Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(95)
Mrs. Bowen, the housekeeper, was thin and birdlike, and I did not know her. This surprised me, because when you are in service in London, you come to know those in the great houses, or at least of them. However, I’d never heard of Mrs. Bowen, which either meant she’d not been in London long or hadn’t long been a housekeeper.
I was disturbed a bit by her very thin figure, because I preferred to work with those who enjoyed eating. Mrs. Bowen looked as though she took no more than a biscuit every day, and then only a digestive. On the other hand, I’d known a spindly man who could eat an entire platter of pork and potatoes followed by a hearty dose of steak and kidney pie and never had to loosen his clothing.
Mr. Davis, whom I soon put down as a friendly old gossip, gave me a book with notes from the last cook on what the master preferred for his dinners. I was pleased to find the dishes uncomplicated but not so dull that any chophouse could have provided them. I could do well here.
I carefully unpacked my knives, including a brand-new, sharp carver, took my apron from my valise, and started right in.
The young assistant, a bit unhappy that I wanted her help immediately, was soon chatting freely with me while she measured out flour and butter for my brioche. She gave her name as Sinead.
She pronounced it Shin-aide and gave me a hopeful look. I thought it a beautiful name, conjuring mists over the green Irish land—a place I’d never been—but this was London, and a cook’s kitchen was no place for an Irish nymph.
“It’s quite lovely,” I said as I cut butter into the flour. “But I’m sorry, my girl, we can’t be having Sinead. People get wrong ideas. You must have a plain English name. What did the last cook call you?”
Sinead let out a sigh, her dreams of romance dashed. “Ellen,” she said, resigned. I saw by her expression that she disliked the name immensely.
I studied her dark brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin in some sympathy. Again, she reminded me of myself—poised on the edge of life and believing wonderful things would happen to her. Alas, I’d found out only too soon the bitter truth. Sinead’s prettiness would likely bring her trouble, well I knew, and life was apt to dash her hopes again and again.
“Ellen,” I repeated, trying to sound cheerful. “A nice, solid name, but not too dull. Now, then, Ellen, I’ll need eggs. Large and whole, nothing cracked.”
Sinead gave me a long-suffering curtsy and scuttled for the larder.
“She’s got her head in the clouds,” Mrs. Bowen said as she passed by the kitchen door. “Last cook took a strap to her.” She sounded vastly disapproving of the last cook, which made me begin to warm to Mrs. Bowen.
“Is that why the cook was dismissed?” I already didn’t think much of this elderly cook, free with a strap, whoever she was. Sinead’s only crime, I could see so far, was having dreams.
“No.” Mrs. Bowen’s answer was short, clipped. She ducked away before she could tell me anything more interesting.
I continued with my bread. Brioche was a favorite of mine—a bread dough made rich with eggs and butter, subtly sweet. It was a fine accompaniment to any meal but also could be served as pudding in a pinch. A little cinnamon and stiff cream or a berry sauce poured over it was as grand as anything served in a posh hotel.
It was as I began beating the flour and eggs into the milk and sugar that I met Lady Rankin’s sister. I heard a loud banging and scrabbling noise from the scullery, as though someone had fallen into it down the stairs. Pans clattered to the floor, and then a personage in a black suit burst through the scullery door into the kitchen, boot heels scraping on the flagstones, and collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table.
I caught up my bowl of dough before it could be upset, looked at the intruder, and then looked again.
This person wore black trousers; a waistcoat of watered silk in a dark shade of green, with a shining watch fob dangling from its pocket; a smooth frock coat and loose cravat; a long and rather dusty greatcoat; a pair of thick leather gloves; and boots that poked muddy toes from under the trousers. The low-crowned hat that went with the ensemble had been tossed onto the table.
Above this male attire was the head and face of a woman, a rather pretty woman at that. She’d done her fair hair in a low bun at the base of her neck, slicking it straight back from a fine-boned face. The light color of her hair, her high cheekbones, and light blue, almost colorless eyes were so like Lady Rankin’s, that for a moment, I stared, dumbfounded, believing I was seeing my mistress transformed. This lady was a bit older though, with the beginnings of lines about her eyes, and a manner far more robust than Lady Rankin’s.
“Oh Lord,” the woman announced, throwing her body back in the chair and letting her arms dangle to the floor. “I think I’ve killed someone.”
Chapter Two
As I stared in alarm at the young woman, she looked up at me, fixed me with a gaze that was as surprised as mine, and demanded, “Who the devil are you?”
“I am Mrs. Holloway.” I curtsied as best I could with my hands around my dough bowl. “The new cook.”
“New? What happened to the last one? Nasty old Mrs. Cowles. Why did they give her the boot?”
Since I had no idea, I could not answer. “Has something happened?”
The lady shoved the chair from the table and banged to her feet, her color rising. “Good God, yes. Where the devil is everyone? What if I’ve killed him?”