4141.222 · August 10, 1821 AD
Bread and Bodies
The kitchen smells indecently ordinary—bread and broth whilst William is gone and nothing will ever be normal again. Mrs Holloway waits behind a closed pantry door with something she's carried since midnight, surrounded by preserves and flour sacks. Voices from the east wing at midnight. A man's voice raised in anger. Another softer, unrecognisable. Then a loud thud. Like something heavy falling. Or perhaps something worse. What if she'd investigated? What if she could have done something?
Kitchen stairs descending. Warmth before sounds—rising heat from cooking fires. Then scents: fresh bread, simmering broth, root vegetables. Madelyn's stomach turns. The richness feels indecent. Life continuing daily business whilst William is gone.
Not two hours ago she was down here in the cellars beneath, on hands and knees amongst dirt and darkness, weeping into flagstones. Mary's face hovering above. The kitchen feels different entered as mistress rather than crawled to as woman coming undone. Yet her body remembers. Her pulse quickens as though walls might betray what happened in their depths.
Chatter falls silent when she appears. They'd been talking about William. About fragments reaching them through invisible channels of gossip.
Mrs Holloway stands at worktable, flour-dusted hands on rolling pin. Solid woman, capable, face built for practicality. The household's quiet loyalty never questioned.
The pantry—dim, close. Rows of preserves gleaming dully. Mrs Holloway's confession emerges: Midnight. Voices from the east wing. An argument. Man's voice raised in anger, another softer, unrecognisable. Then a thud. Like something heavy falling.
Or perhaps something worse.
She didn't investigate. Thought it wasn't her place. Now she keeps thinking—what if she'd gone to see?
