Seven Minutes in Heaven(71)

“Isn’t that the obvious question?”

“From one entrepreneur to another, yes, it is.”

Eugenia took a sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. “I would also be curious to know how large the steam-driven machine will be. Do the printing establishments on Fleet Street have space to accommodate a steam engine?”

Ward’s eyes lit up. “The question of the size of the engine itself is only one of the restrictions I’m wrestling with—”

But he broke off as the door opened and Ruby ushered in Lizzie and Otis.

Lizzie swept a deep curtsy. She was, Eugenia realized, wearing her veil, but it was pinned back, giving her the solemn look of a nun.

Eugenia greeted her and turned to Otis, who was wearing a leather bag over one shoulder, trimmed with black satin. He managed a reasonable bow, given that the bag was visibly squirming.

Instead of formally greeting his siblings, Ward gave Lizzie a tug on one of her curls and poked at Jarvis.

“Don’t!” Otis squealed, but there was no offense in his voice.

“Jarvis may not leave his carrier until you return to the nursery,” Ruby reminded Otis before she left.

Ward put a warm hand on Eugenia’s back. “Here is Gumwater with our meal.”

Thank goodness the meal was set at a round table, because it would have felt very odd if Ward had been at one end and Eugenia at the other. Once the butler left the room, Eugenia watched closely to ensure that Lizzie and Otis chose the right silverware.

Monsieur Marcel had clearly taken Eugenia’s presence as a challenge; Gumwater announced a first course of la poularde à la Montmorencie, garnished with a ragout a l’Allemande to be followed by a second course with three entrées.

Otis appeared to have easily assimilated the lessons she gave them that afternoon. Lizzie kept forgetting and using the wrong fork, or talking with her mouth full, mostly because she was so excited to tell Ward about cake baking that she couldn’t stop talking.

“Monsieur Marcel is a miraculous marvel,” Otis said, trying out a tongue twister.

“He is,” Eugenia agreed, “but he won’t be your chef much longer, Mr. Reeve, unless you hire a cook, two kitchen maids, and a couple of scullery maids.”

Ward looked surprised. “Has he informed Gumwater if he is in need of help?”

“Mr. Gumwater won’t have women in the house,” Lizzie said, bouncing in her seat. “Ruby says that she—and Mrs. Snowe and her maid, of course—are the only women allowed to sleep under Mr. Gumwater’s roof.”

Ward raised an eyebrow. “It appears that I lost ownership of my roof.”

“In addition to the cook and kitchen maids, you might think about a housekeeper,” Eugenia said, “one who might help you furnish the house. Lizzie, you mustn’t bounce at the table.”

“I feel like it,” Lizzie said thickly.

“Please do not speak with food in your mouth,” Eugenia said patiently.

The little girl narrowed her eyes. She pulled her veil forward and draped it over her face. “You needn’t watch me.”

“A lady never wears a veil when dining in company,” Ward put in.

Lizzie pulled her veil to the side, just enough so that she could glare at her brother. “Lady Lisette did whatever she wanted to!”

“Our mother was not a lady,” Ward stated. “You are, which means you cannot bounce, chew with food in your mouth, or wear a veil while eating.”

Eugenia intervened. “I’ve been wondering what it was like to live in a theater wagon. Did you like it?”

“No,” Lizzie said, pushing her veil behind her head once again.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Otis said.

“It was rubbish,” his sister snapped. “It was small, and smelled in the rain. There wasn’t anywhere to put books or clothes. And we couldn’t go to school.”

Ward felt his gut tighten. The more he heard about his siblings’ life, the more he despised his mother. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

“What do you think that your parents enjoyed about the stage?” Eugenia asked.

“Acting,” Lizzie said. “Lady Lisette loved acting parts.”

“Mother was very good,” Otis put in, apparently undismayed by his sister’s earlier snub.

“No, she was not good,” Lizzie retorted. “She liked to do soliloquies and take up the whole stage. You’re not supposed to do that. The troupe is supposed to work together. That’s why—” She broke off and took a bite of creamed spinach.

“Was your father a good actor?” Ward asked.

“He was bollocks at it,” Otis said, with a blinding smile that Ward had seen only a few times. “That’s why he worked the curtains.”