By the time she returned to the kitchen, it was filled with an aroma of melted butter and hot metal.
“Not a grand dinner, but it will do for tonight.” Aoife stood stirring a pot of scrambled eggs on the hotplate. “Toast's a bit burned, but I'll soon get the hang of it.” She slapped a plate of fluffy yellow eggs and still smoking charred bread in front of Grace.
“A bit?” Grace held up the offending item. “We don't have much time to learn. Our first guests arrive in a week. They cannot live on toast and eggs.” She dropped the toast back onto her plate.
“I'll get those new sheets unpacked and washed, Grace.” Aoife forked scrambled eggs into her mouth. “They're all stiff and creased after being in the mail.” She spread butter over the layer of black on her toast and took a bite. Grace opened her mouth to comment but changed her mind. “That will take you a while. I'd better give you a hand.”
“I'll get them all done in no time with that new wringer you bought. Did you see the new china for the tea room had arrived?”
“I did, and I’m confident I made the right choice.” The white china sprinkled lightly with tiny pink rosebuds was perfect. Delicate and yet robust enough to be in constant use. “I owe Mrs M a debt of gratitude for introducing me to Eaton's catalogue. I don't know where I would have got half the things we needed without it.”
“Excuse moi,” a voice said from the open door, followed by a tentative knock on the doorframe.
Grace swung round to where a young man in shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows stood, a tweed jacket slung over one shoulder.
“There was no answer at the front door,” he said shyly, performing a Gallic shrug. “It was open so I-er”
“-marched straight in without a by-your-leave.” Aoife dropped her cutlery back onto her plate and stuck out her pointed chin.
“Can we help you?” Grace delivered a swift, but restrained kick to Aoife's shin while mouthing the word, “Guest?”
“I saw the sign outside saying the hotel is due to open in a few days.” He swung the jacket onto his other shoulder and nodded toward the window.
“It is, but I'm afraid we aren't renting rooms until then.” Grace stood. “Unless it's an advance booking you wanted?”
“Ah, I'm sorry but no. Actually, I wondered if you were hiring? My name is Leon Garnier.” Apart from his name and opening words, he spoke in perfect, unaccented English.
“What do you do?” Grace inwardly cringed. She hated disappointing people, but his slender build and pale complexion indicated he spent most of his life indoors. She doubted he would be much good at heavy work. About the same height as her, he had sandy colored hair two shades from being carrot, and light brown eyes flecked with gold.
“I cook. Well, actually I'm a chef.” He hesitated on the word, as if unsure of himself
“Might I ask how old you are?” Grace put him at about Aoife's age, thus his cheery, “Twenty-four, Miss,” took her by surprise.
“I was born in Egmont Bay but I left when I was fifteen to train in Quebec City. I returned home a few weeks ago.”
“Have you heard of the Chateau Frontenac?” He aimed a hard glare at Aoife.
“I have,” Grace said, impressed. “A friend told me about it when I was on the ferry crossing. Built twelve years ago in the style of a French chateau on a hill.”
“Fired you then did they?” Aoife's tone came out as sceptical, but Grace knew her well enough to recognize an underlying sympathy.
“Is that where you worked, Mr Grenier?” Grace asked, diluting his scowl at Aoife.
“Ah, no,” he said, flushing. “At L’Hotel Artueil around the corner. A smaller establishment, but it has a very good reputation. My uncle died, so I came back to the island to care for my aunt because they brought me up.”
“I'm sorry about your uncle, Mr Grenier, but after Quebec City, my hotel might be a little uninteresting for you.” This time it was Aoife whose foot connected with Grace's ankle. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore it.
“Not at all, Miss-?”
“Mrs MacKinnon.”
“Mrs MacKinnon. This is just the sort of establishment I am looking for. You don’t yet have a reputation so I can built one up based on quality from the beginning. How many guests do you accommodate at any one time?”
“When we open, we’ll offer breakfast and dinner to a maximum of twelve residential guests and open a tea room. Would that be enough for someone accustomed to a French city hotel.”
“I would say it was an advantage. I can work with less staff and more autonomy. Do you plan to take on other kitchen staff?”
“I hadn't thought about it.” She groaned inwardly, aware it was one more thing she should have considered. “I suppose it depends on how busy we are.” She gestured toward Aoife. “We’ll both help in the kitchen to begin with, and I could serve at table”
“I could manage with one helper.” He delivered a sly wink at Aoife. “I work fast, and you won't have to tell me anything twice.”
“Well - um,” Grace hesitated. “I have several prospective cooks, er-chefs to see over the next few days.”
Aoife made a 'what-are-you-doing' face Grace pretended not to see. “Where may I contact you when I have made a decision?”
“At my aunt's. She lives near the station.” He took a small black notebook from his pocket from which he tore off a pre-written sheet and handed it to her. “This is her address. I’m doing some casual work at the Railway Hotel, so if I’m not there she'll take a message.”
“Thank you.” Grace took the paper from him. “I'll definitely let you know.”
“What do you cook, Mr Grenier?” Aoife demanded, mangling the pronunciation of his name.
“Um-all the classic French cuisine. The mother sauces, Béchamel, Velouté, Espagnole, Tomat and Hollandaise.”
“Aoife, I don't think-” Grace began.
“Can you make chicken fricot?” Ignoring her, Aoife rose and closed the space between them.
“Of course.” Leon's boyish face broke into a wide smile. “Also, Poutine, Rapure and meat pie.”
“Even I can make meat pie,” Aoife's upper lip curled.
“Ah.” He held up a finger. “But do you put yeast in your pastry and let it rise before baking?” At Aoife's puzzled frown, he grinned. “I thought not. No, I make Tourtière. Acadian meat pie. You'll never taste better.”
“You're hired.” Aoife folded her arms and turned a triumphant smile on Grace.
“Aoife!”
“Grace!” Aoife mimicked her shocked tone. “The hotel opens in four days and we have guests arriving to stay soon after that. The only help you’ve taken on is that dumb girl, Tilly. I doubt she knows which way is up. You only took her on as a favor, what with her being Mrs M’s granddaughter.” She crooked a thumb at Leon. “If he doesn't do the cooking, who will?”
“I can find my way around any kitchen in a day.” The young man took up Aoife's enthusiasm. “In three I can work miracles.” He rubbed his hands together and advanced on the new stove. “Is this a Weir Glenwood?”
“It is, the latest model,” Grace said proudly. “Do you know how to use it?”
“I can cook a gourmet meal on a wood fire on a prairie.” He splayed his hands towards the stove as if he was about to embrace the gleaming monster. “But this, this is a masterpiece.”
Grace caught Aoife’s wide-eyed, what-are-you-waiting-for stare.
“All right then. I'll give you a trial period. Then if we're both happy, we can discuss wages and hours.”
“That's settled then.” Aoife whipped his jacket from his shoulder. She draped it over a chair, then guided him firmly towards the door. “The storeroom is that way. Go and look around. If there's anything we've forgotten you may let us know. Your first job is to make breakfast for Miss Grace and myself tomorrow. My name is Aoife by the way, but you can call me Eva if it's easier.”
“Thank you - Aoife.” He pronounced her name the Irish way, saluted Grace then strode off i
n the direction of the storeroom.
“I'm not happy with what you just did,” Grace said in a fierce whisper, reluctant to admit Leon Grenier appeared to be the solution to a situation plaguing her for days. “I'm the owner and I hire the staff. What do we know about him?”
“He lives with his aunt and works at the Railway Hotel. Both of which you can check,” Aoife replied, unabashed. “If he messes up our breakfasts we'll know he was lying. Then we'll sack him.”
“No, then I will sack him. He claims to have trained in Quebec and has a French name, but he doesn't speak with an accent.”
“Not every Acadian does. Anyway, your 'a's and 'e's are different to most people's, but no one thinks you're not trustworthy.”
“I suppose it’s too late to find someone else. He’ll have to do.” Grace sighed. At the click of the latch on the storeroom door, added, “Hush now, he's coming back.”
“I like your hotel very much, Miss Grace.” Leon gave the room a slow appraising glance. “I could make some beautiful meals here.”
“I'm glad to hear it.” Grace accepted the compliment with a smile. “Can you bake by any chance? I was going to buy cakes and pastries from a bakery but my assistant,” she cocked her head at Aoife, “thinks we should make them.”
“And she’s right.” He bestowed an admiring smile on Aoife who accepted it with little reaction. “My ambition was always to be a pâtissier but the hotel I worked at didn't need one so they took me on as a sous chef. My gateaux are the lightest you will ever taste, and as for my pastries and desserts-” He extended his hands, palms upwards as if words were unnecessary
“You can certainly talk, Mr Grenier,” Aoife interrupted, pronouncing it ‘Groanier’. “But can you cook?”
He scooped his coat from the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder.
“At seven thirty tomorrow morning I shall prepare my Eggs Benedict for you.” He bowed to each of them in turn, dug his cap out of a pocket and jammed it onto his head. “Oh,” he turned back at the door. “I'll need a fish kettle. Other than that, you appear to have everything I need.”
“I'll see you out.” Aoife followed him out, muttering. “And I'll lock the front door while I'm at it.”
“What have I done?” Grace asked when Aoife returned. “Not that you gave me much choice.”
“I'd say him turning up like that was a stroke of luck. Anyway, I like him. Although I’ve never heard of fish being cooked in a kettle. Won’t the tea smell funny?”
Grace narrowed her eyes. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell if Aoife was joking or not.
Aoife turned back at the door, her arms full of sheets. “What are Eggs Benedict?”
“I’m not sure. MacKinnon would never allow Cook to make it at home.”
“Why ever not?”
“He said it was too papist for a Presbyterian household. Something about Catholics eating it during Lent. A pity, as I would have liked to be able to make an informed judgement of our Mr Grenier's attempt tomorrow.”
Chapter 18
Grace braced both hands on the rail of the veranda and released a relieved breath as she surveyed the garden. Ropes of artificial flowers and ribbons wound around the uprights of white painted gazebos, their domed roofs and filigree balustrades resembling wedding cakes.
Her plan to use real blooms failed when they wilted too soon in the heat, resulting in a mad dash to fashion replacements out of white paper and wire.
Smiling, she admired the white wicker chairs in small groups around tables set with sparkling crystal, the edges of crisp white tablecloths lifting in the slight breeze.
Carts and carriages gathered in the street a full half hour before the tea room was scheduled to open, but instead of keeping them waiting, Grace gave instructions to open early.
At barely past two in the afternoon women in pastel colored dresses flowed through the main doors, their excited chatter mingling with the clink of cutlery against china, feathers and ribbons bobbing gently from their hats.
“I told you there was no need to fret,” Aoife whispered at her shoulder.
“I know, but I had this awful dream last night that after all this work, no one would come,” Grace said. “Have you noticed that although there are a few gentlemen here, most of our customers are women? There’s a group of eight in the far corner who all arrived together.”
“Isn’t that what you anticipated?”
“It’s what I hoped, but I didn’t think it would be so obvious. It’s an encouraging sign.”
Behind them the main tea room was also full, the heat of the summer afternoon diluted with the help of electric ceilings fans. Grace had the foresight to add these at the last moment, as well as a pile of Chinese paper hand fans laid out for the use of the guests.
“How are the cakes and pastries going?” Grace asked.
“Can’t bring them out fast enough. Leon’s doing a grand job. He’s had to make another three trays of madeleines and French fancies. I’ve made enough cucumber sandwiches to feed the whole town and Tilly’s run off her feet.”
“I’m glad that for now we don’t have any residents to worry about. As a dress rehearsal this has stretched us to the limit. I might have to offer Tilly a permanent job.” Grace nodded in the direction of a couple Tilly was serving with strawberry gateaux. “Not all of these people are genuine customers. Those two work at the Queen Hotel. I’ll be willing to bet they were sent by management to snoop.”
Grace turned at the sound of the shop doorbell, prepared to greet more customers, and froze.
Emily Cahill entered the main tea room, the full skirt of her pink chiffon dress billowing out from her waist, an oversized hat frothed with yellow chiffon sat on her blonde curls. She paused to survey the room before her gaze swung to the veranda where Grace stood, her stern expression softening into a smile.
“Grace, dear.” Emily's loud greeting drew all eyes as she swept through the open French doors. “What a simply delightful place you have here. And a tea room, what an excellent idea.” She waggled a white-gloved hand at the room behind her. “All this light wood furniture against the darker wallpaper is such a refreshing change from dun brown. How innovative of you.” Despite her tone, Emily’s narrowed nostrils indicated mild disappointment.
“Thank you, I took inspiration from your beautiful home,” Grace lied.
“Really?” Emily’s heavily carmined lips puckered slightly. “Perhaps it's time to call in the decorators,” she muttered, taking in Grace’s plain burgundy skirt and white, high necked blouse with a weak, dismissive smile.
Chosen to convey an air of professionalism, Grace had been pleased with the effect, but Emily’s disdainful look made her feel underdressed.
“It was nice of you to come, Mrs Cahill.” She returned her smile through gritted teeth.
“Oh, you must call me Emily. Surely, we know each other well enough? I brought Mary Jardine with me to show our support for your little venture.” She searched the full room behind her in mild confusion, her eyes finally settling on a young woman who had stopped to speak to someone at one of the tables. “Mary do come and meet Grace.”
Grace’s breath caught in her throat as a young woman looked up at the sound of her name. She said something to a lady she was speaking to, then glided towards them, shepherding a child in front of her.
“We meet at last, Mrs MacKinnon.” Mary Jardine's voice was low and sensual. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Her luminous blue eyes settled on Grace without a hint of hostility, her cupid bow mouth and clear complexion free of the cosmetics Emily liberally employed. Her pale blue close-fitting jacket suit with wide lapels accentuated her slender frame, the high collar of the cream silk blouse beneath highlighting a slim, elegant neck. A pert hat, tilted jauntily to one side, sat on her swept up brown hair.
“I'm pleased to meet you too.” Grace’s mouth dried as she took her outstretched hand.
“And this is Isla.” Emily rested a hand upon the shoulder of a child as pre
tty as her mother. Isla wore a white layered dress with a sapphire blue sash, a flat straw boater with a matching ribbon wound around the crown perched on chestnut hair that hung down her back.
The child curtseyed, then stared up at her with grey eyes so familiar, Grace suppressed a gasp.
“I-I’m so glad you could all come.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it.” Emily smiled coyly from beneath the wide brim of her hat.
“Where would you like to sit?” Grace asked, recovering herself.
“Would you mind if we stayed out here on the veranda?” Mary asked. “The sun doesn't like me very much, but it would be nice for Isla to play in the garden.”
“Aoife, would you find a table for these ladies?” A hard lump lodged in Grace's throat and stayed there. “Aoife will serve you. If you'll excuse me, I need to check on things in the kitchen.” She fled through the main tea room into the kitchen, slammed the door shut behind her and leaned against it, a hand pressed to her bodice as she tried to calm her rapid breathing.
“Getting too much out there, is it, Grace?” Leon smiled in sympathy as he applied a piping nozzle to a row of cakes laid out on the table. He had dropped the 'Miss' from her name when Grace complained it made her sound like a matriarch.
It was bad enough when Tilly jumped to her feet each time she entered the room.
“I don't know why I didn't anticipate being so busy.” Grace summoned a shaky smile. “Not that I’m complaining.” The kitchen was hotter than outside, mainly due to the fired up stove from which an enticing hot sugar smell of baking emanated.
“I'll say not.” He arranged half a dozen of the cakes onto a stand, then shouted, “Tilly!” in a sharp command that made Grace jump.
A slightly plump girl in a white pinafore and cap which only just contained her frizzy ginger hair darted forward.
“These are for table ten!” He swung the cake stand into her hand with such expertise, not one of them wobbled.
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