Flour and Confessions

"Mrs Holloway had kept this household fed through every manner of upheaval. I ought to have known she would be the first to come forward with something she could not stomach alone."

The kitchen stairs descended before me in a narrow spiral, each stone step worn smooth by the scurry of servants' feet. Mabel moved ahead with the self-conscious briskness of a girl entrusted with an errand beyond her usual station, her small shoulders drawn back, her apron strings trailing behind her like pennants. She had not spoken since we left the drawing room, and I was grateful for the silence. It allowed me to gather what remained of my composure before facing whatever awaited below.

The warmth reached me before the sounds did — a rising wave of heat from the kitchen fires that met the cold of the stairwell and created a border between two worlds. Then the scents: bread freshly drawn from the oven, broth simmering in its perpetual iron pot, the earthy tang of root vegetables and the sharper note of dried herbs hanging in their bunches from the ceiling beams. My stomach turned at the richness of it. I had eaten nothing since the previous evening, and the smells that ought to have been welcoming now struck me as almost indecent — life continuing its daily business, nourishment being prepared, when William was gone and nothing would ever be ordinary again.

I paused at the foot of the stairs, steadying myself against the doorframe. This space. Not two hours past I had been down here in the cellars beneath it, on my hands and knees amongst the dirt and the darkness, weeping into the flagstones. The memory clung to me — the cold press of stone against my stockings, the taste of dust and tears, Mary's face hovering above me in the lamplight. The kitchen felt different from above, entered through its proper door as mistress rather than crawled to through its bowels as a woman coming undone. Yet my body remembered, and my pulse quickened as though the walls themselves might betray what had happened in their depths.

The chatter that had filled the space fell silent the moment I appeared in the doorway. Every face turned toward me — the kitchen maids, the scullery girls, old Tom who tended the fires with his perpetual stoop and rheumy eyes. Their expressions shifted from nervous conversation to careful blankness, that particular servant's mask which concealed everything whilst revealing, to anyone who knew how to read it, the precise degree of their alarm. The sudden hush felt weighted, oppressive. Even the bubbling of the pots seemed to quiet.

They had been talking about us. About William. About whatever fragments of the morning's chaos had reached them through the household's invisible channels of gossip and speculation. I could not blame them. In their position, I should have done the same.

Mrs Holloway stood at the central worktable, her flour-dusted hands resting upon a heavy wooden rolling pin. She was a solid woman, broad across the shoulders and capable in her bearing, with the kind of face that seemed built for practicality rather than ornament — strong jaw, weathered skin, eyes that had spent years assessing whether bread had proved and whether sauces would hold. Her rounded frame, usually animated with the bustling energy that sustained the household, now seemed stiff with unease. A mound of dough lay half-kneaded before her, abandoned at the moment of my arrival, its surface already forming a skin in the warm air.

I had always liked Mrs Holloway. She possessed a directness that I found refreshing after the careful obliquities of drawing room conversation. When she disapproved of something, her mouth would set in a particular line and she would say nothing at all, which communicated her position far more effectively than words. When she approved, she produced extra portions at dinner or left a plate of shortbread outside my sitting room with no explanation. Her language was food, and through it she had expressed a quiet, steady loyalty to this household that I had never had cause to question.

"Mrs Holloway," I said, keeping my voice low, mindful of the ears that surrounded us. "Might I have a word?"

The cook nodded quickly, wiping her hands upon her apron and leaving streaks of white flour across the dark fabric. "Of course, madam," she replied, her tone brisk but laced with something deeper — a wariness I had not heard from her before. She cast a sharp glance toward the assembled staff, her gaze carrying sufficient weight to send them scurrying back to their tasks, before gesturing toward the smaller adjoining pantry. "This way, if you please."

I followed her into the narrow room, conscious of the kitchen maids' eyes upon my back as I passed. The pantry was dim and close, lit only by a single oil lamp that hung from a hook near the door. Its flame wavered slightly in some unfelt draught, causing shadows to shift across the shelves that lined every wall. Row upon row of preserves stood in their jars — jams and pickles and conserves put up during the summer months, their contents gleaming dully in the uncertain light. Sacks of flour and sugar occupied the corners, their bulk somehow oppressive in the confined space, and the mingled scents of dried herbs and stored provisions hung heavy in the still air.

Mrs Holloway pulled the door closed behind us, and the faint click of the latch sealed us away from the kitchen beyond. The sounds of the household became muffled, distant. In the close warmth of this small room, surrounded by the fruits of her careful industry, we stood facing one another with a frankness that the spaces upstairs rarely permitted.

"What is it, Mrs Holloway?" I asked, hearing the weariness in my own voice and unable to disguise it. The morning's strain showed in everything — the tremor of my hands, the shadows I could feel beneath my eyes without needing a glass to confirm them. I braced myself against the nearest shelf to keep from swaying. "Mabel said you had something to tell me. Something about last night."

The cook hesitated, her work-roughened fingers finding the edge of her apron and worrying it with unconscious agitation. In the wavering lamplight, her face seemed older than I remembered, the lines around her eyes and mouth deepened by whatever she carried.

"It's about last night, madam," she said at last, her voice pitched low despite the closed door. "I wasn't certain whether to speak of it — didn't want to cause alarm where none was warranted. But with Mr Jeffries still not found..." She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the worn stone flags beneath our feet.

"Go on," I prompted, my tone sharper than I intended. I softened it with a slight gesture, but the urgency remained, pressing against my chest with every heartbeat.

Mrs Holloway drew herself up slightly, assuming the dignity of her position. "I was finishing up in the kitchen late last night — closer to midnight, I should say. The fires were dying down, and I was making my final rounds before retiring. Everything seemed in order, quiet as you'd expect at such an hour."

She paused, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed. I found myself studying her with an attention I had never before directed at the woman who fed us — the precise quality of her discomfort, whether it was the discomfort of someone sharing an unwelcome truth or the discomfort of someone choosing carefully amongst several versions of a story. Her eyes, when they met mine, held a steadiness that I chose to trust. Not because I was certain, but because the alternative — suspecting everyone, even the cook who had warmed milk for my son and left shortbread at my door — was a kind of madness I could not yet afford.

"Then I heard voices, madam. Coming from the east wing."

"The east wing?" I repeated, my brow furrowing. The east wing was seldom used — a collection of storage rooms and guest chambers that had stood largely empty since the manor's construction. William had spoken vaguely of plans for the space, but nothing had ever come of it. I had always found that wing unsettling, its corridors colder than the rest of the house even in summer, its rooms carrying a particular quality of stillness that seemed less like emptiness and more like waiting. I rarely ventured there. Had not, in fact, entered the east wing in months. "Are you quite certain?"

"I am, madam. The sound carried, as it sometimes does when the house is quiet and the air is still. I couldn't make out the words — just the tone of it." Mrs Holloway's fingers twisted more tightly in her apron. "It sounded like an argument. A man's voice, raised in anger. And another voice answering — softer, harder to place. It didn't sound like yours, madam, begging your pardon."

She had added that last part carefully, watching for my reaction. I understood what she was doing — establishing that she had considered the possibility that the argument was between husband and wife, and had dismissed it. Whether this was genuine observation or tactful diplomacy, I could not determine. But the implication was clear: William had been speaking with someone else. Someone whose voice Mrs Holloway did not recognise.

My chest tightened, my fingers finding the edge of a shelf and gripping it until the rough wood bit into my palm. The sensation grounded me, kept me present when the room threatened to contract to a single dark point.

"An argument," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "In the east wing. At midnight."

Mrs Holloway nodded, the lamplight catching the grey threaded through her hair. "And afterwards, madam — there was a sound. A loud thud, like something heavy falling. Or perhaps..." She hesitated, her meaning hanging unspoken in the close air between us. "Or perhaps something worse."

The words struck with almost physical force. My mind seized upon them, turned them over, tried to fit them against what I already knew — and what I already knew was so much more than Mrs Holloway could imagine. The confession. The arrangement. The dangerous men William had spoken of with such terror in his voice, kneeling on the Persian carpet in his study five days ago, begging me to understand things I could never understand. Had one of those men come to the manor? Had William gone to meet him in the east wing, in those cold and disused rooms where no servant would think to look?

And the thud. What had the thud been?

I became aware that my breathing had changed — shorter, shallower, the air in this small room suddenly insufficient. The jars of preserves watched from their shelves, impassive witnesses to a conversation that might reshape everything I understood about the previous night.

"Did you investigate?" I asked, striving to keep my voice steady despite the trembling that had spread from my hands to my arms, my shoulders, the muscles of my jaw.

"No, madam," Mrs Holloway admitted, and a flush of shame coloured her weathered cheeks. "I thought it best not to pry. Whatever business the master had at such an hour, it wasn't my place to interfere. But now, with him gone..." She shook her head, her expression deeply troubled. "I keep thinking — what if I'd gone to see? What if I could have done something?"

The guilt in her voice was unmistakable, and I found myself reaching out to touch the cook's arm in a gesture of reassurance. Her sleeve was warm beneath my fingers, dusted with flour, solid and real. "You did what any sensible person would do," I said. "You could not have known."

And I meant it. Whatever had transpired in the east wing at midnight, Mrs Holloway walking in upon it would not have improved matters. If anything — and the thought arrived with a cold clarity that surprised me — her presence might have placed her in danger. The men William had warned me about were not the sort to tolerate witnesses. Mrs Holloway's instinct to remain in her kitchen, to respect the boundaries of her station, may well have saved her life.

The thought chilled me more than the pantry's cool air. I was standing here, accepting information about voices and arguments and heavy thuds, and my chief concern was not what these details revealed but who else might learn of them. What did that make me? What was I becoming, in the space between William's disappearance and whatever came next?

"Thank you, Mrs Holloway," I said at last, my voice soft with the weight of everything pressing upon me. "You were right to tell me. If you think of anything else — anything at all — you will let me know immediately, won't you?"

"Of course, madam," the cook replied, her eyes earnest in the wavering lamplight. "I only wish I'd thought to investigate when I had the chance. Perhaps things might have been different."

Perhaps. Or perhaps Mrs Holloway would have stumbled into something far worse than an overheard argument. I did not voice the thought. Merely nodded and turned toward the door.

Then I stopped, my hand upon the latch, and turned back.

"Mrs Holloway — have you spoken of this to anyone else? The other staff? Thomas?"

She shook her head firmly. "No, madam. I thought it best to bring it to you first. Didn't want to set tongues wagging more than they already are."

"Good. I would ask that you keep this between us for the present. Until we have a clearer picture of what has happened." I held her gaze, and something passed between us — not quite understanding, not quite complicity, but an acknowledgement that the household's stability depended upon the discretion of the women who held it together. "I shall decide when and how to share this information."

"Very good, madam." Mrs Holloway's expression carried something that might have been relief, or might have been the careful neutrality of a woman who understood that her mistress was asking for more than mere silence. "You know where to find me."

I stepped back into the kitchen, where the warmth of the cooking fires enveloped me with an immediacy that felt almost aggressive after the pantry's cool enclosure. The kitchen maids had resumed their work with the exaggerated diligence of servants who had been listening at the door — or trying to. Mabel stood near the range, her face still flushed, her eyes bright with the particular alertness of a girl who knew she was at the centre of something important even if she did not understand what.

I did not linger. Could not, without inviting the very speculation I had just asked Mrs Holloway to suppress. I moved toward the stairs with what I hoped appeared to be the purposeful stride of a woman managing a crisis rather than the barely controlled momentum of one running from what she had just learned.

The east wing. Voices at midnight. A thud.

The stairs rose before me, each step carrying me further from the servants' world and closer to the one I must inhabit — the drawing room, Victoria's watchful eyes, the decisions that pressed in from every direction. My hand found the bannister and gripped it, and I climbed.

Behind me, the kitchen resumed its rhythms. Pots bubbled. Spoons stirred. Mrs Holloway's voice, restored to its customary authority, directed someone to mind the bread before it burned.

The ordinary sounds of a household continuing. As though any of it still mattered. As though bread and broth could sustain us through what was coming.