the Coventry’s kitchen became a battle zone.
The spices were tampered with, such that the jar labeled tarragon contained nutmeg, and the one that should have held nutmeg instead held ginger. Ann only discovered the problem when she’d dusted nutmeg onto a spinach quiche that had to be consigned to the staff hall.
The footmen gobbled up the entire quiche, oblivious to the blunder.
Emptying each jar, washing it thoroughly, and refilling it with the proper contents took most of an afternoon, but Ann used the exercise to teach Hannah about the uses of different flavorings.
The next day, somebody soured the heavy cream, which became apparent as soon as Ann added a dollop to her white sauce and watched an hour’s worth of work curdle.
“I don’t understand,” Hannah said softly as she set a fresh bottle of cream on the counter. “Why would a chef do mischief in his own kitchen?”
“We don’t know that Jules is doing this,” Ann replied, though Jules had his own spice cabinet separate from that of the rest of the kitchen, and Jules did not typically use much cream in the main dishes.
“He’s doing it,” Hannah said. “I forgot my journal last night, so I came back down here after the club had closed, and he was wandering around, drinking from a bottle and looking mean.”
“He’s homesick,” Ann said, sniffing the new bottle of cream and finding only a fresh dairy scent. “Taste this.” She poured a small portion into a glass.
“It’s fine,” Hannah said, after taking a sip and swiping her tongue over her top lip. “Will we make the pear compote for the buffet tonight?”
“That is a good suggestion. If you were to make our recipe better, what would you add?”
Hannah’s brows knit. “Chopped walnuts?”
Ann wanted to hug the girl. “Walnuts are a fine idea, though I suspect almonds would do as well. Look in the pantry to see which we have more of.”
Hannah had learned not to scamper, but young Henry Boardman had just arrived—twenty minutes late—and was dashing past the mullioned window that looked out on the garden. One moment, Henry was pelting for the staff hall, the next he’d gone sprawling and brought a tray of wineglasses down with him.
“Sodding, almighty, bloody…” Henry sprang to his feet and marched up to Jules, who was lounging against the deal table. “Why the hell did you do that?”
One of Henry’s hands was bloody, and shards of glass adorned his sleeve.
“You tripped,” Jules said, smiling faintly. “You hurry because you are late again, and you do not watch where you go.”
“I am not late. I fetched fresh flowers for the bar like Mrs. Dorning told me to, which meant I started my shift early. I watch where I go, and you tripped me.”
Jules glanced up at the kitchen’s high ceiling. “So dramatic, you English, and so proud. One stumbles occasionally, and this is no shame. I will dock your wages only half the cost of the wineglasses, because—”
“You should pay for the damned glasses yourself,” Henry retorted. “For interfering with me when I’m attending to my duties and then blaming me, just as you would have blamed Hannah for spilling the peas.”
Jules met Ann’s gaze. “The girl was clumsy, as young girls often are. Right, Pearson?”
The club would open in an hour, and thus the kitchen was at its busiest. Pierre, the new sous-chef, was by the enormous open hearth, a carving knife in his hand as hams and beef roasts turned slowly on the spit.
Jules had timed this latest stunt for the moment with the biggest audience and the greatest disruption to the kitchen’s smooth functioning. The three scullery maids were at the wet sink, gawking over their shoulders, while various assistants at their stations were pretending to chop or stir or slice. Hannah stood in the doorway to the pantry, looking ready to make a bad situation awful.
“Pearson,” Jules said, prowling around the broken glasses, “do you now ignore your superior when he addresses you directly?”
Glass crunched under Jules’s boots, expensive glass that Henry could not afford to replace. “Hannah was not clumsy,” Ann said, “and neither was Henry.”
“We have a difference of opinion.” Jules smiled pleasantly. “Step into my office, Pearson, and we will resolve our differences.”
“Nan, please fetch the broom and dustpan,” Ann said. “When the floor has been thoroughly swept, take a damp mop to it. Only damp. We don’t want anybody slipping and falling by accident.”
“Yes, Miss Pearson.”
“Henry, your hand is cut, and your coat needs to be brushed off.