by Faith Martin
‘She means,’ Roberta said, rolling her eyes, ‘that my grandparents want me to walk and talk like a lady. Good old Simm has me pacing the nursery with books on my head.’
Everybody smiled as they pictured the absurd spectacle. And yet Jenny had detected just a hint of asperity in Lady Roberta’s voice. It also explained the awkward silence. Miss Simmons was new to the job, and it would take her a while to fit into the tight niche that no doubt existed here.
As cook, Jenny’s own acceptance was taken a little more for granted. No one wanted to get on the bad side of the cook, after all. They could end up with lumpy gravy and burnt chops.
‘That reminds me,’ Malcolm Powell-Brooks said, out of the blue. ‘That skylight needs to be widened in the studio. We’re not getting enough light. Do you think you could get some workmen in, Meecham?’
Meecham nodded, and promised to get onto it. Ava Simmons sighed. ‘You should see the studio, Miss Starling. It would put a professional artist to shame.’
‘Only the best for my pupil,’ Malcolm said, but his jaunty smile seemed just a little bit strained. ‘When you’re teaching the granddaughter of a family of art collectors like the Avonsleighs, only the finest canvases, best paints and most professional brushes will do. Right, Rob?’
Lady Roberta grinned, hoisted by her own petard. She pouted again. ‘Rob, indeed,’ she muttered, but her eyes sparkled and looked adoringly on the visage of her idol.
Ava Simmons looked away, frowning slightly, and Jenny wanted to tell her not to worry — that sixteen-year-old girls were apt to get crushes on their teachers, especially ones who looked like Malcolm Powell-Brooks. Nothing ever came of it.
Usually.
‘Besides, I’m going to be a great artist someday,’ Lady Roberta said, with all the confidence of a teenager. ‘I’ll be the first really famous female artist ever. Have you noticed how all the really famous ones are men, Miss Starling?’
Jenny, grateful to be spared any shortening of her name, smiled. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘Well, they are,’ Roberta said sulkily. ‘It’s all right for Malc. He could make a name for himself if he wanted, just because he’s a man. But nobody takes a woman artist seriously.’
‘Now you know that’s not true,’ Malcolm said with a gentle smile. ‘We’ve studied some of the women artists. Besides, you know that I don’t paint professionally. Just because I got a degree from the Ruskin, doesn’t mean I have talent. You can be taught to appreciate fine art, but that doesn’t make you an artist. Right, Ava?’ He suddenly turned and smiled full-face at the governess.
To Jenny’s surprise, Ava Simmons went extremely pale. At the same time, she distinctly heard Elsie give a snicker over by the kettle, where she was making some fresh tea. Ava managed a strained smile. ‘Quite. My father owns the Giselle Gallery in Bicester,’ Ava said, for the new cook’s benefit. ‘As a teenager, I, too, wanted to go to the Ruskin School of Art at Oxford, but it didn’t work out.’
‘Poor Simm,’ Roberta said, looking genuinely sorry for her. ‘You see what I mean? Nobody takes women artists seriously. But I’m going to be famous one day, with Malc’s help. I am good, aren’t I, Malc?’ she asked, turning such pleading eyes up to her tutor that Jenny again felt her own lips twitch.
Malcolm Powell-Brooks walked over and gave her head an affectionate pat. ‘Not bad, little monkey. You’re not bad at all.’
Roberta, obviously not best pleased at being treated so openly like a child, sighed heavily. Ava Simmons scowled and looked away. Everyone tactfully turned their attention back to their tea. The air seemed to grow heavy and oppressed.
And Jenny, with a trickle of unease, wondered if things were always this tense at Avonsleigh Castle.
She hoped not. Soufflés never rose in a tense kitchen.
CHAPTER THREE
Jenny walked across to the oven, donning thick oven gloves as she went. Keenly aware of her audience, she withdrew a massive Lancashire hotpot from the middle tray. This was the staff’s dish of course, designed to feed seven. Steaming and heavy, she transferred it onto a wooden stand on the sideboard, where Elsie was waiting, nose twitching, ready to dish it out.
Being interviewed in the morning, accepting the job, and then cooking her first meal all on the same day had been a challenge, and one she’d thought about carefully. And, mindful of her promise to her employers, she had decided to cook something very English, delicious and filling.
The rich aroma soon filled the kitchen, and behind her she could almost feel the others relax. Once more at the oven, she removed the second, smaller hotpot, and Meecham instantly commandeered it. Heaping a variety of green vegetables into a dish, she watched as Meecham added it to an enormous silver tray.
She’d already ascertained from Elsie that Lady Vee and Lord Avonsleigh weren’t overly keen on too many courses (except when entertaining) but still wondered if she ought to have at least made some soup, or another kind of starter. But it was too late to worry about that now.
At the table, with the hotpot and vegetables now ladled out, there was a very satisfactory silence. Jenny took her seat at the head of the table, as befitting her position, and took her first bite. It was, as she’d always known it would be, delicious.
‘Is Danny coming over tonight, Janice?’ Gayle Meecham asked, reaching for a glass of water and taking a sip. Janice swallowed a good mouthful of food, and nodded.
‘About eight, he said. Not that we’re going anywhere special. Just down to the Jolly Farmer. Still, it gets me out of this place,’ she said cheerfully and tucked in once more, and with evident enjoyment. Jenny rather approved of Janice.
Opposite her, Ava Simmons raised her napkin and gave her lips a gentle pat before reaching for a small glass of wine. Up a place, and opposite, Elsie watched the governess with derisive eyes. Malcolm Powell-Brooks waited patiently for his food to cool. Lady Roberta, of course, ate with her grandparents. No doubt she’d much rather eat down here with the servants who were her friends, Jenny suspected, and of course, with her art tutor, who must be the cause of many a blush-making teenage dream.
‘I’d have thought you’d want to meet him at the pub rather than have him come up here, Janice,’ Malcolm said, and smiled mischievously as her pretty blonde head shot up. Both of them turned and glanced at Ava Simmons, who seemed oblivious to it all.
Jenny noticed Janice flush a dull, unbecoming red, but before she could make any gentle probing as to what Malcolm was insinuating, Meecham reappeared. In spite of herself, Jenny was uncomfortably aware that she was watching him anxiously. Noticing her scrutiny, he smiled gently.
‘Their lordships would like to express their approval and satisfaction, Miss Starling,’ the butler said in his usual pedantic tone. Translated: they had lifted the lid, taken one delighted look, and tucked in like gannets.
Jenny beamed, and for the first time that evening, fully relaxed. She glanced over her shoulder to the stove and the two big pots steaming away gently, and then at the kitchen clock. Perfect timing. The two raspberry-jam steamed puddings would be cooked to perfection in another fifteen minutes.
‘Has anyone seen my knitting needle? My number ten?’ Elsie suddenly piped up, her voice abrupt and accusing. ‘I know I had it the day before yesterday. I was knitting a cardigan for Bunty’s youngest.’
‘Are you sure it’s not in your bag, Elsie?’ Gayle asked, ignoring the exasperated looks the others cast in the kitchen maid’s direction.
Elsie’s unlovely face became set. ‘No, it ain’t. First place I looked, weren’t it? It’s not there. The other one is. Someone must have took it, that’s all.’
‘Who’d want to steal just one knitting needle, Elsie?’ Janice piped up reasonably. ‘Perhaps it went the same way as that slipper of yours.’ She glanced across at Jenny and winked. ‘Or that thimble you swore somebody had pinched.’
Elsie merely glowered. ‘Someone put that slipper under my chair. I never do that. I always have me slippers on, els
e they’re kept under me bed. I know who it was, all right. That young ladyship. Little minx. Thinks I don’t know where I put things. But I ain’t so daft. And that thimble shouldn’t have been in that drawer. I never keep me thimbles in that drawer.’
‘Oh well, I’m sure it will turn up, Elsie,’ Gayle said placatingly.
When everybody had finished, Jenny did a quick check of the plates. Elsie, Meecham, Janice and Gayle had left clean plates. Only Malcolm and Ava Simmons had left some, mostly vegetables. All in all, she was satisfied.
‘That’s the bell, Dad,’ Gayle said, prompting her father as a faint but plainly audible bell tinkled overhead. So Meecham was a little hard of hearing, Jenny noted idly. Or was he just preoccupied?
The butler followed her to the stove and watched with evident approval as she removed the family’s pudding from the pot, took off the greaseproof paper, traced a knife around the edge and upturned it. The sponge came out clean, golden and light, the generous helping of runny, piping-hot jam trickling down the sides in a delicious stream. A jug of proper custard was placed by its side and Meecham left, moving at a fair old clip. When she turned back to the stove, Jenny was just in time to see Elsie already turning out the larger servants’ bowl onto a plate.
The cook hadn’t heard her, and for a moment she felt slightly uneasy. She should have heard her crossing the flagstone kitchen floor. She should have heard her lifting the lid and clattering about. As she watched the tired-looking maid at work, she realized that Elsie was deceptively deft. Her movements were slow but graceful. Now wonder she moved and worked so silently.
Jenny would have to remember that.
Once again, the table was silent as everybody tucked in according to his or her manner. The staff were now beginning to solidify into distinct personalities: Elsie, with her habit of losing knick-knacks and complaining; Janice, with her healthy appetite and content, slightly smug beauty; Ava, a lady born and bred, and perhaps a little resentful that she had to earn her living; Malcolm, the fastidious, slightly spiteful art tutor; and Meecham, a kind-hearted man, who seemed to fit in at Avonsleigh like a key fitting into a lock. Only Gayle remained a mystery. Protective of Elsie, yes; kind-hearted, like her father no doubt. But Jenny, as yet, knew next to nothing about her. What went on behind that aloof exterior? And was it her imagination, or was Gayle upset about something?
Meecham returned, gave the cook another smiling nod, and had just sat down when the door burst open and a young man athletically leapt down the steps, landing nearly in the middle of the kitchen. He was dressed in a heavy leather jacket and carried a crash helmet in his hand. His hair was windblown, jet black and flopped about on his forehead, forcing him to keep brushing it back. The newcomer’s jaw was busy chewing gum. ‘Hello, Jan. Troops.’ He nodded to the rest of the table, his glance stopping at Ava Simmons. ‘Ava, you’re looking ravishing tonight,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling down at her.
‘Daniel,’ Ava Simmons said, barely turning her head.
‘Danny, want some of my pudding?’ Janice put in quickly, and hitched up a spare chair beside her. Danny obliged, but turned the chair around, sitting on it so that the back of it rested against his chest. He looked too old to be playing those sorts of games, Jenny thought with a hint of asperity, looking at him closely. He was no teenager. More in the mid-twenties, she would guess. He accepted Janice’s pudding, totally unaware of the sacrifice she was making, and spooned in a gigantic mouthful. It made even Jenny blink.
Elsie was watching him closely too, Jenny noticed, and felt a slight shudder of shock. Surely Elsie, of all people, wasn’t attracted by this show of swaggering machismo? But no, she saw an instant later, Elsie wasn’t. She was watching him with a kind of superior smile that changed to the now familiar smirk when the conceited Danny once more glanced Ava Simmons’s way.
Janice, not liking the way his eyes tended to stray either, pulled on his arm. ‘I’m ready for the off, Danny. Where’s the bike?’
‘Near the gatehouse, of course, where else? I can’t drive it into the quad, can I?’ Janice flushed. ‘Hey, Ava, want to take a ride on my Harley? It’s got a really wide seat,’ he cajoled.
Jenny heard a distinct giggle. Or titter. It could have come from almost anyone, for she was not alone in realizing what an incongruous picture Danny’s offer conjured up — the genteel and proper Miss Simmons on the back of a motorbike.
Ava smiled, not too unkindly, Jenny thought, given the circumstances. ‘Thank you, Daniel. But I don’t have a helmet.’
Very tactful, Jenny thought idly.
Danny seemed not to recognize the dismissal however, and shook off Janice’s hand, which had tightened annoyingly around his wrist. ‘I can get you one. I’ll bring one over next week.’
‘Danny,’ Janice said, drawing out his name into two very long, very annoyed syllables.
‘All right, all right, I’m coming. Just let me finish this pud. Good stuff, this,’ he added, finishing off the dessert in three giant, jaw-breaking mouthfuls.
They all watched the unlikely lovebirds depart, Meecham and his daughter with some amusement, Malcolm more with exasperation than anything else. Elsie merely sneered. It was, Jenny was coming to realize, the kitchen maid’s near-permanent expression.
* * *
A half hour later, she and Elsie set about clearing and washing up, managing to finish the work in a matter of minutes. They divided their tasks equally and automatically, working in a comfortable silence. She had just wiped down the largest bowl, and was about to put it back in the cupboard when Meecham coughed discreetly behind her. She looked back over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
‘Lady Vee and Sir George would like to see you, Miss Starling. In the sunroom.’
Jenny nodded, put down the bowl on the shelf, and heard a curious, not to mention ominous dull thunk. Curious, she peered into the recess of the cupboard, saw something move, and reached inside.
When her hands emerged, she was holding Henry. For a second the reptile blinked at her, and she blinked back at it. Then, without a word, she carefully put it on the floor, returned the bowl to its proper place, and turned to follow Meecham. She spared only a moment to wonder how the tortoise had got onto the cupboard shelf, which was at least three feet off the ground. Perhaps there was a resident ghost playing pranks on her after all.
But her thoughts were mainly centred on the upcoming meeting. Perhaps the family hadn’t been as happy with the food as Meecham had led her to believe? Had Elsie lied when she said they didn’t go in for lots of courses when they dined alone? So nervous was she, she barely glanced at her surroundings as Meecham led her down the maze-like corridors to a small room decorated in pale yellow. The butler bowed silently and left.
Her ladyship looked up from a surprisingly garish tabloid newspaper and beamed. ‘Ah, Miss Starling, there you are. I just wanted to say what a delightful meal that was. Haven’t had Lancashire hotpot for ages. Our old cook was from Devon, you know.’
Jenny didn’t, but didn’t care. She hadn’t been told politely to sling her hook, and that was all that mattered.
‘Lovely puddin’,’ his lordship rumbled in agreement from the depths of an old armchair, without bothering to open his firmly shut eyes.
‘George always naps after dinner,’ said Lady Vee, anxious that the new cook should not take offence. Not after the meal they’d just had. ‘I just wanted to say how much we enjoyed it, and also to warn you that we’re expecting friends tomorrow for tea.’
‘Not dinner?’ Jenny asked quickly.
‘No, just tea. Well, not even that really. The colonel and his wife will be arriving about three, I expect, so if you could just have a little something ready. Just a scone or two would be fine. The colonel’s got a bit of a thing about dining out. Can’t stand to do it. His poor wife hasn’t eaten in a restaurant for twenty years.’
Jenny nodded. And she knew better than to be fooled by this ‘just a scone or two’ business. ‘Some Madeira cake, perhaps?�
�� she murmured. ‘And the odd savoury? Some small flans — cold, of course — and some sandwiches? I’ll bake some fresh bread after lunch.’
Her ladyship beamed. ‘Splendid, splendid. Well, I won’t keep you. You must be exhausted. I can’t tell you how grateful we are, can I, George, that you were able to start work straight away.’ In answer, a loud snore came from the depths of his lordship’s chair.
Jenny smiled, and withdrew. Once the door was shut behind her she found herself in a small anteroom. Wryly, she realized that she had been too worried to take notice of all the twists and turns in getting here and was now thoroughly lost. She glanced around her at the now expected plethora of paintings, and lingered over a charming picture of water lilies on a misty lake. But as she slowly walked off in what she hoped was the right direction, a gleam of jewel-like light caught her eye, and she turned back, glancing up in surprise. For there on the wall above her was the most beautiful — and outlandish — work of art she’d ever seen. A lavishly jewelled dagger with a narrow, straight blade hung in solitary splendour in a little alcove in one wall.
As she looked at it, so beautiful and so deadly, she felt a shiver run over her spine. It was an unexpectedly strong shiver, and it raised goosebumps on her arm. A feeling of foreboding crept into the back of her mind, and she briskly, almost angrily, pushed it back.
Nothing was going to go wrong, she told herself. Not this time. Besides, she had other things to think about.
Like tea for four tomorrow. And a finicky colonel with a phobia about food. Perhaps she should make some sausage rolls, warm from the oven. Surely he couldn’t resist those . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
Jenny awoke, surrounded by four posts, swathes of electric-blue silk, and a feeling of wellbeing. The bed beneath her was wide and well padded, and supported her Junoesque figure admirably, and for a moment she lay in blissful silence. Already, Avonsleigh felt like home. She and Lady Vee had an understanding that was as strong as only two like-minded women could make it. She had an able, if sour, helper in Elsie, and the butler was a man of understanding. A perfect recipe for longstanding and satisfying employment if ever she’d heard it.