Page 61 of Duke of Emeralds
“No, Your Grace,” Bailey said, “it is… essence of citrus. To mask the turpentine.”
“Turpentine?” she repeated.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Hester started and looked behind her to find Mrs. Smith. “I trust you slept well,” the housekeeper said. She fixed her sharp eyes on the chaos for precisely one-half second before turning her attention back to Hester. “Forgive the interruption,” Mrs. Smith added, “but you are required in the kitchens at once.”
Hester, still staring at the shattered pianoforte, replied, “What is happening, Mrs. Smith?”
Mrs. Smith’s lips thinned. “Cook requires your input on tonight’s dinner menu. It is an urgent matter of sauce selection.”
That was not my question.Hester studied the housekeeper then the room. Bailey and the laborers were suddenly more interested in their own shoes than in her presence.
“Is it not a little early to debate sauces?” Hester tried, but Mrs. Smith only widened her eyes fractionally—a clear warning that further questions would earn her nothing other than more cryptic answers.
“Very well,” Hester said, and she permitted Mrs. Smith to steer her from the wreckage of the salon. As she turned to leave, the laborers immediately resumed hammering, as if her presence had imposed a momentary ceasefire.
Mrs. Smith marched briskly ahead so that Hester had to quicken her pace to keep up. “Is something being repaired in there?” Hester asked, pitching her voice low.
“Only the previous owner’s lack of taste,” Mrs. Smith replied, a dry note in her otherwise respectful monotone.
“And it requires such hammering?”
“The Duke wished it expedited,” Mrs. Smith said. “He finds the present arrangement inadequate.”
“He finds it inadequate?” Hester echoed. “And does he plan to replace it with something much more inviting?”
Mrs. Smith’s gaze slid sideways. “I would not dare to predict His Grace’s decorative choices. Now, Your Grace, Cook is waiting.” She ushered Hester down the narrow back stairs where the air was thick with the scents of bread and roasting meat and alarmingly, charred sugar.
The kitchens were a world apart from the rest of the castle. Cook—her hair bound beneath an immaculate cap—stood at the far counter, a trio of maids orbiting her as she cracked eggs, stirred sauces, and issued brisk, endless orders.
She looked up at Hester’s arrival then glanced over at Mrs. Smith with a twitch of her left eyebrow. “Your Grace,” Cook said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Before Hester could answer, Mrs. Smith cut in, “You wished the Duchess’ opinion regarding the lamb. The sauces, remember?”
“Ah, of course!” Cook snapped her fingers then muttered, “The kitchens are so hot today; I’m afraid my head is melting faster than the meringues.”
Mrs. Smith and Cook shared a long, meaningful look that Hester could not interpret. Then Cook flashed a smile as bright as herladles. “We’ve three choices for the roast, Your Grace, and I simply cannot choose.”
She gestured to a trio of copper saucepans, each attended by a maid, who scrambled to present them in a tidy row before Hester.
Cook handed her a tasting spoon, and Hester tried the first: rich, buttery, and with a hint of rosemary. The second was lighter and tart with a pleasant nip of lemon at the end. The third was deep, earthy, and heavy with red wine and garlic.
Hester swirled the third on her tongue, weighing her answer. “That one,” she declared, pointing to the wine-dark sauce. “It will stand up to the lamb without smothering it.”
Cook beamed. “Excellent choice, Your Grace. Would you like to try it with the carrots?”
Without waiting for an answer, Cook ladled a spoonful of the sauce into a china bowl and set it before Hester, then handed over a plate of roasted carrot sticks, glistening with honey and herbs.
Hester dipped one and bit. It was perfect—warm, savory, slightly sweet. “May I take some to my office?” she asked.
“Of course,” Cook said, already wrapping a linen around the bowl and stacking more carrot sticks onto a plate. “Would you like something for dessert as well?”
“Perhaps later,” Hester said. “Oh! And would you mind baking a batch of chocolate biscuits for this afternoon? I think Arabella would love them.”
Cook and Mrs. Smith both looked surprised but not displeased. “As you wish,” said Mrs. Smith.
“Chocolate biscuits it is,” Cook echoed, jotting the order in a notebook with a stubby pencil.
