“Lady Kent, and Madam and Miss Grocer. Miss Ellie will be attending you,” Neville says to the clients.

I step forward, turning to them with a smile. It’s… my mother. She looks rather amused. I’d rather she didn’t look amused. What she’s doing here, well, Lottie didn’t seem nervous earlier nor does she look contrite now. I say that, she does look apologetic, but I read it more as: Your mother wanted to come here and I tried to suggest somewhere else and she ignored me.

Maybe I’m reading too much into that expression, but I sometimes saw that sort of apologetic look when I was a child—Lottie threatened to tell on me to my mother a lot more than she actually did.

“Welcome, mistresses. May I show you to your seats?” I ask, properly curtseying.

“Please do,” my mother says. “It’s awfully tiring sitting in a coach all morning.”

I politely chuckle, hand over my mouth, and then lead the way to a table nearer the back. Busy for lunch, it’s the emptiest part of the café.

When it comes to tucking them in, I have to start with my mother, being of the highest class present. Then it’s Lottie, being the oldest, and finally Gwen, only she reaches out to grab me as I go to walk behind her chair. Smiling, I lower myself and give her a quick hug, which satisfies her, and then tuck her in.

I imagine Lottie told her I’m working so she has to behave. Despite how Gwen usually acts, I’m confident Lottie raised her well and thus that she can sit neatly and all that. Anyway, it’s cute seeing her on her best behaviour. A comfort to me who is currently in complete disarray inside.

Handing out the menus, my mental state takes another blow as my mother can’t help but tease me.

“You know, it may be due to being lonely after not seeing her in a while, but there’s a certain resemblance between you and my daughter,” she says, a graceful smile on her lips and a twinkle to her eye.

With a shallow bow, I say, “Thank you for the compliment, my lady.”

She laughs, holding the menu in front of her mouth like it’s a fan.

I manage to take their order without any other incident and (maybe taking bigger strides than I usually would) go to hide in the kitchen, finally getting a chance to breathe and collect myself. While I wait for the drinks to be made, I prepare the cups and all that. Although a glass is usually used for water, I get a matching teacup, cooling it down so the water isn’t too warm. I mean, Gwen’s responsible enough for a teacup and she’ll love matching Lottie and my mother.

It’s correct to spoil children, right?

On that note, still a moment to spare, I slip into the lounge and get a scatter cushion. It’s a bit tricky carrying the tray with a cushion under my arm, but I get everything to the table, quickly getting Gwen up onto the cushion; the table is a better height for her now.

No one says anything, but I catch Iris’s eye and she looks ready to laugh. Who knows what she’s thinking.

My mother and Lottie know how to talk quietly, so none of their conversation makes it over to me. However, my mother’s glances do. Gwen (maybe because she has nothing else to do or maybe because she likes the clothes) watches the other waitresses go around. Maybe a seat by the front window would have been better so that she could watch the street.

It’s easy to tell when they need me. I’ve seen my mother at meals for so many years that I pick up on how she slides her cup forwards that little bit, the handle turned away from her rather than sideways. After refilling her cup, I make sure the handle is facing sideways again—towards her dominant hand which she uses when drinking. I noticed one of the clients was left handed but still used her right hand to pick up the teacup, so I try to take note of that.

Lottie does the same thing as my mother, but I can see it’s not as natural for her; maybe that’s because she was never the one actually doing it, just responding to it.

Then there’s Gwen, who has just turned around to look at me. My mother smiles at Gwen while I walk over, no doubt as amused by the adorable girl as I am.

After a few minutes, it comes to the meal. I go through to the kitchen and tell them the order and get the plates and cutlery together. While I wait, I end up thinking, trying to put myself into something resembling a good state of mind.

So far, everything has gone fine. That’s not to say I’m calm, but, well, there’s nothing I can do, right? I don’t for a second think my own mother didn’t recognise me, nor do I think she chose here randomly. If not Lottie, then probably Neville told her.

Whatever happens happens. For now, all I can do is my job, maybe later apologise or beg depending on what she says. I can’t really blame her if she makes me quit, not exactly the sort of job suited to my status. I can’t really blame her if she’s upset for me sneaking out of school and going around without an escort. Even if I’m dressed up (down?) and so not a robbery target, I am still a woman. Crime doesn’t seem to be as big a thing in this world compared to Ellie’s, but that’s just a difference of less likely, not impossible.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Shaking off these depressing thoughts, I check on how the food is coming along. It’s nearly done, and, well, I can’t help myself. “Ah, if there’s maybe a spare bit of cake, or anything sweet, one of the guests is a cute little girl and a friend of mine.”

One of the cooks (Winnie) softly shakes her head, but hands over an extra plate in the end.

Going back through to the café, I serve up their meal. No one says anything about how Gwen’s sandwich comes along with a misshapen tart that wasn’t ordered. She eats it quickly, her knife and fork clinking away. When I go over to tidy up, she’s grinning, trying to keep her legs still as they just want to swing back and forth.

They have another round of drinks, and then get ready to leave. Again, my mother likes to give off subtle signs. She changes how she sits, uncrossing her ankles so both feet are on the floor, and, rather than gesturing with her hands as she speaks and listens, she loosely rests them on the edge of the table. Of course, I don’t just watch and bring them the bill. Then, like I tucked them in, I shuffle the chairs out a bit and offer them a hand up (in the same order as I sat them down).

Gwen takes the opportunity to give me another quick hug and a giggle.

There’s no money left on the table. I say nothing about that at all, leading them to the door. My mother steps outside a moment—and it is only a step—to accept something from a footman. (Clients’ escorts usually wait on the benches opposite the café or under the eaves of the neighbouring stores.)

Back inside, she and Neville briefly shake hands, and I imagine there’s a coin or two handed over in the gesture. However, you wouldn’t know it, my mother speaking sweet words that would make you think the two of them are simply exchanging a greeting.

“Oh Mr Thatcher, what a quaint place you have here. It really is quite lovely.”

He bows his head, giving a broad smile that’s more than just polite. “My lady, you are too kind. If a garden is beautiful, is it not because of the flowers?” he replies, a complete natural at this.

She smiles back, entreating him to a concession with a well-said, “And is it not inevitable that beautiful flowers grow in such a loving bed kept by such a diligent gardener?”

Okay, thank you mother, you can stop now—it’s getting embarrassing. It’s bad enough when you flirt with my father at dinner….

Huh, I’m really starting to understand that, all things considered, it’s a surprise Eleanor only managed to seduce seven boys over two years. I guess it was quality over quantity.

Neville laughs off the praise, and says, “Thank you. The kind words and smiles of our guests are what makes such diligence the least I can do.”

My mother turns then, sending an amused smile my way, before looking back at him.

It’s funny, but I can even see that (at least for my mother) this is the end of the conversation, the way she adjusts her shoulders the first step to turning away from him. And, yes, her next words are: “I shall be taking my leave.”

“Thank you for your patronage,” Neville says, bowing once more as she leaves. No sooner is she out the door than a maid is at her side, offering her a coat. Lottie follows her without looking back, but Gwen does spare me a glance, blatantly unhappy that I’m too far away for her to give me a goodbye hug (at least, that’s what I make of her pouty expression).

Before I can feel too relieved, I’m pulled into the back by Iris for our lunch break.

“I’m sure everyone wants to know, so shall we talk about it after our shift?” I say, pre-empting her questions. She grumpily accepts.

As usual, the afternoon isn’t overly busy, but the cleared sky brings some of the ladies that didn’t come in the morning, so I always have a group to attend to. Times goes quickly with that steady stream of work to do.

At the end of the day, just like I expected, the door hasn’t even closed behind the last client before I’m surrounded.

“Who—”

“You—”

Talking over each other, I get the gist of it and it’s that they have no idea what’s going on. I mean, from their perspective, Lady Kent is definitely a proper upper-class lady, and so Lottie and Gwen must be a big deal to come along with her, and Gwen definitely knew me.

I glance at Neville and he looks very amused by all this. The prat.

“Let’s go get changed,” I say, giving myself a moment to think of the best way to put it.

Oh they complain, but still follow me and keep chatting away at me and to each other.

“So, to start with, that was the Duchess of Kent,” I say once we’re in the changing room.

“A duchess? Really?” Millie asks, her eyes wide with shock.

I giggle. “Yes, really. And then with her was Lottie who worked at the Kent estate before she married, and her daughter Gwen.”

“For the duchess to come see her, she must have been important,” Len says, Iris and Annie quickly concurring. Well, let them think that.

So they nod to themselves, and then Iris lets out an, “Ah,” before giving me a strange look. “Isn’t your surname also Kent?”

“Well, I have a second cousin who is also the second cousin of the Duchess’s daughter.”

So they nod, and then Annie asks, “And you know that child?”

“Yes. I knew Lottie growing up and met her again in town a fortnight before I started working here, so I’ve gotten to know Gwen.”

Len, a look like she’s deep in thought, follows up with another question. “Do you think she’s recommended you to the Duchess?”

Gently giggling behind a hand, I shake my head. “No, I very much doubt that.”

Do they really want to get rid of me that badly?

Well, they say you should be careful what you wish for, and being the centre of attention is more exhausting than I thought. But I don’t hate it, answering them with a gentle smile on my lips.

What does get me, though, is the lying. Even if I’m saying things in such a way to not actually lie, that’s only something to ease my conscience, still a pang of remorse left behind. If I just told them the truth, would they treat me the same? Am I not being selfish? Aren’t I supposed to start from the truth and build a friendship in spite of the difference in class?

Or is the punishment for my white lies the knowledge that I can never truly consider them my friends? That… seems fitting. When you cheat, of course you should be disqualified from winning the prize, right?

By the time I actually leave the café, I’m so thoroughly drained and all too ready for bed.

And then I see Lottie and Gwen.

Lottie meets my gaze with a wry smile, and she says, “My lady asked me to walk you back to the grounds.”

Whatever happens happens, right?

On the way back, all Lottie tells me is that my mother insists I don’t go around unaccompanied, and that we will have a proper talk over winter break.

However, I didn’t understand exactly what that first part meant until the next morning.

(Don’t worry, I remember to water the cress after supper.)