Chapter Three
When Isabel arrived in the kitchen, she took one look at the bubbling copper pan on top of the range and the kitchen maid having hysterics in the corner, and rushed over to inspect the pan’s contents. White soup… Picking up a wooden spoon from the kitchen table, she stirred it and breathed in the fragrant aroma. Fortunately it wasn’t burning.
Isabel glanced around the large high-vaulted room. It was unusually light and lofty for a kitchen. Rising from the semi-basement to the first floor, the windows were ideally positioned to the left side of the range, so that sufficient natural light streamed in. The kitchen dresser, laden with essential equipment, stood close to a large kitchen table which dominated the room.
Crossing to the maid, she said calmly, “There is no need to cry. What is your name?”
The girl peered up at her and threw her hands up into the air. “I canna cook alone!”
Green, who still stood at the door, shook his head impatiently. “Come, Molly. There is no need to carry on so. Lady Axbridge is here to assist you. But you may not speak of her presence here to anyone – you understand? It is strictly forbidden. Where is Becky?”
“In – in the dry larder…”
On these words, a plump young damsel came into the room. She gazed at Isabel with wide eyes, before looking at the butler inquiringly. As soon as he had explained Isabel’s presence in the kitchen, she bobbed a curtsey. “Glad to help you, milady. Molly and me prepare the vegetables, gravies and sauces over there.” She waved towards two small brick-built ranges beside a cast-iron range. “The vegetables are ready to cook and I’m starting the sauces now.”
Isabel smiled in relief. Here, at least, was a young woman with apparent good sense and a calm nature. “I will leave those to you then, Becky. What fish, meat and poultry dishes are on the menu for tonight?”
“Roast partridge and roast goose – them birds are in the oven already.” She pointed towards the cast-iron range. “Also trout, fillet o’ roasted pork, curry o’ rabbits, roasted venison and a freaky veal with saffron milk caps.” Becky ticked each dish off on her fingers.
“A freaky veal?”
“I do believe Becky means a fricando of veal,” Green said ponderously.
Isabel suppressed another smile. “How many side dishes and desserts still need to be made, Becky? And are any of the main dishes already prepared?”
“Them jellies, custards and desserts are on ice in the pastry room. The apricot and lemon ices are in the ice house out back. Them rabbits and pork are cooked. They’re in the hot closet with some o’ the sides. Keeps ’em warm, it does.”
Isabel took a deep breath, and looked around the kitchen. “Who is the under-cook? Who works most closely with Monsieur Martin?”
Green studied his polished black shoes for a moment, before looking up and staring straight ahead. “Anna is the head kitchen maid, my lady. I am afraid she and the second kitchen maid have retired to their rooms as they are also indisposed.”
“It seems we will have to make the best of things between the three of us.” Isabel nodded her head briskly as Green murmured something about seeing to the wine and left the room. “Please bring me a clean cap and an apron, Becky.”
The maid opened a drawer in the dresser and took out the requested items. Isabel pulled the cap over her hair, and swathed the too-large apron around her slim person, before walking over to the cast-iron range, which had an oven on the one side and a water heater on the other.
She had recently installed a similar one in her kitchen at the Dower House at Axbridge Park, and she breathed a prayer of gratitude that her cousin had modernised his kitchen too. Baking and roasting food in a cast-iron oven, and making sauces and frying dishes on the brick-built charcoal burning ranges, was far superior to cooking food in pots and pans over open flames, as she had done in the long ago past.
She opened the oven and peered inside. The goose and the partridge were roasting side by side, along with the venison.
“When will these be ready?” she asked Becky.
“Just afore dinner is served, milady. Monsieur gets very angry if the food served at table is cold.”
She closed the oven door. “So all the main dishes are prepared except for the fricando of veal and the trout?”
“Yes, milady.”
Isabel passed a hand over her forehead. Her cooking skills were rusty at best, and she wasn’t sure if she would be able to cook the veal and the trout to the high standard required. But she would try, and if they tasted awful, she would just have to leave them off the menu, although Cousin George would be embarrassed if they served a meal with too few main dishes. It smacked of a lack of generosity and hospitality towards his guests.
“Is there a recipe for the fricando of veal?”
“Yes, milady. Anna showed me a picture of it t’other day.”
Becky rushed to the dresser and pulled out a leather bound book, and leafed through it until she came to the desired page.
“Here it is.” She handed the book over.
Isabel sighed. The recipe was in French, of course. Her level of skill in that language was almost as rusty as her cooking abilities. A note at the bottom of the recipe explained that a fricando was the Spanish variation of a French dish called “fricandeu”. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too difficult to prepare. She wasn’t familiar with many foreign recipes and had only ever cooked plain English food at her father’s house.
Becky brought the veal loin into the kitchen and began assembling the rest of the ingredients Isabel needed, while Molly, who had been watching them cautiously, rose and walked across to one of the brick ranges where she stirred the soup and began preparing the vegetables and sauces.
Isabel gave the maid a nod of approval, but said nothing. The last thing she wanted was to trigger another fit of hysterics. Leaving the girl to work alone seemed the best course of action. She glanced at the clock on the wall. They didn’t have much time.
Green returned to the kitchen and informed her that the footmen would be arriving within the hour to fetch the food to table. Mrs Sutton accompanied him, and when she laid eyes on Isabel she said, “My lady, I must apologise… That your ladyship should have to cook the dinner… I would offer my help but I know nothing of this fine French food…” She trailed off and gazed in dismay at Isabel’s apron-clad figure.
“You must not concern yourself over this, Mrs Sutton.”
“Indeed, my lady. But for a Lady to work below stairs in the kitchen… It’s not seemly.” She clasped her hands together. “How may I assist your ladyship?”
“Please take a message to my maid, and inform her that I will not be changing my gown for dinner tonight.”
The housekeeper curtsied, and retreated silently from the kitchen, and Isabel returned her attention to her cooking. She sliced the veal loin into thin cutlets and seasoned them, before dotting the slices with pork lard. Glancing at the recipe, she frowned. It stated that each cutlet must be dusted with white flour and cooked on each side until it was browned. And there was still the sauce to prepare.
“Please come and help me prepare the vegetable sauce, Becky,” she called. “I need you to dice the onions, tomatoes and carrots. Make haste! We are running out of time.”
After she had finished cooking the veal, Isabel fried the trout in butter, and then crossed the kitchen to Molly. “Please plate the trout and take the roasts from the oven.”
A couple of footmen arrived at that moment, and Isabel recognised the male servant who had taken her hat and cloak earlier. He goggled at her, but he had clearly received his instructions from Green, as he did not say a word when she handed him a laden tray.
Isabel was examining the roasts when she looked up and saw Mr Bateman standing at the kitchen door. She drew in a quick breath, and for a moment forgot all about time and place and plating food, as her gaze locked with his. His amused regard swept from the top of her cap-covered curls to the bottom of her apron-draped skirt, before returning to her
face again.
He looked every inch the elegant gentleman in his long-tailed navy blue coat and black satin knee breeches. She viewed his immaculate person with dismay. “Please do not come any nearer. There is flour all over the kitchen table and it will ruin your clothes.” And when he continued to study her with a quizzical gleam in his eyes, she lifted her chin. “Why are you here, Mr Bateman?”
“Your cousin asked me to see if you needed any help.”
She raised her eyebrows so high they touched the top of her frilly white cap. Her relative must have windmills in his head if he believed this fashionable gentleman could aid her in any way. “Cousin George asked you?”
“Indeed. He told me his chef had taken ill and that you were preparing the evening meal.”
She shrugged. “Thank you for your kind offer, Mr Bateman, but we have prepared all the courses, and the footmen are taking the dishes to the dining room as we speak.”
He leaned against the door jamb and folded his arms across his chest. “I see,” he murmured.
Isabel glanced at him sharply before returning her attention to the roasts. “Dinner will be served soon, Mr Bateman.”
He straightened. “In that case, I will repair to the drawing room.”
“I am sure I can rely on your discretion, sir…?”
He bowed. “Rest assured, madam, that I have no intention of making either of us fodder for the rumour mill.” He studied her for a long moment. “I suspect we have both suffered enough in that regard in the past.”
He turned on his heel, and strode away, leaving Isabel staring after him, the roasts quite forgotten. The expression in his eyes had been surprisingly sympathetic. Why had he softened his attitude towards her? After their first encounter, she had been convinced he held her in dislike. Shaking her head, she put him out of her mind. She needed to concentrate on presenting the food in an expert manner. No clue must be given that it had been prepared by a complete amateur.
Chapter Four
Isabel looked up anxiously when Green entered the kitchen much later that evening. She was sitting at the table, paging through a recipe book in the hope that it would distract her from thinking about the meal she had sent upstairs.
“Have the guests retired for the evening?”
The butler bowed. “Indeed, my lady. And may I say that dinner was very well received.”
Isabel breathed a sigh of relief. “I will retire now, Green. Would you ask Becky to bring a light meal up to my bedchamber on a tray? I will come downstairs early tomorrow morning in order to supervise the preparation of breakfast.”
She removed her cap and apron, pausing as she left the kitchen to inspect her appearance in the mirror hanging on the wall in the corridor leading to the Servants’ Hall.
Her nose shone, and her golden curls, which Simmonds had so dexterously arranged that morning, were in total disarray. Hopefully she wouldn’t encounter any house guests as she made her way up to her bedchamber. Poking at her hair in a half-hearted manner, she shrugged and turned away. Her maid would be horrified when she saw her.
Isabel walked along the passage before turning sharply to the right and climbing up the servants’ staircase which came out at the back of the hall. She had just gone through the concealed servants’ entrance and was making her way towards the grand staircase, when she heard a knock on the front door. What a late hour for a visitor to arrive! She quickened her pace, but she wasn’t quick enough. A footman hovering in the vicinity opened the door, and a gentleman and two ladies entered, bringing a blast of freezing cold air with them. Isabel stared in dismay, at a complete loss for words.
The members of the small party hurried into the warmth of the hall, but they came to an abrupt halt as they stared back at her. The silence stretched into eternity until a voice from the back of the hall broke the spell.
“Lord Fenmore!” Cousin George, having no doubt heard the unexpected knock, emerged from the library. As he hurried to greet the visitors blown in by the storm, Mr Bateman appeared too, following at a more leisurely pace behind him.
“Do come in out of the cold.” Cousin George bowed in the direction of the ladies, and said, “Lady Fenmore…”
Isabel wished the floor would open up and swallow her as Lord Fenmore advanced in to the hall. “Thank you, Chernock. It is snowing heavily outside. We hoped to reach Fenmore Park this evening, but this weather has slowed us down. May we beg rooms for the night?
“Of course, of course! Please come into the drawing room, my lord. Have you dined?”
“We dined earlier on the road, thank you. You are acquainted with my mother, but I believe you have not as yet been introduced to my betrothed, Miss Hamilton.” Lord Fenmore’s gaze swept towards the staircase where Isabel stood, and he bowed. “Lady Axbridge. Bateman.”
Isabel blinked, vaguely aware that Mr Bateman had come to stand beside her. She inclined her head in the general direction of Lord Fenmore’s party, and somehow managed to force a smile to her lips as Lady Fenmore and Miss Hamilton smiled hesitantly at her and murmured greetings. Cousin George, after a brief glance in her direction, stepped forward and ushered his unexpected guests into the saloon.
Isabel stared after them in a trance. Julian was here… Julian. She clenched her hands together. How could this be possible? What particular twist of malevolent fate had decreed that she meet her erstwhile sweetheart here? She had hoped to put him out of her mind at this house party in the bustle and activity of meeting new people and renewing old acquaintances. The last thing she wanted was this kind of forced proximity to him. And his betrothed…
“You will have to mask your emotions better, Lady Axbridge, if you hope to survive this house party.”
Isabel spun in shock. Mr Bateman leaned against the wooden balustrade of the staircase, with his arms crossed. This was the second time this man had seen her at a complete disadvantage. “Sir, I – I was not aware that you were still here.”
“Do you intend to retire to your bedchamber for the next few days with the headache, my lady?” he asked, calmly scrutinising her face.
Isabel raised her chin. “I am not so faint-hearted as to retreat to my bedchamber in such a manner!”
“Bravo, madam. I salute you.”
“I will retreat to the kitchens.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “So you are going to run away.”
“Someone has to prepare the meals, Mr Bateman.”
He looked around the empty hallway, and frowned. “I will not keep you now, as I know you are eager to retire to your bedchamber. However, you must not avoid the Fenmore party if you wish to prevent tongues from wagging.”
Isabel crossed her arms. “Why do you care, Mr Bateman? About how people regard me?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “You have the look of a gazelle in distress upon occasion.”
Silence stretched between them. “Well, I bid you goodnight, Mr Bateman. I will be rising early to supervise the preparation of breakfast. Did… did you enjoy the dishes served at dinner?”
“They were delicious.”
Isabel nodded, before walking quickly up the stairs. When she reached her bedchamber, she opened the door, and saw Simmonds standing beside the bed.
“My lady! Your mama informed me you cooked the evening meal…”
“Indeed. The chef collapsed in the kitchen and I offered my assistance.”
“But, but…” Her middle-aged maid opened and closed her mouth like a flailing fish. “I cannot believe you have been reduced to working in a kitchen once again, my lady. Not when you are a Marchioness. When you were plain Miss Beresford it was scandal enough that your papa couldn’t afford a decent cook. I believed those days were far behind us.”
Isabel smiled fleetingly. “You must not concern yourself so. It will not be for long. Besides, it is only until after breakfast tomorrow. By then the new London chef and his assistants should have arrived.”
“I will accompany you to the kitchen in the morning
, my lady.”
Isabel kicked her slippers off her aching feet. “I have no need of your assistance, Simmonds.”
“Wherever you go, my lady, I will go too,” her maid said in a longsuffering voice.
“You sound like Ruth following Naomi to a foreign land.”
“Well, the kitchen should be a foreign land for a Lady,” Simmonds sniffed.
* * *
The next morning, Isabel woke early, and although she wished she could turn over in her warm bed and go back to sleep, she dressed and made her way downstairs, accompanied by Simmonds, who carried a lamp. Although it was still dark, a number of housemaids were about, dusting, sweeping and polishing in the passages and the stairway, and they paused in their duties to gaze at Isabel as she passed.
When she entered the kitchen, she greeted Becky and Molly, who were setting out ingredients on the kitchen table. Isabel crossed to the kitchen dresser and removed a cap and apron from a drawer. Simmonds rushed forward to help her, but Isabel waved her aside and attired herself before walking over to the kitchen table.
“How are the preparations for breakfast progressing, Becky?”
The kitchen maid put down the bowl she held in her hands. “I’m baking the cakes, milady, and there is a ham in the meat larder… Becky has just put the French bread and brioche in t’oven.”
“I will assist you with baking the cakes then, and Simmonds can help Molly.”
They set to work, and preparations were well under way for the morning meal when the door opened and Cousin George entered the room, with Mr Bateman beside him.
Isabel glanced up distractedly from her mixing bowl as the two gentlemen greeted her and approached the kitchen table. “I am afraid I have some bad news, my dear,” Cousin George said. “My steward has just informed me that the roads are closed, and no-one is getting through as a snow-laden tree has fallen across the only access road into the nearest village.”
Isabel stared at him in dismay and sank onto a nearby chair. “Oh no! What are we to do now?”
A Marchioness Below Stairs Page 3