“Good. Then we shall try having breakfast regularly.”
“We shall.”
He watched Violet add two cubes of sugar to her tea. She picked up her cup and brought it to her lips and stopped. With the cup beneath her nose, she breathed in slowly, her eyes half-closed. The steam moved against her face. She then tilted the cup slightly, looking for something he could not see. After a moment she drank. She set it down.
“What was that?” he asked.
She hesitated, shifting her weight to buy time.
“There has been an unusual flavour in my tea since my arrival here,” she said.
Henry stiffened.
“Bitter under sweet, with a coldness at the back of the throat after. It has been getting stronger. I have not been able to identify what it is.”
He set his cup down. “Have you been drinking that tea all this time?”
“No. I have been pouring it outside the window or the window box when I can.”
“Good. Could you identify it were it to be added to, say, wine?”
“I believe so. The flavour is distinctive enough.”
He nodded, his posture relaxing slightly. “Why did you not mention this earlier?”
“I did not wish to raise alarm. It is possible the leaves are simply inferior or blended oddly.”
Henry looked at his cup and felt fear creep up his skin the way it had when Margaret had fallen ill.
He reached for the serving spoon and put eggs on his plate. “Allow me to taste it first.” He chewed slowly. No unusual flavour. He swallowed and nodded. He served his wife.
They were quiet for a time. It was not the heavy silence of the nights. It was a different kind that was careful but shared.
“Tell me about your Mr Harris,” he said after a while.
She looked up.
“Have you ever seen him bow to anyone?” he asked.
“No.”
“Has he an injury to his spine? Some condition of the back that prevents it?”
Her mouth twitched. “His spine is in perfect order, Your Grace.”
“Then it is a matter of principle.”
“It is a matter of Kit.”
“What are his credentials?” he asked.
“That is his story to tell, Your Grace. I assure you, he is trustworthy. He has been with my family for seven years, and not once has he failed us.”
“Has he ever smiled?”
“Only once. Accidentally.”
That did not surprise him. He reached for the eggs and served his wife first then himself. He took the first bite, chewing slowly to decipher any unusual flavour. None. “Tastes as usual,” he said.