Page 98 of Miss Delectable
“We can serve the mashed potatoesen casserolegarnished with parsley, ham gravy on the side,” Hannah said. “Miss Ann told me that before she left, but Jules ordered the tatie pigeons, and we haven’t anybody to make the tatie pigeons.”
“Henry,” Sycamore said, “tell Nan to do what Hannah said. Make a casserole of the damned potatoes, sprinkle parsley on top, and set the ham gravy on a warming light beside them. What else did Miss Ann say?”
“Tell him what Jules said,” Otter prompted, finishing his apple quarter. “Or I will.”
Hannah wiped her hands on her apron. “I understand French. Otter does too. We heard Jules talking to Pierre, bragging about having a lot of excellent champagne in his personal inventory, and telling Pierre it’s for sale at very attractive prices.”
“Champagne magnifique,” Otter muttered. “I know where he got it, too, because I recognize the cases.”
“He’s keeping stolen property here?” Sycamore asked.
“Nah.” Otter stepped back to allow a footman to rush past with an empty platter. “I followed him. He keeps it at his place, in the cellar, which is bloody stupid. His cellar is damp and stinks of coal.”
Resolving that situation would require Orion Goddard’s participation. The immediate challenge was the buffet.
“Hannah, what else did Miss Pearson say about tonight’s menu?”
Hannah withdrew a wrinkled paper from her pocket. “She left a list, but Jules tore it from the pantry door and crumpled it up. I picked it up when he wasn’t looking. I was about to start on the apple cobbler. It’s simple and quick.”
“Start on the cobbler, get Nan to help you when she’s done with the potatoes. What can we do about the roast?”
“You can make those curled-up things,” Otter said. “You slice off strips of meat from the part of the roast that’s done and roll them up on little skewers. Looks fancy, fills a plate without using up much meat, and you don’t have to wait for the whole roast to cook.”
“How long have you been lurking in my kitchen?” Sycamore asked.
“We did that last week,” Hannah said, “when Pierre got here late. We used a cooked ham that only needed heating. I could use the ham in the oven, and Miss Ann says thyme, rosemary, and tarragon can wake up a plain ham.”
“Go wake up the damned ham, then,” Sycamore said, “and tell the waiters to make double the rounds with the champagne, starting immediately.”
“It’s not midnight yet,” Otter replied as Hannah marched off. “The champagne ain’t free until midnight.”
“Isn’t,” Sycamore retorted, “and I’m the owner of the place, so if I say it’s free, then it’s free starting now. Jeanette, my dearest, thank you for coming.”
Sycamore’s wife emerged from the kitchen in an old morning dress, slippers on her feet, thick shawl around her shoulders.
She peered at the flour tracks leading to and from the kitchen. “The footman said you were well, but you should know that Jules is nigh insensible down in the cellars. I left him there singing French Christmas carols.”
“The kitchen is a rudderless ship without Miss Pearson, apparently, and Jules disdained to follow the instructions she left.”
“What of the sous-chef?”
“He don’t know a butter knife from his arse,” Otter said. “Beg pardon for my language, missus. Pierre’s a nice enough chap, and his papa were a butcher, so he can cook a roast, but he ain’t no chef.”
“Go make yourself useful to Hannah, please,” Sycamore said. “I need privacy if I’m to be reduced to tears.”
Otter sauntered off, while Sycamore tried to read Miss Pearson’s crumpled list by the light of a flickering sconce. “She left instructions. Half the words are French. My French is pathetic.”
“Mine is excellent,” Jeanette said, taking the list from him. “Tend to the guests, I will see what’s to be done in the kitchen.”
“I love you,” Sycamore said, gathering her in a quick hug. “I love you and adore you, and I owe you a pineapple feast for this, Jeanette. I have a club full of hungry guests and apparently no chef worth the name.”
Jeanette smoothed her hand down his back, and half the worry in Sycamore drained right out of him, but only half.
“Has Miss Pearson found another post yet?”
Sycamore made himself step back. “Not that I know of.”
“Then we aren’t without a chef. Not quite. Go flirt with the dowagers, and I will man the saucepots.”
