On a particularly damp, raw day, Joseph went to the chandler’s on the Strand to make an order to replenish the household’s supplies of candles. On the way back, nearing lunchtime, Joseph impulsively bought a couple of hot pies from a stall as he was passing, one for himself and the other for Tilly who looked like she could do with a hot meal.

The teenage serving girl’s eyes widened at such largesse. “For me?” She squeaked as though she had been offered the Crown Jewels rather than mutton and gravy wrapped in pastry.

She’d fallen upon the meal like she hadn’t seen food in a week. Not that they went short in this household. The cook kept them well-fed and in her absence, basic supplies of fresh food were still delivered to feed the surplus servants. It was more that as the youngest, lowliest and least regarded servant in the pecking order, Tilly was accustomed to being of no regard.

Joseph might be robust, but he remembered being small and overlooked, where a treat took on a huge significance. He sat at the table and started on his hot pie as Tilly devoured her food. He paused when he saw Mr. Turner enter the room.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Turner,” he said, aware that the air was redolent with the savoury scent of the pies. “I didn’t realise that you would be here for lunch.”

For a moment, Mr. Turner looked austere and Joseph wondered if he would be scolded for sullying the cook’s domain with offerings from a street vendor. But after some consideration, Mr. Turner smiled, suddenly appearing youthful and approachable. Joseph admired the transformation.

“I’ll just have to share with Tilly, then,” he joked as the kitchen girl put the final scrap of pastry in her mouth. “Don’t worry about me, Joseph. I’ll get something cold from the pantry. No, no,” he added as both of the younger staff started to rise. “Finish your meal. I’m perfectly capable of serving myself. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

But why are you still here? Joseph thought, not daring to ask the question aloud. Tilly remained for the essentials of housekeeping, including clearing, lighting and tending the kitchen fire. She’d confided to Joseph that she was also a foundling. The poor scrap has nowhere else to go.

But well-paid senior servants like Mr. Turner had diverse options. Joseph had assumed that like the cook and butler, Mr. Turner would take advantage of his employer’s absence by visiting family.

It’s not for me to speculate, Joseph thought. Not that I’m complaining. When Mr. Willars was in residence, Mr. Turner remained near his master’s quarters, in keeping with his position, but from the glimpses he’d caught of the valet around the house, he liked his looks and bearing. Joseph reckoned he was young for a valet, and comely with it. He assumed the dignity of his position without any pomposity. He might be distant in manner, but he was always polite to more junior staff as well as his equals. “Such a pleasant gentleman,” the housekeeper opined and the staff seemed to agree.

Height and muscle might be a prerogative of a footman rather than a valet, but Joseph thought no less of Mr. Turner for his lesser build. He had an economical way of moving and Joseph liked the sheen of his red-blond hair against his customary black coat.

If Joseph had come across the likes of Mr. Turner in a Covent Garden tavern, he wouldn’t have hesitated in striking up a conversation to see where it led. However, being employed in the same house meant that that route was firmly closed.

But seeing Mr. Turner, smiling and relaxed in a fitted brown coat that suited his complexion, Joseph’s interest was renewed. Especially as he had caught an unmistakable glance of appreciation from the valet at Joseph’s bronzed forearms displayed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves, resting on the table as he ate.