“It’s all taken care of, dear.” Lady Elizabeth touched her arm. “On an estate this size, there’s always many eager for work. The Dower House has been standing ready for us this past week. Henni’s maid and mine, and Horace’s man, are presently ferrying the last of our belongings across the park, and, this afternoon, we’ll go to our new home.”
Francesca hesitated, then nodded. It was not her place, certainly not at that moment, to allude to what Lady Elizabeth would undoubtedly feel on leaving the house she had come to as a bride and managed for so many years.
Lady Elizabeth chuckled. “No-I don’t regret leaving.” Her voice was pitched low, for Francesca’s ears only. “This house is so large, and Gyles’s needs here and in London are more than I have energy to oversee properly. I’m more glad than I can say to have you here, willing and able to take on the responsibility.”
Francesca met her ladyship’s eyes. They were grey, like her son’s, but softer. “I’ll do my best to keep all running as smoothly and as well as you have.”
Lady Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “My dear, if you can manage Ferdinand, you’re destined to do better.”
The kitchens opened before them-two huge rooms, the first cavernous, the second only marginally less so. The first room contained an entire wall of hearth filled with brick ovens, roasting spits, and griddles suspended over huge grates. A deal table ran down the center of the room; a smaller table, presumably for staff dining, sat in an alcove. Pots and pans gleamed-from the walls, from shelves, and suspended from hooks high above. The room was warm; savory aromas filled the air. Francesca glimpsed a pantry to one side. The adjoining room apparently housed the scullery and preparation area.
The rooms were a hive of activity. The central table was piled high with vegetables. A ruddy-faced woman stood at the far end, her large hands plunged into a basin of dough.
Mrs. Cantle whispered to Francesca, “That’s Cook-her name’s Doherty, but we always call her Cook.”
Numerous juniors-scullions and kitchen maids-darted about. Concentrating on her dough, Cook didn’t look up-the scuffle of boots on the flags and the clank of pots and bowls had masked their arrival.
Despite the melee, Ferdinand was easy to spot. A slim, olive-skinned male, jet-black hair falling over his forehead as he wielded a knife in a blur of motion, he stood on the other side of the central table, issuing a stream of orders in heavily accented English to the two kitchen maids who hovered and buzzed around him like bees.
Mrs. Cantle cleared her throat. Ferdinand glanced up.
His eyes found Mrs. Cantle, then passed on to Francesca. His knife halted in mid-stroke. Ferdiand’s mouth dropped open.
Because of her late arrival for her wedding, this was the first time Ferdinand had seen her. Francesca was grateful when Mrs. Cantle clapped her hands to gain the attention of all the others.
Everyone stopped. Everyone stared.
“Her ladyship has come to look over the kitchens.”
Francesca smiled and moved past Mrs. Cantle. She let her gaze travel the room, touching each face briefly, stopping at the last on Cook. She inclined her head. “You are Cook, I believe?”
The woman colored and bobbed, lifting her hands, only to plunge them back in the dough. “Ah-I’m sorry, ma’am.” She desperately looked about for a cloth.
“No, no-don’t let me interrupt you.” Francesca peeked into the bowl. “Is that for the day’s bread?”
After an instant’s pause, Cook replied, “The afternoon’s baking, ma’am.”
“You bake twice a day?”
“Aye-it’s not that much more effort, and it means all’s fresh.”
Francesca nodded. She heard Ferdinand shift and turned to him. “And you are Ferdinand?”
He crossed the knife over his chest and bowed. “Bellisima,” he murmured.
Francesca asked him which part of Rome he hailed from. In Italian.
His mouth dropped open again, then he recovered and a torrent of impassioned Italian poured forth. Francesca let him rave for only a moment, then shushed him. “Now,” she said, “I wish to discuss the menus for today. Mrs. Cantle-do you have pencil and paper?”
Mrs. Cantle bustled off to fetch them from her room. Ferdinand grasped the moment to rattle off his suggestions-in Italian. Francesca nodded and listened. When Mrs. Cantle returned and sat ready to write, Francesca halted Ferdinand with an upraised finger, then listed dishes she’d selected from his repertoire for the luncheon table. Then she turned to Cook. “And for tea, I’m very partial to scones.”
Cook looked up, surprise in her eyes, but she nodded very readily. “Aye-I can do those for you.”
Ferdinand broke in with voluble suggestions; Francesca waved him to silence. “Now, for tonight…” She detailed the dinner menu, making it clear that Ferdinand w
as in charge of the various courses, which smoothed his ruffled plumage. Then she came to the dessert course. “Puddings. I’ve heard of a dish-a lemon curd pudding.” She looked at Cook. “Do you know it?”
Cook shot a glance at Mrs. Cantle, but nodded. “Aye.”