Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

"So yer up and about," Mrs. Chester declared, coming in from the pantry. "That's a surprise. I'm sure Mr. Boggs had somethin' ta do with it, eh dearie?"

"As a matter of fact, he did. He slept under my bed," I said and she cackled. "What is that?" I asked, looking at what she was preparing for breakfast.

"Black puddin'," she said. When I continued to squint, she added, "spiced blood sausage."

"Ugh," I muttered. She tilted her head.

"Mr. Endfield enjoys a full English breakfast on Tuesdays, thank you. We'll be serving fried eggs, fried tomatoes, and toast and marmalade as well. Slice up them tomatoes. You can do that without cuttin' yer fingers, can't ya?"

"Of course," I said and began. I noticed she watched me out of the corner of her eyes.

"Ya handle that knife right well," she commented.

"I cooked a lot for my family."

She nodded. I gazed at the marmalade.

"Go on. Ya can taste it," she said and I did. She laughed at the face I made. "It's made from bitter oranges. Mr. Endfield's right fond of that."

"Does anyone eat cold cereal?" I asked.

"Cold cereal?" She thought a moment. "Mr. Endfield eats porridge every Thursday, but not cold."

"Every Thursday? Is everything organized by the day here, even what they eat?"

"That it is," she said.

Mary Margaret returned. Mrs. Chester looked at her a moment, getting some message from the expression on her face, and then she nodded toward the dining room.

"Set the breakfast table," she commanded.

I didn't think Great-aunt Leonora would get up this early in the morning, but from the way she rattled on cataloguing a stream of responsibilities after she came down for breakfast, I realized she was just as busy with her charities and social organizations as her husband was with his law firm. She was very well put together, too, with her hair brushed, combed and sprayed. She wore a light-blue cotton suit with a silk blouse.

My great-uncle had his nose in the London Times during breakfast, coming up for air only to make a comment about something he had just read. I noticed my Great-aunt Leonora simply smiled after everything he said and either muttered a long "Oooh" or just nodded. Finally, he folded his paper and turned to me as I was helping Mary Margaret clear the table.

"Do you know how to get yourself to the drama school?" he asked.

I glanced nervously at Great-aunt Leonora. Should I tell the truth?

"Of course she doesn't, dear," she replied for me.

"I suspected so. I can't spare Boggs this morning.

You'll have to navigate for yourself," he declared. I wasn't very disappointed about that.

He slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket and produced a small pad. "Pay attention," he ordered and I stepped closer to the table. Mary Margaret glanced at me and hurried into the kitchen as if what he was about to say was prohibited from entering her ears.

"Though London was for more than a century the most populous city on earth, it was also always a collection of villages," he began. "Each village used to have a unique quality unto itself and some still do."

When he spoke, he didn't look directly at me. He talked down at the table as if he was a professor in a classroom starting a lesson.

"For example," he continued, "the government is focused around Whitehall, with power derived from parliament in Westminster, incomplete without the Queen of course, whose royal and public life is still centered round St. James's Park."

He looked up at me.

"You understand so far?"

"Yes," I said even though I didn't know what this had to do with describing how to get to the school. Was it a requirement to know English history before you could travel through the city?