Cold Stone and Ivy by H. Leighton Dickson Read Free Book Online

it? Ivy got herself a heart in the post!”
    “An ’eart?” gasped Lottie from the door.
    In her hands was a mechanism that Ivy recognized as an automated mop. It was an awkward contraption, not at all like the sweepers, with springs and levers to move the mop-head back and forth. They were all the rage in London and used the steam that powered them to scour the floors. It was supposed to be efficient. From the looks of it, it was anything but.
    “It’s true,” said Davis. “Whitechapel’s not fit for any woman lately. That’s what Tad said. Murders here, murders there. He said, ‘There’s not enough in the pot for the coppers and the crooks is running the streets.’”
    “Davis, please,” said Ivy.
    “Well, he did.”
    “There’s murders everywhere, lad,” Cookie snorted. “Lancaster is an ’ell-’ole for ’em.”
    “Pelling, too,” said Lottie. “Tilly Barton got ’erself cut into pieces at the Solstice this summer.”
    “Lottie!”
    “But it’s true, Mum. The peelers still ’aven’t found ’er ’eart.”
    Ivy shuddered, remembering the feeling. Smooth, cold, and rather sticky.
    “She’s your mum?” asked Davis.
    “Oh! Mum!” Ivy gasped. She had completely forgotten. Cookie held up her hand.
    “Not to worry. She ’ad a good breakfast. Ate two bowls of me special pudding and toast and tea. Ah’ll put some meat on that ’en’s bones.”
    “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” moaned Ivy. “I didn’t sleep much last night, with the ice and the cold and the stories in my head.”
    “Ah’m taking care, child. She’ll be well with me.” The woman sharpened her eyes. “Ye . . . need to settle in like a proper young lady. Ye’ll be married soon enough and to a gentleman to boot.”
    Ivy felt deflated. Like an airship, collapsing into a billowing mess of hot air and canvas. She had never forgotten her mum. Never.
    “Thank you, ma’am,” she said in a small voice.
    “Not ma’am, child. Cookie.”
    “Yes. Of course. You’re the cook. Hence, ‘Cookie.’”
    Those stony eyes bored holes into her.
    “Me name’s Elizabeth Anne Cook, child. Hence, ‘Cookie.’”
    Deflating. Deflating. A billowing mess all over Piccadilly.
    “Yes, Cookie. Thank you, Cookie.”
    “Lunch at one, ’ere in this room. Dinner at seven in Middling.”
    And with that, Elizabeth Anne Cook, hence Cookie, left the room, taking most of the air with her.
    Ivy dropped her head in her arms.
    “I am a calamity.”
    “So, Miss Charlotte Cook,” grinned Davis. “Middling?”
    “The second dining hall, Master Davis,” said Lottie. “Lasingstoke has three.”
    “ Cor. Three dining rooms. Let me guess—this is the little one.”
    “Exactly correct, Master Davis.” Lottie beamed at him. “This is Smalls. Then there’s Middling down the ’all, then Grande, in First.”
    Ivy sighed and raised her head, just a little. “First?”
    “First House, miss. First and Second make up the ’all. Third is where the servants live. It’s attached to the stables. The others mark a square along the property.”
    Ivy shook her head, confounded by the sheer enormity of the estate. Honestly, most people did not live this way.
    Lottie continued. “From Third, ye go east along the ponds. Ye can take a coach, but ’orse is best. Foot is good too, just mind the swans. They’re nasty. Chase ye as soon as look at ye.”
    Davis’s smile stretched from ear to ear, charmed.
    Lottie went on, oblivious. “Fourth is on the southeast corner. Fifth is southwest. Sixth is northeast. All good cottages. Very warm. Very welcoming.”
    Davis leaned toward her. “And where do you stay, Lottie Cook?”
    She blushed. Ivy had given up correcting him. Besides, the preserves were looking very good and the tea was steaming.
    “I’m with me mum in Fourth.”
    “And your tad?”
    “Tad?”
    “It’s Welsh. Means your father.”
    “Ah love yer accent,” she said, in thickest Cumbrian.
    “I love yors,” he said in thickest Welsh.
    “I