumstances. I leave it to your care how to hire the next one.”
He didn’t even complain that the turbot fillets were still raw in the center and that the peas hadn’t soaked nearly long enough to be cooked properly, merely raising his glass of wine to her in a salute and forcing down his inedible meal.
How mercurial Graham had become, but she liked this side of his twin-sided temperament. If only she could figure out what mischief he and Fletcher were up to behind her back, for surely there was more to his new trading arrangements than mere funerary supplies.
This time, Violet placed an advertisement herself and was rewarded with several applicants. After weeding through them all, including one woman whom she rejected for simply looking too much like Mrs. Scrope, Violet settled on an unusual choice: an older couple named Walter and Hazel Porter.
Graham raised an eyebrow at the thought of having a male servant, since typically only the largest homes had them, and even then in the form of personal valets or footmen, neither of which they needed in their stylish, yet still middle-class, home.
But he shrugged and told her to do whatever she wished.
Having learned too many lessons over the past few years, Violet did a thorough interview of the couple, asking them detailed questions about their knowledge and experience in managing a household.
Mrs. Porter usually did cooking and laundry, while Mr. Porter performed household repairs and heavy cleaning jobs, such as hauling carpets outdoors so his wife
“Instead, I’ll be the one who’s destitute.”
“Your own doing, Mrs. Scrope. Be off the premises within the hour.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll need a good character from you.”
“You’ll get no reference from me. Good day, Mrs. Scrope.”
“Good riddance to you as well, madam. The stink downstairs is intolerable anyway, and you’ve not seen fit to do anything about it.”
Mrs. Scrope stomped back down the stairs. Violet stood at the dining room window, waiting until she finally saw the woman who she’d thought was a godsend exit from the basement door, a worn tapestry bag in each hand, containing all of her belongings.
Were the bags gifts from a previous mistress, or items Mrs. Scrope thought her employer could do without? Violet knew she should insist on searching the bags, but was anxious for the whole sordid mess to be finished.
Mrs. Scrope paused outside, unsure where to go, then finally marched down Grafton Terrace, out of Violet’s life forever.
Violet put her forehead to the windowpane. Not again. Not another round of referrals, advertisements, and interviews to find an honest servant. She’d have to try something different this time. She had no idea what to do about her servant problem, although one thing was certain: Violet wouldn’t be sending Edith Scrope to Mary Overfelt.
She turned to more immediate matters in the kitchen. Everything Mrs. Scrope had purchased had to be put away. Well, at least the woman had thoroughly organized everything, making it easy to figure out where it all went. Violet stored the purchases away, except for one last item that sat on the table. There was nowhere to put it; it had to be prepared and eaten right away, for it would spoil quickly.
Good Lord, would she have to prepare the fish herself?
Luckily for her, Graham was in more of a mood for reconciliation than she was and came home that evening with a gift, a cameo pin surrounded by tiny seed pearls. He apologized for his boorish behavior and begged Violet’s forgiveness.
She in turn kissed him, apologized herself, then told him the sorry news of Mrs. Scrope’s departure.
Graham merely shook his head and smiled. “My wife has the worst luck with domestics. I’ll miss her stewed veal, but it’s not worth having the place cleaned out, is it?”
“You’re not angry with me for making such a poor hiring choice?”
“Servants are difficult in the best of circumstances. I leave it to your care how to hire the next one.”
He didn’t even complain that the turbot fillets were still raw in the center and that the peas hadn’t soaked nearly long enough to be cooked properly, merely raising his glass of wine to her in a salute and forcing down his inedible meal.
How mercurial Graham had become, but she liked this side of his twin-sided temperament. If only she could figure out what mischief he and Fletcher were up to behind her back, for surely there was more to his new trading arrangements than mere funerary supplies.
This time, Violet placed an advertisement herself and was rewarded with several applicants. After weeding through them all, including one woman whom she rejected for simply looking too much like Mrs. Scrope, Violet settled on an unusual choice: an older couple named Walter and Hazel Porter.
Graham raised an eyebrow at the thought of having a male servant, since typically only the largest homes had them, and even then in the form of personal valets or footmen, neither of which they needed in their stylish, yet still middle-class, home.
But he shrugged and told her to do whatever she wished.
Having learned too many lessons over the past few years, Violet did a thorough interview of the couple, asking them detailed questions about their knowledge and experience in managing a household.
Mrs. Porter usually did cooking and laundry, while Mr. Porter performed household repairs and heavy cleaning jobs, such as hauling carpets outdoors so his wife
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