willing to go back to work after what happened.” She followed him into a long hallway hung with portraits and lined with curio cabinets.
“They’ll be eating in the house from now on, and sleeping indoors, too. They should be safe enough.”
“Unless the cook is the one who poisoned them.”
He chuckled at that and abruptly changed course. Instead of heading upstairs, he led her towards the back of the house. “I think you should meet Mrs. Monroe,” he told her. “She’s both housekeeper and cook here and has been for years. She’s devoted to the Somener family.”
Prudence Monroe was a beanpole of a woman somewhere in her middle years. She was clearly accustomed to being in charge in the kitchen and looked with disfavor upon intruders. “What do you want, Mr. Ben? I’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t let us stop you, Mrs. Monroe. I simply wanted you to meet the lady I’m about to marry.”
Mrs. Monroe gave a sniff and continued rolling out the dough for a pie. “About time you got married. Mr. Graham, too, though I can’t say I like the way the wind blows in that quarter.”
The entire kitchen smelled of cinnamon and apples and of the freshly baked rolls cooling on a rack. Predictably, Diana’s stomach growled.
Ben chuckled. “If you’re very polite to Mrs. Monroe, Diana, I am sure she will offer you a ham sandwich from the leftovers of last night’s meal.”
“You know where the fixings are, Mr. Ben,” Mrs. Monroe told him. “I’m in the middle of making dessert and you know how fussy Mr. Graham is if his dinner’s late.”
While Ben set about slicing bread and ham, Diana seized the opportunity to talk to the cook. “Do you know anything about what happened to those archaeologists?”
“Young Ben here says it was morphine. I ask you, what’s the world coming to? In my day, no one had even heard of such a thing.” She slammed the rolling pin down on the counter and seized the crust, slapping it into a tin pan. With strong, expert fingers, she pressed the dough into shape.
“Are you concerned for your own safety?” Diana asked.
“Why should I be? No one wants to hurt me.” She dumped a bowl full of apple slices, already sugared and dotted with cinnamon, into the pie pan and picked up the rolling pin to prepare the top crust.
Ben handed Diana two slices of bread with a slab of ham between them. She bit hungrily into the sandwich while continuing to contemplate Mrs. Monroe. The woman had a dangerous gleam in her eyes and Diana didn’t like the look of that rolling pin. It was heavy—not wood but marble—and would pack quite a wallop. As she took another bite, she put a little more distance between herself and the cook. Then she posed another question.
“Do you know something about Miss Dunbar, Mrs. Monroe? I get the feeling you don’t approve of her being here.”
“Not my place to say.”
Ben slanted a warning glance at Diana that prompted her to keep silent and wait. After a moment, Mrs. Monroe started talking.
“She used to come here when she was a little girl. Worse than the boys, she was. Always the little troublemaker.”
“Were her parents friends of Graham’s parents?” Ben asked.
“Her mother was friends with Miss Min. It was when Miss Min lived here, after old Mr. Jedediah died, that Serena Dunbar used to come visit.”
“Miss Min?” Diana asked.
“Minnie Somener, Graham’s aunt,” Ben supplied. “And yes, the mailboat was named in her honor.”
“She was christened Minerva,” Mrs. Monroe informed them. “Fancy name. She never did like it much. Often said she wished she’d been named after her mother.” She chuckled. “Born too late for that. Some years before Miss Min was more than a gleam old Jed Somener’s eye, his wife stood godmother to my mother. Mama ended up being christened Susan and Miss Min, she got stuck with Minerva.”
Diana didn’t quite understand why more than one baby couldn’t have been given the same name, but if Susan
“They’ll be eating in the house from now on, and sleeping indoors, too. They should be safe enough.”
“Unless the cook is the one who poisoned them.”
He chuckled at that and abruptly changed course. Instead of heading upstairs, he led her towards the back of the house. “I think you should meet Mrs. Monroe,” he told her. “She’s both housekeeper and cook here and has been for years. She’s devoted to the Somener family.”
Prudence Monroe was a beanpole of a woman somewhere in her middle years. She was clearly accustomed to being in charge in the kitchen and looked with disfavor upon intruders. “What do you want, Mr. Ben? I’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t let us stop you, Mrs. Monroe. I simply wanted you to meet the lady I’m about to marry.”
Mrs. Monroe gave a sniff and continued rolling out the dough for a pie. “About time you got married. Mr. Graham, too, though I can’t say I like the way the wind blows in that quarter.”
The entire kitchen smelled of cinnamon and apples and of the freshly baked rolls cooling on a rack. Predictably, Diana’s stomach growled.
Ben chuckled. “If you’re very polite to Mrs. Monroe, Diana, I am sure she will offer you a ham sandwich from the leftovers of last night’s meal.”
“You know where the fixings are, Mr. Ben,” Mrs. Monroe told him. “I’m in the middle of making dessert and you know how fussy Mr. Graham is if his dinner’s late.”
While Ben set about slicing bread and ham, Diana seized the opportunity to talk to the cook. “Do you know anything about what happened to those archaeologists?”
“Young Ben here says it was morphine. I ask you, what’s the world coming to? In my day, no one had even heard of such a thing.” She slammed the rolling pin down on the counter and seized the crust, slapping it into a tin pan. With strong, expert fingers, she pressed the dough into shape.
“Are you concerned for your own safety?” Diana asked.
“Why should I be? No one wants to hurt me.” She dumped a bowl full of apple slices, already sugared and dotted with cinnamon, into the pie pan and picked up the rolling pin to prepare the top crust.
Ben handed Diana two slices of bread with a slab of ham between them. She bit hungrily into the sandwich while continuing to contemplate Mrs. Monroe. The woman had a dangerous gleam in her eyes and Diana didn’t like the look of that rolling pin. It was heavy—not wood but marble—and would pack quite a wallop. As she took another bite, she put a little more distance between herself and the cook. Then she posed another question.
“Do you know something about Miss Dunbar, Mrs. Monroe? I get the feeling you don’t approve of her being here.”
“Not my place to say.”
Ben slanted a warning glance at Diana that prompted her to keep silent and wait. After a moment, Mrs. Monroe started talking.
“She used to come here when she was a little girl. Worse than the boys, she was. Always the little troublemaker.”
“Were her parents friends of Graham’s parents?” Ben asked.
“Her mother was friends with Miss Min. It was when Miss Min lived here, after old Mr. Jedediah died, that Serena Dunbar used to come visit.”
“Miss Min?” Diana asked.
“Minnie Somener, Graham’s aunt,” Ben supplied. “And yes, the mailboat was named in her honor.”
“She was christened Minerva,” Mrs. Monroe informed them. “Fancy name. She never did like it much. Often said she wished she’d been named after her mother.” She chuckled. “Born too late for that. Some years before Miss Min was more than a gleam old Jed Somener’s eye, his wife stood godmother to my mother. Mama ended up being christened Susan and Miss Min, she got stuck with Minerva.”
Diana didn’t quite understand why more than one baby couldn’t have been given the same name, but if Susan
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