“So approach him indirectly.”
“I tried that. How is Jeanette?”
Worried about you. “Thriving in my loving care and happily taking an interest in activities at the club. We’re buying a property out at Richmond and hope to use it for our market garden.”
“My boys could help with that undertaking. They are honest and hardworking, and for all I know, I’ll soon have to flee to France one step ahead of the watch.”
They are not your boys. “You’d flee to France?”
Goddard looked around the kitchen, which was tidy, warm, and dimly lit. “I don’t know. I don’t want to, but… I don’t know. How hard can it be to find bread and cheese?”
“Well, there’s the breadbox, and the cheese might be in the window box this time of year. Swing the kettle over the fire, and we’ll manage.”
Goddard produced a half loaf of bread wrapped in linen. “If I must retreat to France, will you do something for me?”
“I will hire those hooligans of yours, if that’s what you’re asking.” The cheese was not too sharp, not too mild. Sycamore set it on the wooden counter along with a tub of butter, cheese toast being among the delicacies he’d learned to prepare during his limited banishment to university.
“My hooligans will be a credit to any organization that employs them, and their spoken French is better than yours. Are we having tea, ale, or cider?”
“Cider.”
Goddard smiled, a surprising, wistful expression suggesting that, in the right light, he might have a certain roguish appeal.
“Look after Annie Pearson. She puts up with more than you know from that fop Jules Delacourt, and he’s not half as talented as you think he is.”
“More to the point,” Sycamore said, “he’s not half as talented as he thinks he is, but he brings a certain cachet that the club needs.” Sycamore busied himself slicing cheese, though he’d figured out exactly how he’d start in his recounting of the day’s events to Jeanette.
Orion Goddard referred to the estimable Miss Pearson as Annie now, and when faced with the prospect of a retreat to France, all Goddard asked was that Sycamore look after her.
Not look after the business, the boys, the real estate, or even Jeanette, but look after Annie Pearson. Well, well, well.
“Don’t cut the bread too thickly,” Sycamore said, “and Miss Pearson looks after herself.”
Goddard tested the blade of the bread knife against his thumb. “I know. Damn it all to hell and back, that much I do know.”
Ann gained new respect for soldiers at war, for the Coventry’s kitchen became a battle zone.
The spices were tampered with, such that the jar labeled tarragon contained nutmeg, and the one that should have held nutmeg instead held ginger. Ann only discovered the problem when she’d dusted nutmeg onto a spinach quiche that had to be consigned to the staff hall.
The footmen gobbled up the entire quiche, oblivious to the blunder.
Emptying each jar, washing it thoroughly, and refilling it with the proper contents took most of an afternoon, but Ann used the exercise to teach Hannah about the uses of different flavorings.
The next day, somebody soured the heavy cream, which became apparent as soon as Ann added a dollop to her white sauce and watched an hour’s worth of work curdle.
“I don’t understand,” Hannah said softly as she set a fresh bottle of cream on the counter. “Why would a chef do mischief in his own kitchen?”
“We don’t know that Jules is doing this,” Ann replied, though Jules had his own spice cabinet separate from that of the rest of the kitchen, and Jules did not typically use much cream in the main dishes.
“He’s doing it,” Hannah said. “I forgot my journal last night, so I came back down here after the club had closed, and he was wandering around, drinking from a bottle and looking mean.”
“He’s homesick,” Ann said, sniffing the new bottle of cream and finding only a fresh dairy scent. “Taste this.” She poured a small portion into a glass.
“It’s fine,” Hannah said, after taking a sip and swiping her tongue over her top lip. “Will we make the pear compote for the buffet tonight?”
“That is a good suggestion. If you were to make our recipe better, what would you add?”
Hannah’s brows knit. “Chopped walnuts?”
Ann wanted to hug the girl. “Walnuts are a fine idea, though I suspect almonds would do as well. Look in the pantry to see which we have more of.”
Hannah had learned not to scamper, but young Henry Boardman had just arrived—twenty minutes late—and was dashing past the mullioned window that looked out on the garden. One moment, Henry was pelting for the staff hall, the next he’d gone sprawling and brought a tray of wineglasses down with him.
“Sodding, almighty, bloody…” Henry sprang to his feet and marched up to Jules, who was lounging against the deal table. “Why the hell did you do that?”
One of Henry’s hands was bloody, and shards of glass adorned his sleeve.
“You tripped,” Jules said, smiling faintly. “You hurry because you are late again, and you do not watch where you go.”
“I am not late. I fetched fresh flowers for the bar like Mrs. Dorning told me to, which meant I started my shift early. I watch where I go, and you tripped me.”
Jules glanced up at the kitchen’s high ceiling. “So dramatic, you English, and so proud. One stumbles occasionally, and this is no shame. I will dock your wages only half the cost of the wineglasses, because—”
“You should pay for the damned glasses yourself,” Henry retorted. “For interfering with me when I’m attending to my duties and then blaming me, just as you would have blamed Hannah for spilling the peas.”
Jules met Ann’s gaze. “The girl was clumsy, as young girls often are. Right, Pearson?”
The club would open in an hour, and thus the kitchen was at its busiest. Pierre, the new sous-chef, was by the enormous open hearth, a carving knife in his hand as hams and beef roasts turned slowly on the spit.
Jules had timed this latest stunt for the moment with the biggest audience and the greatest disruption to the kitchen’s smooth functioning. The three scullery maids were at the wet sink, gawking over their shoulders, while various assistants at their stations were pretending to chop or stir or slice. Hannah stood in the doorway to the pantry, looking ready to make a bad situation awful.
“Pearson,” Jules said, prowling around the broken glasses, “do you now ignore your superior when he addresses you directly?”
Glass crunched under Jules’s boots, expensive glass that Henry could not afford to replace. “Hannah was not clumsy,” Ann said, “and neither was Henry.”
“We have a difference of opinion.” Jules smiled pleasantly. “Step into my office, Pearson, and we will resolve our differences.”
“Nan, please fetch the broom and dustpan,” Ann said. “When the floor has been thoroughly swept, take a damp mop to it. Only damp. We don’t want anybody slipping and falling by accident.”
“Yes, Miss Pearson.”
“Henry, your hand is cut, and your coat needs to be brushed off. Hannah, see to his hand, and wrap the cut in a honey poultice for at least twenty minutes.”