‘Only that the whole family consists of clutch purses,’ Dina shot back. ‘Would you wear such a thing?’
I would if I loved my future husband, Mary thought, even though she knew she would never say it. She decided Dina wanted some comment, so she mumbled something that seemed to fill the silence.
‘I won’t wear it,’ Dina said, making her long face suddenly longer. She stared at the cake batter, as though daring it to contradict her. Her eyes narrowed and she tossed the spurned ring into the batter. ‘There! Send it to someone.’
She stormed out of the room without a backward glance. Mary stared at the batter, then at Mrs Morison. ‘She can’t be serious.’
‘Poor Mr Page,’ the cook said with a shake of her head. ‘He’s in for a merry dance.’ She chuckled and picked up the wooden spoon that Mary had leaned against the side of the bowl when Dina demanded everyone’s attention. She gave the spoon a few turns, then sent Mary into the scullery for the tin of glacé cherries and orange peel.
‘Fold them in, my dear,’ she told Mary.
‘Really?’ Mary asked, amazed at Mrs Morison’s audacity.
The cook nodded. ‘It’s not much of a ring.’ She laughed a little louder. ‘Let’s hope no one bites down hard!’
Mary joined in the laughter. ‘I don’t think anyone really eats these cakes, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t know and I would certainly never admit such a thing to your aunt.’
* * *
After everything was added, Mrs Morison exercised the power of her culinary office and spooned the batter into the four weathered and venerable tins that the Rennies had probably used since Emperor Hadrian built his wall. Mary hesitated when Mrs Morison opened the Rumford.
‘You’re certain?’
The cook shrugged as Mary slid in the pans. ‘I’ll put these cakes in a separate place. If Miss Flibbertigibbet changes her mind, we can find the ring.’
‘But that’s...’
‘A waste? I think I will call it a diversion.’ Mrs Morison narrowed her eyes and glared at the ceiling above. ‘Your cousin owes us one.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Do you realise we will have to listen to Dina up to and including the wedding in March?’
* * *
Mary thought about the ring later that night after she put on her nightcap and padded down the hall to see if her cousin needed anything. I wonder why I do this? she asked herself and nearly turned around. She remembered Mrs Morison’s words in the kitchen and reminded herself to keep the peace. It was a long time to March.
‘I’m not interested,’ her cousin said when Mary suggested there was still time to retrieve the ring. ‘Hand me that coverlet, Mary.’
Mary did, wondering when it was that Dina had stopped saying thank you for little services rendered. Funny she hadn’t thought of that before her epiphany. She waited a moment, but Dina only waved her hand in a peremptory gesture. ‘You’re welcome,’ Mary said softly. After that, she did not ask about the ring again.
* * *
After two weeks’ incubation, the cakes for home consumption were boxed and stacked in the scullery. The next batch went to the postal office on the Royal Mile, taken there in all ceremony by the newest footmen. Mary worried over the last batch of four, asking Dina if she had changed her mind. Her cousin only gave her ringless hand an airy wave as she went out the door with Aunt Martha for a dress fitting. The plan was to announce the Rennie-Page engagement at a Hogmanay party, which required a new gown.
‘Very well, Dina,’ Mary muttered as she handed the footman the last four rum-soaked cakes, wrapped in gauze, boxed and addressed, along with exact change. She went upstairs to her room to frown over her paltry wardrobe and wonder what she could refurbish for the Hogmanay party. She knew Aunt Martha would allow her to have a new dress, too, but it would be even nicer if her aunt suggested it first.
She looked out the window as the footman walked towards the postal office. ‘And that is that,’ she said, thinking of the ring.
But that wasn’t that, not by a long chalk.
* * *
When she was seated on the mail coach one day later, Mary decided that Thursday, December the 1st, 1814, would be long remembered on Wapping Street. More and more, she had taken to eating breakfast below stairs with Mrs Morison, because she liked the cook’s company. Her breakfast partner upstairs was only Uncle Samuel—all he liked to do was peer at her over his newspaper, give her a slight nod, then dive back into the pages. Dina never rose before ten, when the mail was delivered.
Below stairs, Mrs Morison usually had some pithy reflection on the state of affairs in the Rennie household. Failing that, she sat with Mary to look over the day’s meals and assign some useful task that kept Mary from boredom upstairs, where life was comfortable, but not much was required of her.
Since Christmas approached, Mrs Morison had assigned her to the agreeable chore of inventorying the spice cabinet. Since her arrival in the Rennie household twelve years ago, it had been Mary’s duty to open each aromatic little drawer in the spice cupboard, take a good whiff and decide which spices had run their course and which could hang around another year.
Mary had just opened the cloves drawer when there came an unearthly shriek from the upstairs bedchambers. The note quavered on the edge of hysteria as it rose higher and higher. Alarmed, Mary watched with big eyes as a crystal vase shivered on its base.
‘My God,’ she said, closing the drawer and running into the kitchen, where Mrs Morison stared at the ceiling.
Above stairs, a door slammed, another door opened and slammed, a few moments passed, then another scream of anguish shattered the calm of Wapping Street. Mrs Morison crossed herself and she wasn’t even Catholic.
‘We...we...could go upstairs,’ Mary suggested, but it was a feeble suggestion, much like the chirping of the last cricket on the hearth before winter.
By unspoken consent, they remained where they were. Another door slammed, then there was a great tumult on the stairs as the sound of disaster came closer and closer to the kitchen.
Mary and Mrs Morison looked at each other, mystified. ‘What did we do?’ Mary asked.
They held hands as the racket reached the stairs to the kitchen. Mary took a deep breath as the door slammed open and Aunt Martha and Dina squeezed through the door at the same time, Aunt Martha with fire in her eyes and Dina more pale than parchment.
If she hadn’t been so mystified, Mary would have chuckled to see that Aunt Martha had a tight handful of Dina’s already thinning hair. She gave her daughter a shake.
When Mary just stared, open-mouthed, Aunt Martha said something that didn’t usually pass her lips and thrust a letter into her niece’s hand.
Holding it out to Mrs Morison as well, Mary read the letter, a stilted bit of prose from Dina’s fiancé, not designed to tickle any woman’s fancy or much else. Her eyes widened and she felt her own face grow pale. As imaginary buzzards seemed to flap about and roost in the kitchen, Mary read it again.
‘“My choice and chosen one, that little bauble I sent you was given to my great-great-great-who-knows-how-many-greats grandfather by Queen Elizabeth herself. It is the dearest wish of my heart—and a Page family tradition—to see it on your finger when we announce our engagement on December the thirty-first.”’
‘Oh, my,’ Mary whispered. She stared at her aunt.
Aunt Martha gave her daughter another shake. ‘Dina just told me quite a tale. I am here for you to dispute and deny it.’
‘I fear we cannot,’ Mary said finally, when no one else seemed prepared to speak.
‘Then we are ruined,’