Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  He focused on the orders for foods not grown on the farm, and their cost.

  He read over the meals. Crimped Cod, Curried Rabbit, Roast Suckling Pig, Jugged Hare, Vol-au-Vent of Pears, Cabinet Pudding, Fenberries, Pineapple.

  Pineapple? He followed the entry to the right. At two guineas? That was more costly than a scullery maid for six months! He crossed it out and moved to the next item.

  The menu was odd. But with a tweak or two, here and there, he could make it more to his taste. He began adding, deleting, and altering as he moved through the week’s meals. Five minutes later, he was pleased with his work.

  Having placed his imprint on the kitchen, he moved on to the stack of papers related to the estate produce, then to the tenantry. In each case, he made small but deliberate changes. He kept two lists—specific questions for which he wanted specific answers, and larger issues he wished to investigate himself. Already he was making the estate his own.

  A footman—perhaps eleven or twelve years old—came to the doorway. Seeing Harrison behind the estate desk, he blanched and began to back away. Harrison called him back.

  “May I be of help?” Harrison tried to make his voice warm and gentle.

  “Cook needs this week’s menu.” The boy remained, but his body was poised for flight.

  “Let me see.” Harrison dug out the menu. “I believe this is it.” The footman took the menu and ran.

  Harrison had only just returned to his other piles, when Olivia entered the room. Her morning dress was simple, a white muslin that hugged her body, caressing each curve.

  Uncovered, her hair was pulled back into a loose bun. Tendrils fell in soft ringlets around her face. What would it feel like to loosen her hair and bury his fingers in those curls? To kiss those full lips? His heart beat faster at the thought. Somehow his body couldn’t accept that she wasn’t his. But he tamped it down. He needed to gain her agreement to his proposition, and he would do that by making their time together agreeable.

  Her eyes looked at the clock on the mantel. Five minutes after their meeting time.

  “I waited for you in the morning room.” Her voice seemed almost tender.

  “I thought we could meet more usefully if I had reviewed the information in advance.” He felt almost sheepish. He’d avoided the morning room deliberately.

  “Of course.” She inclined her head slightly in acceptance, then pulled a chair to the side of the desk. “I thought we would begin with the estate’s crops, particularly those we send to market. It was the stack on the far left.”

  He lifted the pile and placed it between them. “I have listed several questions already.”

  “Then we should start with those. May I see your list?” She read his questions carefully. “I’m pleased you are taking the estate’s management so seriously.”

  “You have always managed the estate with great skill. I would be a fool not to learn from your experience.”

  A tap at the door drew their attention. The housekeeper looked from Olivia to him, and back to Olivia.

  “My lady, you are needed belowstairs.” The housekeeper looked uncomfortable, even sheepish. Harrison was immediately suspicious. “It’s Mr. Stanley. He’s telling stories of his experiences in Queen Catherine’s court.”

  “Oh, dear. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  The housekeeper melted from the room.

  “What did you do?” Olivia’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

  “Me? Do?” Harrison held his palms out. “I don’t even know Mr. Stanley.”

  “Gilbert Douglas Stanley III?” Olivia repeated the name as if doing so would jog Harrison’s memory.

  “Is he one of the scholars?”

  “Yes and no. He arrived years ago as a scholar.” Olivia began searching the desk. “But over time, he’s become our cook. Where in these piles did you move the menu?”

  “The menu?” Harrison shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Yes. It was here last night.” She worked slowly through each stack of papers.

  “I gave it to the footman perhaps twenty minutes ago.”

  She sat back in her chair and studied his face. “Please tell me you made no changes.”

  “Why would he give you a copy of the menu if he didn’t expect changes?”

  “You made changes.” She stared at him unblinking. “How many?”

  “Not so many. I retained the dishes themselves, but I rearranged the meals in which some occurred. I reduced the amount of port and increased the claret. With the wars over, choosing Portuguese wines over French is no longer a matter of patriotism.”

  As he outlined his changes, Olivia covered her face with her hands and shook her head slowly.

  “Finally, I eliminated something called a Crown Jewel Tart.”

  “Oh. Lord. No.” She rose, but pointed him back to his seat. “Stay here. I’ll return shortly.”

  “I would like to accompany you. Meet the chef, hear his complaints. Surely I can explain my preferences.” Surely this wasn’t so difficult.

  “That would be unwise. Mr. Stanley has very particular ideas about food, developed after years of travel around the globe. He has supplemented that travel with investigations into the recipe books of every manor house from here to Rome.”

  “But I insist.”

  “Come along, then.” She was already walking away from him. “But don’t speak—not unless you wish to be preparing all of our meals for the next month, while interviewing cooks.”

  * * *

  “Have I told you, dear ones, about the day I first wore a hat?” The chef—Gilbert Douglas Stanley III—waved his arms, a spatula in one hand. “It was unfortunately cold that day in Queen Catherine’s court when I was called upon to make my famous Crown Jewel Tart. I could only find a straw hat—because of course one must keep one’s head covered to avoid the cold that causes consumption. We knew it was the cold that killed the poor footman—God rest his soul—so untimely a death, it was.”

  Harrison watched the chef with a sort of morbid awe. Stanley had wrapped a wool throw around his head, making him look like a mad peasant escaped from bedlam.

  Harrison felt the heat of the kitchen, but the chef seemed unfazed, warming his hands in front of the oven door. When he saw Olivia, the man twisted, jumped, then pounced as if he were a giant predator waiting for a mouse.

  “Mr. Stanley, I must apologize.” Olivia approached Stanley slowly, as one would a rabid dog or a lion in the wild. “I had no intention of altering your menu in the slightest. You are, as always, our impresario of taste.”

  “Then how did it come to be changed?” One edge of the wool flopped in front of his left eye, but he didn’t move it, merely tilted his head to regard her with his right. He looked like a giant, ill-dressed, one-eyed owl.

  “My friend, Mr. MacHus here, wrote on the menu, because he was imagining how his own cook might prepare a menu close to yours. He made alterations because his cook is less skilled and his audience is less adventurous. But he didn’t realize the menu as he adapted it would be returned to you.”

  “Is that true, MacHus?” Stanley pointed at Harrison with one crooked finger.

  “Lady Walgrave is far too generous.” Harrison ignored Olivia as she glared at him over her shoulder. “I might have hoped my cook could approximate your dishes, but the truth is no one who is not a master of the culinary arts could even hope to approach the originality of your design.”

  For a moment Harrison feared he might have misstepped. The tall man, scowling, turned away from Harrison and Olivia in a slow circle, his arms outstretched above his head. But then when his back was fully toward them, he leapt to face them again, smiling madly. “Apology accepted! Now to make my famous Crown Jewel Tart!”

  Running across the kitchen, the chef grabbed a bowl of flour from the arms of one of the kitchen maids and held it out of her reach. “No, no, no. My dear, you cannot simply throw the butter and the flour together. The marriage of the ingredients must be harmonious, or
my famous Crown Jewel Tart cannot be delightful. No, my dears, we must compose it happily of happy ingredients!” He wagged a long finger at a maid who stifled her laughter behind her apron.

  “Do we know that the chickens were happy when they laid these eggs, dear ones? And were Eliza and Beth happy when they churned the butter?”

  “Yes.” The maids spoke in a giggly chorus.

  “But what do we know of the mill? Was the grain crushed with the appropriate weight? Was the grinding of the grain evenly fine? No?” Stanley’s voice was melodic. “My dears, listen: For my famous Crown Jewel Tart, you must use only the flour that has been milled in the morning by a fresh horse, and one who has been fed an apple before he begins so that he starts his work with a sweet taste in his mouth.”

  Harrison leaned into Olivia’s ear. “Is he mad?”

  “Quite,” she whispered back. “But he is kind to the staff, and his food is divine. Whatever you do, never comment on his hat.”

  “What is his name again?”

  “Gilbert Douglas Stanley III.”

  “Is there really another Gilbert Douglas Stanley?”

  “We are afraid to ask, but the thought that there might be others—in a long line—boggles the mind.”

  “Are we happy?” the cook declaimed to his disciples.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we must cook!”

  The girls began to complete their tasks, as Stanley threw himself into a cooking frenzy only an artist of equal talent could understand.

  Olivia motioned to Harrison to follow her, and they slipped out while Stanley was declaiming, “Walnuts on the bottom, then the fenberries, then the pineapple rings—but prettily, prettily!”

  “We can count that as a disaster averted.” Olivia led Harrison toward the servants’ stairs. “You’ve tasted Stanley’s meals; I’m sure you understand why we accept his eccentricities. But of course you might have different preferences for the kitchen.”

  Harrison kept his thoughts on that to himself, the constant jabs about his palate from friends like Palmersfield echoing in his head. “I can’t imagine he would be able to find another place, as mad as he is.”

  Olivia looked surprised, then suspicious. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to retain a good cook? Or is your cook no better skilled than the person who darns your socks? Oh, never mind. You will learn soon enough the hazards of offending talented servants.”

  At the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Pier waited, a small, dirty boy by her side. “You are needed, Miss Livvy. This is Bertie, the Davis boy come for help.”

  Without hesitation, Olivia knelt before the child, no more than five or six, and began to ask questions in a low, gentle voice. Harrison could not hear what she said. But the boy’s eyes never left her face, and when he began to cry, she wrapped him in her arms, petting his head, and cooing gentle words. When she stood, she never let go of the boy’s hand, and the child buried his face in her skirt. He’d never wished to have a child, but seeing Olivia comfort the boy made him wonder briefly if he had been wrong.

  Then, Harrison watched admiringly as Olivia marshaled her troops. She sent one footman to the pantry with Mrs. Pier, another to the stables to harness a wagon, and the third to the butler, telling him to find the boy—Bertie—a warm cot near the horses. She acted as efficiently as any general in Wellington’s army. Only when Mrs. Pier returned with the maid who had unpacked his clothes did Olivia release the boy’s hand, giving him into the care of the two women. He was most surprised when Pier—who he had believed a bitter shrew—held out three biscuits from the larder. The boy had taken them slowly, an action that tugged at Harrison’s heart.

  “We will have to continue our . . . discussion later.” Olivia returned to his side. “His parents are sick.”

  “Might I accompany you?” He wanted to see more of this Olivia. “I might be of use.”

  She looked suspicious briefly, then recovered to respond graciously. “It is your estate. These are your people. If you wish to help, then you should.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  When they reached the stable yard, a wagon was already loaded with three large baskets and a pile of woolen blankets. Olivia inspected the baskets, while a ruddy-faced man adjusted the saddles. Missing something she wanted, Olivia sent a groom back to the house.

  “Mr. Davis rarely asks for help. I don’t know what to expect, but I know it will be serious.”

  “You are going yourself? Why take such a risk?”

  “I am not high-born, my lord. My own health is of little consequence to me if I preserve it by refusing to help those in need. However, we do not know what illness plagues them, and I would understand if you wished to remain here.”

  “I lived through the wars, Olivia. What have I not seen?”

  “But you must consider the good of the estate, whereas I am the last of my line. Once I leave the abbey, if I die, no one will notice, and no one will be inconvenienced.”

  The sadness and truth of her sentiment struck him profoundly. He too was the last of his line, and he’d felt a similar recklessness.

  “Even if I have inherited this”—he extended his hand to the abbey—“we are alike in that. No one will much regret my passing.”

  Something indecipherable flickered in her eyes, and he started to say more. But the stable master joined them.

  “All’s ready, Miss Livvy.” Calder looked Harrison over suspiciously. “Would you like one of the grooms to escort him back to the house?”

  “No, Mr. MacHus will be going along.”

  “Of course, Miss Livvy.” The ruddy-faced man helped Olivia onto the wagon.

  When she lifted the reins, Harrison was startled. He had not expected Olivia to drive herself.

  He pulled himself up beside her. When she saw he was seated, she pulled from the yard with a speed that surprised him.

  “So fast?” His words were lost in the rumbling of the wagon on the road.

  She guided the rig skillfully, if terrifyingly fast. None of the young rakes who raced their curricles around Hyde Park could approach her in either daring or expertise. Even at the curves where he had to hold on to his seat to remain in place, she never lost control of the wagon or the horses.

  Almost an hour later, she pulled the wagon to a stop.

  The cottage was barely habitable. A large tree limb had fallen on the roof, caving it in at the corner. Two windows were filled with dirt and stone to block the winter air. Before he could stop her, Olivia jumped to the ground.

  “This isn’t my land.” Harrison looked around with relief.

  “No, your neighbor, Lord Heron, has been running this estate into the ground for almost a decade.”

  “But if it isn’t my land, then these are not my people.” He jumped down beside her.

  She looked at him with one eyebrow raised and walked to the back of the wagon.

  He followed. “Of course we will help. I only meant that Heron is responsible for his cottagers’ well-being. This level of disrepair is criminal.”

  “It’s a responsibility he has grown accustomed to shirking. And little that a lord does is criminal—short of murder, and sometimes not even then.” She pulled one of the baskets out and settled it on her hip. She reminded him of an Amazon, defiant and strong. “Would you prefer to wait in the wagon?”

  “Of course not.” He lifted one of the other baskets. “What do you wish for me to do?”

  “Watch for the dog.” She started for the house. “We had to circle round by the bridge, but Bertie was able to cross the river—it’s shallow enough here, even for a boy his age. But even at that, he left home hours ago.”

  The door stood ajar. “Davis? Polly?” Hearing no answer, she pushed the door inward with her foot. “It’s Lady Walgrave. Bertie came to the abbey for help.”

  Only silence met them. She set her basket on the ground. Her face when she lifted it toward him was grim. She called the cottagers’ names once more, then stepped toward the door.

  “Le
t me. I think we know what we are going to find.” He set his basket on the ground next to hers, then stepped ahead of her into the one-room cottage. A rank smell, fetid and rotting, made him cover his nose.

  In front of him, a man slumped over the table, his eyes staring. Beyond him on the cot, a woman lay motionless, a rat sitting on her chest. Her arm hanging off the cot’s edge was covered with open sores. Harrison backed out of the room, just as Olivia began to enter.

  He caught her in his arms, stopping her. “There’s nothing to do. They probably sent Bertie to the abbey because they knew they were dying.”

  “No!” She pushed past him, then seeing Bertie’s dead parents, she turned her face away. She pressed her hand against her mouth to hold back a sob. Harrison, wanting to comfort her, wrapped her in his arms and led her out into the sunshine. Once outside, she leaned her head against his chest as she wept quietly. He wanted her never to move.

  “He’s just a little boy,” she said, as if to herself. She brushed tears away with the back of her hand, then straightened her shoulders and walked out of his arms toward the house.

  Harrison, stunned, caught her hand. “What are you thinking? The mother has the pox. We have to burn the cottage, not go inside for a tour.”

  “He needs something to remember them by.” She looked so determined, he wondered how old she was when she lost her parents. Suddenly, he felt guilty to have taken her tiger’s-eye. If it was her only memento of her father, taking it had been cruel. Somehow he would make it up to her.

  “Then I’ll go. Stay here.”

  He wrapped a cloth around his nose and mouth to reduce his chance of infection, then entered. The rat glared at him, before scurrying away. Harrison’s stomach turned. The Davises had kept their cottage neat and clean, but even so, he saw nothing a child might cherish.

  He returned to the yard, empty-handed, knowing Olivia would object. He’d seen the determination in her eyes. But she was gone.

  He turned in each direction looking for a sign of her. Nothing. As long as she stayed out of the cottage, she was in little danger. But where could she have gone? Just when he was about to call her name, she appeared around the side of the cottage.