On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(6)

“So she hasn’t done anything dreadful lately?” I asked. “Not destroyed Dooley’s battle of Waterloo again?” (Uncle Dooley was reenacting the battle of Waterloo with toy soldiers in an upstairs room. He took it very seriously.)

“He’s done with Waterloo, more’s the pity,” Oona said.

“Done with it?”

“Wellington won. Napoleon has been sent to St. Helena. All over.” She clapped her hands. “And now Dooley’s lost. Doesn’t know what to do with himself. I told him to repaint the soldiers and start another battle, but his heart has gone out of it.”

As she was speaking, the door opened and Uncle Dooley came in. He was a tiny sprite of a man, in absolute contrast to his enormous wife. His eyes sparkled when he saw me.

“Here you are, Dooley. Something to cheer you up. Your favorite young lady.”

Dooley beamed and came over to kiss my hand. “How lovely to see you, my dear.” He turned to Oona. “She’s looking awfully well, isn’t she?”

“She always looks well. Picture of health,” Oona said. “Darcy certainly picked a winner.”

I felt my cheeks turning pink at this discussion about me.

“Where is the boy?” Dooley said. “Haven’t seen him for a few days.”

“He’s gone, Uncle Dooley. I’m not sure where. You know what he’s like.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t a gun runner or a drug smuggler,” Dooley said calmly.

“Of course he’s not,” Oona said. “He’s a spy. You know that. That’s why he can’t tell us what he does.”

They both laughed at this as if it was a great joke. Then Oona found a bell among the chaos and rang it. Instead of Treadwell the butler it was Queenie who appeared.

“You rang, Lady Whyte?” she asked. Then she saw me. “Whatcha, miss,” she said.

Again I marveled that she could address Oona perfectly but had never managed to call me “my lady.”

“We’ll have coffee and some of that shortbread you made this morning, Queenie,” Oona said.

“Wouldn’t you rather have some of the plum cake?” Queenie asked. From the guarded look on her face I suspected another disaster.

“No, the shortbread, please. You know Sir Dooley is particularly fond of shortbread.”

Queenie twisted her apron nervously. “It’s just that it didn’t quite turn out as I expected.”

“But I tried a piece. It was delicious.”

“That was before I tipped the rest into the washing-up water by mistake,” she said. “I tried drying it out, but it don’t taste the same really.”

“Honestly, Queenie,” Oona said with a surprisingly understanding smile. “Oh well. Plum cake it had better be.”

As Queenie went out Oona gave me an exasperated grin. “She’s getting so much better too. Whole days without an accident and she really does have a light touch with baking.”

“So you wouldn’t want me to take her off your hands, then?” I asked.

“Why? Were you planning to?”

“I have to go to London and then probably on to Italy,” I said.

“But you have a new maid. You said she was a sweet little thing and so willing.”

“Just not willing to leave her mother and come to what she calls heathen parts with me,” I said with a rueful smile.

“Ah, so you want Queenie back. I knew it was too good to last,” Oona said.

My brain was racing. Queenie was doing well here. Learning skills. Not making too many mistakes. And Oona and Dooley needed her.

“Dooley will be devastated, of course,” Oona went on, glancing at her husband, who sat silently with a gloomy expression on his face. “No more bottoms to pinch. It keeps him perky, having the occasional bottom to pinch.”

I stood up. “I’ll go and have a word with Queenie,” I said. “I’ll leave it up to her.”

I found her in the kitchen putting coffee cups on a tray. The kitchen was surprisingly neat and tidy. Newly baked bread rested on a rack. Something that smelled good was simmering on the stove.

“I hear you’re doing really well here,” I said. “Sir Dooley and Lady Whyte are pleased with you.”

She gave a sheepish grin. “They are so nice to me. They appreciate what I do for them. And even Mr. Treadwell said I was getting to be a big help and he ain’t normally the type what gives compliments.”

“So you’d prefer to stay here, rather than come back to London with me.”

She looked up, startled. “You’re leaving? Going back home?”

“Only for a while. I have some things I have to do in London, then I may go and stay with Miss Belinda in Italy.”

“Italy . . .” Her face became wistful. “I hear Italy’s smashing. Lots of good food.”

“So I said I’d leave it up to you, Queenie. If you want to stay here, I’m sure I can do without a maid. I just wanted to make sure you were happy here.”

“Oh yes, miss. I like it here.”

“Even if Sir Dooley pinches your bottom?” I lowered my voice.

She giggled. “There ain’t no harm in him, miss. He just likes a bit of excitement from time to time, but he’s harmless, ain’t he?” Then she started to shake with laughter. “I mean, look at him. He’s so small and skinny I could knock him flying with one punch if I wanted to.”