Page 9 of My Best Friend's Earl
Constance took a seat on a rough wooden bench near thedoor. Though she sat on the outer edge of the kitchen, she felt stiflingly hot. With every second that passed, perspiration pooled between her breasts and at the base of her spine. How did the staff work in these conditions every day? It would be unbearable during warm weather.
The bookstore could be stuffy and the fireplace in the office made that room hot in the summer. However, after five minutes in this kitchen with its huge oven, she vowed to never again complain about the office.
Loaves of bread and what she suspected were rolls for the evening meal happily rose on a shelf a few feet away. They thrived in the heat, as puffs of dough pillowed above the rims of metal pans. Their yeasty smell mixed with the scents of roasting meat from the spit on the other side of the room.
Her stomach growled, and Constance placed a hand over her belly to muffle the sound. She’d eaten today, yes? Surely she’d had something with her morning tea. A hazy memory of scraping the last dregs of plum jam from the jar surfaced, and she felt a moment of satisfaction that she hadn’t forgotten to take care of herself. Another gurgle served to remind her that a slice of toast wasn’t enough to sustain a body for an entire day. Blast. Perhaps one of the servants would provide something small to tide her over.
She hated to ask, though.Pardon me, I realize I’m a woman fully grown, but I can’t seem to remember the most basic of tasks to sustain my existence. Might I have one of those currant scones, so my stomach doesn’t gnaw on my spine? Thanks ever so much.
Despite the servants being complete strangers who’d never given offense, Constance felt every drop of disdain they’d have for her in this imagined scenario, so she held her tongue. Instead, she dug in her pocket for today’s list and stub of pencil.Eat something.There. Things lingered in herbrain longer if she wrote them down. Besides, her favorite pie shop was on the way home.
Rather than ruminate on her empty belly, she hugged the basket in her lap and watched the activity around her. She’d never taken the opportunity to sit in Caro and Dorian’s kitchens, so seeing the way a staff of this size operated was fascinating. Maids and footmen darted about with purpose, each intent on their own mission. While they occasionally gave her curious glances, no one bothered her. The cook directed her workers like a general giving orders to an army. How did they keep track of it all?
On first glance, the kitchen was unfettered chaos. However, the longer she watched, patterns emerged to explain the inner workings of the space. One maid was responsible for slicing vegetables. The sharp tang of onions rose in the air, then mingled with the earthy crispness of herbs as her knife flew across the counter mincing and dicing. One maid washed dishes, while another dunked those dishes into a bin of water, then passed to another who stacked them on a drying rack.
Pots and pans clanged. A man, probably the butler, wearing a black tailcoat seemed utterly absorbed in his task of decanting liquor into crystal bottles. Constance grinned when he stole a nip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. There had to be some benefits to his job, she supposed.
A younger boy moved past her, carrying an armload of wood, then placed the stack next to the oven before darting out the door again and sending a welcome blast of cool air toward her bench.
The room reminded her of the beehives she’d read about in nature books; everyone had their own job to do. The perfectly orchestrated nature of it enthralled her until the maid she’d spoken with returned with Althea.
Her friend carried Gingersnap in her arms, his ribbon leash trailing behind them. When Althea entered the room, there was an abrupt pause, then everyone snapped to attention. Although Althea smiled graciously at the servants, the overall air of awkwardness made Constance uncomfortable.
“Goodness, this room is smaller than I expected. Cook, you’re to be commended for what you create from such a snug space.”
The cook curtsied, while Constance gaped.
“Carry on. I’m just here to see my friend and the gift she’s brought.” Althea addressed the room. Without another word, everyone returned to their previous roles and the bustle resumed.
“You’ve never been inside your own kitchen?” At the sound of Constance’s voice, Gingersnap greeted her with the special chirp he reserved just for her.
“I’ve never had reason to before now.” Althea shrugged.
Connie shook her head. “You’ve never baked with your mum, or helped your father pluck a bird for a special meal? Could you boil water if you had to?” When Althea grimaced in answer, Constance gave up that line of questioning and spoke to Gingersnap. “Did you have a nice ride in the park? Was everyone kind to you?”
With a sigh that hinted at her relief over returning to familiar territory, Althea handed over the orange cat. “He was marvelous. Very interested in the goings-on of the park. Several people stopped to inquire about him. By the time we returned, I suspect Oliver’s composure was in tatters over everyone in the ton thinking he’s the odd sort who takes his cat for a drive. It was perfect.” Her grin was wicked.
Constance gently patted the basket with the kitten on her lap. “Since your fiancé didn’t cooperate by sneezing his way through our meeting, I’ve enacted the next phase.”Gingersnap sniffed at the wicker when a small mew sounded from within. “Would you like to assure our new friend that they’re safe? If you vouch for us, the kitten might believe you.”
“Every time someone refers to Oliver as my fiancé, my stomach clenches in knots.” Althea sat on the bench beside Connie. Her voice was low, likely to keep the servants from overhearing their conversation… because Althea’s place wasn’t below stairs. Even the small motion of taking a seat was done with grace and poise. Althea appeared entirely foreign in her own kitchen.
Constance winced with an uncomfortable stab of self-awareness. Tucking her muck-covered boots under an equally filthy skirt hem, she smoothed a hand over her riotous curls. In her haste to get to the park at the agreed-upon time, she’d left home without her bonnet. Again.
The fabric of her gown was thick and serviceable, although a little faded. Her red cloak had begun to fray at the edges over the winter and had a fine layer of cat hair on it. Gingersnap liked to sleep on her cloak when she forgot to put it away. As if sensing the downward turn of his mistress’s thoughts, the furry beast bumped her chin, then sat atop the basket. A wry chuckle escaped. She petted his head until he offered a deep purr in thanks.
Except for the cats on her lap, the only thing keeping Constance from blending in down in the servants’ domain was her lack of participation in the well-orchestrated busyness. Like so many areas of life outside Martin House’s sales floor, Connie didn’t have a clearly defined role in which she obviously fit. No wonder the servants gave her curious looks. Nothing about her appearance or demeanor declared “close friend of a wealthy family.”
For years she’d known she could exist anywhere inrelative comfort. Be it a bookshop, or the drawing room of her cousin, the duchess, Constance whittled out a place. But she’d never simplybelongedwithout trying.
Althea’s movements showed her to be a lady—as if her pedigree was such an intrinsic part of her that it glowed brightly—even while conspiring to terrorize her husband-to-be in front of a sweltering oven. Constance feared the myriad odd things about her were just as deeply ingrained and apparent to the world.
Taking a bracing breath, Constance forced herself to answer the last thing Althea had said. Because, she thought, she did have a role to fulfill right now. Even if that purpose wasn’t clear to everyone else in the room. “For the time being, Lord Southwyn is your fiancé, I’m afraid. Although I’ve taken to calling him Lord Stuffy Pants in my head. I could refer to him as that instead of fiancé if it would help.”
Althea laughed aloud, drawing the attention of several nearby servants.
Constance leaned close, lowering her voice. “Darling, stuffy or not, he was gracious this morning. Even though I intruded on your drive, he handled the situation with aplomb. The man isn’t an ogre. In fact, he’s quite good-looking—”
“You think he’s good-looking?”
