The Way to a Gentleman's Heart - Theresa Romain Page 0,31

never know the burnt-cream tarts were supposed to have spun sugar on their candied tops, but that it had all melted away. They’d never know that they’d been meant to have brawn, but it hadn’t set properly, and so instead, the shreds of meat were fried to a crispy hash and stuffed beneath the pheasant’s skin.

And they’d never know that the cook had overseen her assistant and four kitchenmaids with only half her mind on the task and her heart entirely absent.

It didn’t help that the four maids Jack had hired were named Jane, Joan, Jill, and Jenny. Honestly! Names could start with letters other than J.

Marianne had peeped at the arriving guests, timing the readiness of dishes with the arrivals of the final couples. The men Mrs. Brodie invited had come in superfine and patent leather, with signet rings and gold fobs and generous bellies and loud laughs. The women had been in silks and jewels and feathers, their finery casting the glittering serving dishes into shade.

Elegant and wealthy as they all were, they were still people with appetites. The first polite demurrals past, they ate their food with the same eagerness the academy’s young ladies demonstrated. The footmen reported to the kitchen each time they came for new dishes. The guests had finished the first course down to the bones; they had drunk the wines, then eaten yet more, then drunk an absolutely amazing amount.

The performances had been a success too, reported the footmen, from the sweetly framed needlework and watercolor paintings, to the recitations of poetry and translations from French. This last had been the cause of much amusement, as the students in French were given random phrases and sentences by the guests. As more and more wine was imbibed, the suggestions grew increasingly ridiculous. When Mademoiselle Gagne’s prize student composed an ode in French to the remains on a lady’s plate—a stalk of asparagus, the delicate bones of a quail, and a few droplets of spilled wine—the company had agreed that such an effort could not be topped.

Next year, they’d all try to top it, though. And somehow they would.

Just now, the notion made Marianne tired.

No—everything made her tired. She was damned tired. Since her work was finally done, she could have her bed in her own room.

Lamp in hand, she dragged the small distance to her chamber—only to find the door open, a lit lamp already within, and a quiet figure awaiting her.

She squinted at the shadow and glare, recognizing the headmistress. “Mrs. Brodie? Is everything well?”

“Yes, very well. I only wanted to speak with you about our grand event.”

Marianne set her lamp beside the other on the washstand, then glanced around the small space. “Ah—have a seat on the bed, if you wish? I’m sorry there’s no chair.”

“There’s not much of anything in here.” The older woman settled herself on the narrow bed, her back as straight as if she were seated on an antique fauteuil. “You look as if you are planning to leave the academy at a moment’s notice.”

“My room always looks like this,” Marianne excused. “I only sleep in here.” She bent her knees a tad, pressing her lower back against the wall to relieve its ache. Just being able to lean, not to hold up her own weight for a moment, was a relief.

“I see,” said Mrs. Brodie. Not in the polite way a woman might accept a small confidence over tea, but in a quiet way, a slow and understanding way. As if she’d realized something that Marianne didn’t intend her to.

For her two years as cook, she’d occupied this room without noticing its lack or loneliness—or her own. Yet they’d been obvious to Jack. They were obvious too, it seemed, to the headmistress.

But that was all Mrs. Brodie said on the subject. “The dinner was a great success, and the credit must go to your food and to the teachers who prepared the students so well.” When she named the amount raised in subscriptions and donations, Marianne’s eyes widened.

“You’ll be able to accept more scholarship students,” she realized.

“I will. And I’ll have to raise fees for the next year; so many inquired about having their daughters attend.” She smiled, standing. “I should let you get to bed. Morning will come early for us all, and the girls will be wanting breakfast.”

On her feet, she hardly reached Marianne’s cheekbone. Yet she extended a hand, placed it on Marianne’s cheek, as comforting as a mother. “You do your best for