Page 74 of Miss Delectable
“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 shiftearly. 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 fallingby 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.”
Hannah curtseyed, while Henry glared daggers. The footmen did not in theory work for the kitchen, so Henry wasn’t at risk for losing his post, but he was clearly at risk for losing his temper.
Ann followed Jules up the steps and along the corridor to a cozy office that faced the stable. A fire burned in the grate. The shelves behind Jules’s desk were stocked with cookery books in French, Italian, German, and English, as well as unbound treatises on cooking.
The room smelled faintly as if somebody had spilled brandy on the carpet sometime in the past week.
Jules took the seat behind the desk, and produced a bottle from a drawer and two glasses. “Do not glower at me like that, Pearson. You will have wrinkles. Wrinkles become nobody. Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Ann did take a seat, because she refused to stand about like a naughty schoolgirl waiting for Headmaster’s tongue-lashing. “You owe Henry an apology.” Every person in the kitchen, save perhaps Pierre, was owed an apology for some display of arrogance or meanness by Jules, and Pierre’s turn would come.
“I don’t owe anybody anything,” Jules said, pouring himself a measure of young calvados, based on the apple and pear aroma. “I work for my wages, and Mr. Dorning is happy with the result. You are not happy.”
Ann was furious, and thus her tongue ran away with her good sense. “I am happy with my post. I am not happy with you.”
