Prunella looked as if she were about to start crying again. “That’s the problem, miss.”
Miss sounded a lot more comfortable than madame, so Sophie didn’t bother to correct her. “What is?”
“I have no idea how to cook a roast. I was never in charge of cooking for the gentry, you know, just helping out the chef and taking care of the staff’s meals.”
“Well,” Sophie said with far more confidence than she was actually feeling, “you’re going to learn. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be able to feed the queen herself.”
The big woman looked down at Sophie doubtfully. “I’ll trust you, miss. We’ve got a side of beef and half a lamb in the cold room, plus Toby can get us anything we want from the butcher’s.”
“The lamb,” Sophie said instantly, having at least a passing familiarity with it. “We’ll need a clear soup as well, and I have a new sauce for the fish that will disguise its humble origins, something with just a hint of lemon. We have lemons, I hope?”
“Yes, miss. But Mrs. Griffiths still won’t like it, knowing it’s cod.”
“Then we’ll tell her it’s Dover sole, and she’ll be delighted,” Sophie said briskly, ignoring Prunella’s shocked sound. “The lamb we’ll roast simply—I’d love to stud it with garlic but I doubt the lady of the house would thank me for it. The weather’s been fine enough that I expect we already have spinach in the garden—send someone to see to that.”
“Oh, we do, miss. But it’s very small.”
“Then have him or her pick twice the amount. The smallest are the sweetest. What else? Oh, yes, the turnip soup. We’ll add curry and call it something creative. Let’s add a mushroom soufflé for good measure. Then on to dessert. I’m very good at desserts.”
Prunella was looking at her in mingled awe and apprehension. “Mrs. Griffiths is very partial to chocolate,” she volunteered. “His lordship, not so much. He’s the reason we have lemon on hand. He likes a fruit dish.”
“It’s too late to manage both,” Sophie said briskly. “I’ll make a chocolate torte so decadent Mrs. Griffiths will think she’s died and gone to heaven, and that should keep her from bothering us, and too bad for the Dark . . . for his lordship.” She wanted to kick herself. She had to stop thinking of him as the Dark Viscount, or sooner or later she was going to slip.
“Yes, miss. Where would you like me to start?”
Oh, lord. Never had she had her own kitchen. There had always been someone else to oversee things, to answer questions, and now it was all up to her.
She straightened her back, rising to her full five feet and half an inch, almost. “We’ll roast the lamb on a spit—do we have a boy to turn it?”
Prunella looked doubtful. “I misremember who . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll put a chair by the hearth and whoever is tired can sit and turn it. I imagine some of the maids have been up since dawn and . . .” She looked around her. “Is there a housekeeper? I shouldn’t wish to trample on her authority.”
“No, miss. Mr. Dickens is in charge of everything
. He’s been with his lordship since the beginning of time and he’s a good butler. He sees to things, and he’s fair.”
“Has it always been this way?”
“Yes, miss. Apparently housekeepers and upper servants tended to develop an affection for Mrs. Griffiths’s son, the late Mr. Griffiths, and the old lady don’t like that.”
“His brother? Is that why the house is in mourning?”
“Indeed, yes, miss. So I think your choice of a chocolate torte is a more fitting one. There’s something more funereal about chocolate, isn’t there?”
Not the way I make it, Sophie thought. Though given the Dark Viscount’s vaguely threatening demeanor, she could always add some rat poison. No, that wouldn’t do—it was his stepmother who liked chocolate. He wouldn’t touch her glorious creation.
Which suited her perfectly. She didn’t particularly want to waste her best efforts on an unworthy audience, but there was the pretty young lady who’d been clinging to him, Mrs. Griffiths, and . . . “How many for dinner?” she asked suddenly.
“Six,” Prunella said promptly. “The viscount and his stepmama, Miss Forrester and her brother, and I believe the vicar and his wife are coming as well. Which won’t put his lordship in any good mood.”
“He doesn’t like the vicar?”
“He doesn’t believe in God and he’s going to hell,” Prunella said in a whisper so loud that Dickens looked up from his spot at the end of the long table.
“Are you gossiping again, Prunella?” he said severely. “You know there’s to be no gossip in this household.”
Sophie considered climbing on a chair again, but decided she’d already made her point. “She was filling me in on some of the details of the household, Mr. Dickens,” she said. “And while I bow to your responsibility for the entire household, I must remind you that the kitchen environs are under the rule of the cook. This is my kitchen, and I believe I shall make the rules.” Dickens began to frown, but Sophie sailed on with a sweet smile. “However, I agree with you about unnecessary gossip. I do need to know who makes up this household and how many people will sit down to dinner, and the more we learn about our . . .”—she almost choked on the word—“. . . betters, the more efficiently we’ll be able to serve them. Don’t you agree?”