Gibbous House 57

My disappointment, when the next person to come through the dining room door proved not to be the ethereal Mrs Gonderthwaite with my breakfast, was tempered by the realization that it was, in fact, the intriguing Miss Pardoner. My ward was wearing a day dress in a dark shade of a still unsuitable blue with a lace chemisette and cuffs. She carried a pair of short leather gloves in one hand. The young woman's hair was most unfashionably short and made a pleasant change from the parted and sausage-curled coiffures that were common during that decade.

I declared my surprise that she had such a dress to hand despite the absence of her effects, which were still en route from Lindisfarne.

'You would be surprised what can be found within the walls of your property, Mr Moffat.' She replied.

'I should only be surprised, Miss Pardoner, if I ceased to be surprised.'

My reward was the upward curl of her lip, an expression of hers, which from the very outset might have provoked me to either violence or lust, or perhaps both in equal measure. The young woman took her place at table, I felt in need of a spyglass to see her the better. It was most strange to conduct our conversation in the manner of Irish navvies across a canal. Her not unpleasant voice carried well and I imagined she could have followed a career in the theatre - although not as a romantic lead, her unconventional looks would surely have precluded such rôles.

'Might we not ride out today, Mr Moffat?'

'Are you not frum, Miss Pardoner?' I asked.

'I am Christian born, Mr Moffat, as I have told you: though I have spent some years in the care of Jews. I wonder that you should know such a word.'

'My wife was Jewish. Septimus Coble's great niece, in fact.'

'You are no Jew, sir.' She looked at me expectantly.

'Scarce a Christian, some would say.'

'Something of the Pagan about you, Mr Moffat, I think.'

She was quite the most brazen woman I had ever met outside Whitechapel, and she was bolder still than many of those. In common with many women of my acquaintance it was not in her nature to allow a silence of any duration. Therefore, in the absence of any responding remark from myself, she queried:

`Are we to breakfast on apples and honey this morning, sir?'

I replied that I should be most astounded if we broke our fast at all.

At which point, the dining room door opened wide and the narrow-boned figure of the cook was preceded by the huge covered salver I had been so surprised at her carrying so easily the previous day. She placed the silver domed platter on the table at the mid-point and removed the cover with what passed in so flat a character as a flourish. Displayed attractively was every victual I had specified, the steam rose from the lamb sausage and blood pudding: I could have sworn I still heard their sizzling. The potato farls each had a knob of butter atop, slowly melting and pooling beside them on the polished plate. The white of the poached eggs contrasted sharply with the rich pink of the back bacon, which had proved surprisingly plentiful in such a household. Mrs Gonderthwaite gave me an expectant look:

'China tea, Mrs Gonderthwaite. China tea.' I said.

The lid was replaced with some enthusiasm and the thin woman repaired to the kitchen with as much animation as she had thus far evinced in my presence.