Free The Specimen by Martha Lea Page B

house.”
    “I’m sorry, Gwen, to arouse such passion in you, but I can promise you that Mr Harris will do his best not to appear to be ridiculous under this roof.”
    “What kind of person, or mayn’t I ask, sends a, a
dwarf
pastry chef to a household such as this?”
    “An appreciative client. I knew it was his size which irked you, and not his culinary expertise.”
    “An appreciative—who exactly, which of them would—”
    “I have not the faintest idea.”
    “He’ll have to go back then; he’ll be poisoning us at the first opportunity. We simply can’t.”
    Euphemia threw back her head and shrieked like a herring gull. Gwen leaned over the table to slap her cheek and felt the smarting of it in her palm. Euphemia straightened up, instantly silent,
glaring at her sister.
    “He comes with the highest recommendation,” she said. “From the housekeeper of a very good address in London.”
    Gwen regarded her sister in mute defeat for a few moments before telling her, “You appall me.” She left the table, snatching up the daily newspaper and stalked out with it, rolling
it into a baton as she went down the passage to the kitchen to inspect this new servant.

Chapter XI
    Helford Passage. July, 1859.
    “Let us be clear from the outset, Mr Harris—” Euphemia had invited him into the morning room to compliment his pastry, but a fever had lodged in her mind
between the invitation being issued and her reading the letter Fergus Harris had given Susan for the post box that morning. It had been addressed to Mrs Isobel Scales in London. “Whilst you
live under my roof, you are part of my household. You do not answer to anyone living in the establishment at which you were previously employed. Do I make myself quite understood?”
    “Ma’am.”
    “You will not write letters of any kind to my clients.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “And you will not make secret reports of any kind to any of my clients, nor to anyone else, about the private lives of people living in this house.”
    Fergus Harris looked up from where he had been staring at the floor. Euphemia saw no register of change in his expression as he replied that indeed he would not.
    “Furthermore, you will not accept gratuities from any of my clients nor from anyone else, for any such undertakings. As you have so far surmised, we lead ordinary lives here, and there is
nothing so remarkable about us bar that which is already known and appreciated by my clients.”
    Fergus Harris said, “No, ma’am. But is this you telling me to pack up and go?” Euphemia set her jaw and drew out the document she had prepared. “This is a new contract of
employment, which you may read now and choose to sign. If you sign your name there, you will abide, absolutely, by everything which is set out, in plain English on that paper.”
    Fergus took the contract from where she had placed it on an occasional table beside her. She watched his eyes run over her tidy script. Here and there in his concentration he raised an eyebrow.
When he came to the end he said that he would sign. Euphemia stood up and asked him to follow her through into the library where the ink and blotter were ready at the desk. Fergus Harris signed his
name with the same flourish he had used to sign his letter to Isobel Scales. He rocked the blotter over his wet ink and handed the paper back to Euphemia.
    “Thank you, Mr Harris. You are a most valued addition. Remember where your loyalties now rest and we shall all enjoy a peaceful, harmonious existence in this house. And, I almost forgot,
your pastries are indeed quite excellent. That will be all for now, Mr Harris.”
    Married. Of course, he was married. His hand was practised; his touch was sure. Bella. The exceptionally quiet one. She could not credit the woman with such an extravagant habit. But there it
was. She turned her attention to the pile of letters brought in from the table in the hall. The usual drift of thank-you notes and exclamations