Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2)

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Downstairs, I made my way to the kitchen, past Hugh and Felix, who were up playing cards in the parlor. I was really hungry. Starving. The luxurious hors d’oeuvres we’d had before entering the arena had been lovely, but hardly a meal. I glanced down the hall. Given the hour, the cook was no doubt asleep or gone for the night. But that didn’t have to stop me from making something.

  The kitchen was vast, with electric lights, white marble counters veined with blue, and white cupboards. I reached into a drawer and pulled out a knife, then strode to the end to the ice locker and opened it. If we were renting the mansion, we could do as we wished, couldn’t we? Especially when all I wanted to do was make a meal.

  The walk-in ice locker was huge. And cold, with four massive blocks of ice in the center, covered in straw. I reached for a lamp and lit it, casting the shelves in a warm glow. I reached for an empty basket from the floor and went to the far end, where all kinds of meats hung on hooks—a slab of beef, a lighter-colored slab I thought might be veal, and links of sausage.

  I reached up and cut away three sausage links, then cut two hunks of meat on a butcher’s board beside them. When I had those in my basket, I turned to collect eggs. Outside the locker, I bent to grab onions and a loaf of bread, potatoes, and carrots from bins that lined the pantry wall. I almost dropped it all when Art walked in.

  “Cora?” He lifted his hands. “Sorry. I clearly startled you.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said, swallowing around a lump in my throat. I had nothing to fear from this man. I was simply jumpy. “I was hungry. Thought I’d make something that tasted like home.”

  “Ahh, I see. I can’t sleep either,” he said, going into the ice locker and emerging with a bottle of milk. “Mind if I lend a hand?”

  “That depends,” I said, forcing playfulness to my tone even as I continued to struggle with an odd sense of fear. It was ridiculous. This man had saved me! I handed him several big potatoes and lifted a brow. “Peel these for me, would you?” I said. “And do you know how to light a French oven?”

  “I think so,” he said, setting down the potatoes and glass of milk and turning to the oven. He fiddled with a knob and a match, and a moment later, I heard the roar of flame.

  Art set to peeling potatoes, and I reconsidered my plan now that it appeared someone would share my meal. But meatloaf was what I had to have. My mouth watered at the thought of it. It’d been ages since I’d had a meal that reminded me of my parents, of home. And tonight I was bound and determined to have it.

  “So tell me…do all the Kensingtons cook?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But as you’ve discovered, I’m rather new to the clan. And I’ve been cooking all my life.”

  He lifted his eyebrows but remained silent as he peeled, as if he found that fascinating.

  I quickly diced the meat and fed it through a grinder, then mixed it with the sausage, freed from its casings. Perfect. I dumped the mixture into a big bowl, then turned to quickly chop two big onions, and afterward sliced a dry baguette, which I then crumbled. I added the eggs, Worcestershire sauce, red wine, a jar of crushed tomatoes, a bit of sugar, salt, and pepper. I walked down an impressive row of spices in bottles on a rack, pulling out the cork to sniff each one, and added those I thought might be good, feeling like a scientist, experimenting. Then I rolled up my sleeves and started mushing it all together.

  “If I may be so bold as to inquire, how is it that you came to join the Kensingtons on this tour if you’ve not long been part of the fold?” Art asked, still peeling.

  “Wallace Kensington insisted,” I said. “And truth be told, I’ve been glad I came.”

  “Even after tonight?”

  I paused and considered his words. “Even after tonight,” I said. “It’s been good for me to be on this tour, in many different ways.”

  “As in finding a rich beau like Lord Richelieu.”

  I smiled, even as I felt a pang of guilt. “Lord Richelieu’s pursuit has been exceedingly flattering, but no, that is not what I speak of.”

  “No? Then what?”

  “I…I think I’ve discovered parts of myself that I didn’t know existed.”

  “Your newfound wealth?”

  I frowned and shook my head. “No. I am not to be an heir of Wallace Kensington. This tour—the fine clothes, the opulence—it’s all rather temporary. And that’s fine, I assure you. No, the thing I appreciate is that I keep finding I have greater strength than I thought I did. So much yet to learn, and a passion for doing so. It makes me rather excited to resume Normal School.”

  He paused and looked sideways at me. “You intend to become a teacher?”

  “I do.”

  “A daughter of Wallace Kensington as a teacher?”

  “A daughter of Alan and Alma Diehl, a teacher,” I corrected with a soft smile. “My path as a Kensington will not be the same as my sisters’.”

  “You seem rather certain of that,” he said doubtfully.

  “That’s because I am.” I pulled down two loaf pans from a shelf and divided my meat mixture, forming fat loaves.

  “Where do you want these, mademoiselle?” Art asked, lifting his bowl of clean potatoes.

  “There, please,” I said, waving toward the counter. I bent and slipped both pans of meatloaf into the oven, then turned back to begin chopping the potatoes.

  Will opened the door and peeked in, apparently alarmed that there was noise coming from the kitchen. “Cora! Do you know what time it is?” he asked, looking alternately elated and aghast to see me in an apron, working. His eyes shifted to Art, and he seemed to compose himself. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “Making meatloaf!” I said brightly, waving to the kitchen table where the servants ate each day. “Take a seat. I’ll have supper ready in about an hour. You’re probably as famished as I am.”

  Hugh and Felix peeked over his shoulder. Hugh entered first, then Felix. “You’re cooking?” my brother asked.

  “I was hungry,” I said.

  “Why not summon the cook from her quarters?” Hugh asked.

  “Because I wanted to cook. I’m hungry for home. Or a taste of it, anyway, especially after our mad adventure tonight. We’ll have meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and if I can get them done, carrots!”

  “I can help,” Will said, looking at me with new respect.

  “That’d be wonderful,” I said.

  Side by side, we set to washing, peeling, and chopping as the others settled around the table and shared stories of the evening, laughing now that the danger was past.

  Will leaned closer. “I was so afraid, Cora,” he whispered. “I’d be…lost if anything happened to you.”

  I felt some of the jagged pieces inside me begin to shift, settle, at his words, helped by the homey smells emanating from the oven. “I’m sorry too, Will,” I whispered back, putting the last of the potatoes in a pot and then moving over to the sink to cover them in water. “I didn’t know what to do,” I said, passing by him. I placed the heavy pot on the stove and turned on the gas and then, as Arthur had done, lit the flame beneath it.

  “I know,” he said, sliding the sliced carrots into a sauté pan. I went back to the ice locker and brought out some butter and put a thick slice in with the carrots, adding tarragon, salt, and pepper.

  “There you are!” Lil said, entering the kitchen with Viv. All we were missing were Andrew, Nell, and the detectives. “We couldn’t sleep and found all of you missing! Yves said you’d disappeared in here.”

  “Welcome,” I said with a smile. “I’m making dinner for breakfast. Some food ought to help settle all of our stomachs.” The girls sat down with the men at the long table and accepted glasses of milk.

  “I’ve never thought of it,” Felix said, crossing his arms as he looked over the potatoes and carrots and took a long, deep breath through his nose, appreciating the scent. “You, cooking. But I suppose it makes sense.”

  I gave him a wry grin. “This life of leisure has only been mi
ne for about two months,” I said.

  “You had no cook at your home?” he asked, arching a brow.

  “Just my mother and me,” I said.

  “Tell us of that, Cora,” Hugh called, shuffling a deck of cards he’d pulled from a jacket pocket. “Of your home out on the range.”

  There was no trace of humor in his voice, only curiosity, and as I turned to face him, I saw the others watching me with equal interest. They’d never asked of my life before. I smiled, poured myself a glass of milk, and then sat beside Lillian on the bench. “Our ranch was in the shadow of the mountains, two hours outside of Helena by train. It has been in the Diehl family since my great-grandfather homesteaded it, but it’s a hard place to make a go of farming. Dry, windy, dusty, rocky,” I said with a smile.

  “You sound as if you loved it,” Vivian said, her delicate brows pulling together in confusion.

  “I do,” I said with a little shrug. “Every bit of it. Or I should say, I did…” It was gone now, long sold to the Kensington empire.…

  “Did?” Art asked.

  “We lost it. Or rather, Wallace Kensington kindly offered to purchase it so my papa could get some much-needed medical care in Minnesota.”

  “So Father’s offer was a blessing,” Viv said.

  I considered her. “In most ways, yes.”

  “The farm…was it large? Successful, once?” Felix asked, popping a bite of bread in his mouth.

  “Neither, really,” I said with a little laugh. “But it wasn’t our success that made it good, made me love it.” I paused and looked about at them, trying to figure out how to convey all that was in my heart. “It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s home to me. The hill with the tree I climbed every day as a girl. The schoolhouse that gave me my first taste of knowledge. The church and the town, filled with people I love and people who love me.” I looked around at them tentatively and was startled by what I saw there. Intrigue. Wonder. Confusion.

  “But now your place is here with us,” Vivian said. “You’ll discover a new definition of home.”

  Her words startled me, even though she wasn’t the first person to voice such thoughts. But in them was not warning as I’d come to expect when we’d first set off on our journey, but invitation, hope. Could it be that my sister truly wanted me nearby, for longer than this tour?

  “That…that remains to be seen. I have plans for after the tour. But I’d dearly love it if what we began here could continue in some form,” I said, the thought crystallizing even as I spoke. I met her gaze and saw her eyes narrow. She’d perceived my doubt as a slight, and I wondered if any of them had ever been told no, faced any sort of rejection at all. After all, to be invited into the Kensington circle would be what every society girl longed for.

  They had friendships, but intrinsically different than mine. Lives, brushing past one another, in their finest. Struggling for power. Vying for attention. Protecting their own. Judging others. There was some of that in our small town life, too, for sure. But I knew, then, that I’d been blessed with something that these around me had never had. My community was—had been, I corrected myself, feeling a pang of loss—like family. It felt vaguely like a play, actors each taking their place onstage. But they were hungry for something real. Hungry for what I knew, experienced. Had taken for granted.

  I lifted my chin, startled. Because it made me feel settled, truly settled among them, for the first time, even if it wasn’t all perfect.

  William

  With every story Cora told, Will fell a little more in love with her. They stayed at that kitchen table until dawn lit the sky, eating her delectable meatloaf and mashed potatoes with dark gravy. Listening spellbound to her stories of wading into waist-high snows, a rope tied around her, to tend to the animals. Hoeing trenches in the soil until her hands blistered and bled. Helping her father break a mustang and breaking her arm and clavicle instead. “We never could make that horse take a saddle,” she said with a regretful smile.

  Lil and Vivian’s mouths fell open so far that Will idly considered tossing bits of bread in them. The rest were equally intrigued, speaking only to ask her another question. It was as if they were afraid that Cora would remember her place and clam up again, when they wanted to know more. Hugh continued to look at her as though she were an exotic animal he’d like to capture and keep as a pet. Felix had nothing but respect in his eyes. Likely the Kensingtons and Morgans had never met anyone who had worked as hard as Cora had in life other than servants, and they had never stopped them to ask what their lives were like.

  Art, too, asked question after question, keeping the stories going and retrieving his Kodak so he could take her photograph by the stove.

  “Honestly, Art, why would you want a photograph of me in the kitchen when you’ve taken so many of us out and about? Among all the fine landmarks we’ve seen? And look at me. I’m a mess,” she said, touching the messy knot of hair on her head.

  “You’re as beautiful as ever,” he said, already finding her in the viewer. “Charming. Pick up that wooden spoon, would you?”

  “We’re resorting to props now?” she asked with a wry grin.

  “It’s part of the story, don’t you think?” he said, clicking the button attached to a wire. He straightened and wound the film. “One more?”

  But then the cook came in for a cup of morning coffee, in a fresh dress and clean apron. When she spied what had happened to her kitchen, she cried, “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ici? Pourquoi est-ce que tu n’es pas venu me chercher?” What is this? What has happened here? Why did you not come and fetch me? The cook turned on them then, fury in her eyes. “Out! Out!” she said in English. Sharing surreptitious glances, they hurriedly slunk out of the kitchen as if they were young children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. It mattered not that they were paying to rent the mansion. The kitchen was clearly her domain, and they’d entered uninvited.

  Cora paused beside Will in the doorway and looked back. “Ask her if I would be permitted to stay and help clean up, would you?”

  Will hesitated as the woman grumbled, carrying the pot of dried-up mashed potatoes to the sink. “S’il vous plait, est-ce que nous pouvons aider à nettoyer?”

  “Non! Out! Out!”

  Will lifted his brows and hurried out and down the hall. The others were saying their good nights at the stairs and separating, all likely recognizing their weariness and the late hour. Will reached in his pocket for his watch and groaned. It was five in the morning. They had only a few hours before they were to board a train north, likely all bleary-eyed and grumbling.

  But he wouldn’t have traded it for anything. To eat Cora’s food. To hear her stories. To see how she captured her siblings and their friends just by living her life well. He itched to grab her hand and pull her into an empty room and kiss her. To hold her and hope for the chance at forever. He had a vision of a small city apartment, and Cora making her meatloaf—just big enough for two.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Cora

  We boarded the train a few hours later, all of us with dark shadows beneath our eyes from our late night. I wished I could sit beside Will. That we were traveling alone—just the two of us. I daydreamed about him putting his arm around me, and me nestling in to doze. But instead, I pivoted on my heel and sat where I knew I’d be expected—beside Vivian, across from the girls—feeling his eyes following my every move.

  All the men and I were on alert, searching each face, ready for our enemies this time around if they dared to come near again.

  “I must admit,” Vivian said, “your meal last night was exactly what I craved. It tasted of…America.”

  “It did,” I returned with a smile. “Thank you for joining me.”

  “I haven’t stepped inside a kitchen since I was but a bit of a girl,” she confessed in a whisper, “tended by my governess.”

  “Never?” I asked, trying to determine if she was joking. But she was serious. “What would you
do if your cook took ill? Or you found yourself alone, without aid?”

  Vivian laughed. “Well, I suppose I’d simply have to survive on what I could until another cook could be found.”

  I stared at her a moment. Even after these weeks together, these children of privilege could at times take my very breath away with their assumptions. So much they took for granted. “Or I could teach you how to cook a few items so that you might never find yourself at a complete loss.”

  There was conflict in her eyes. Part of her clearly wanted to accept my offer; part of her clearly thought it was preposterous.

  “Consider it, Vivian,” I said, before she could say no. “I think you’d make a decent cook.” She was certainly particular enough.…

  “I’d like a lesson!” Nell said, her round cheeks ruddy with excitement.

  “As would I!” Lil said.

  “Good,” I said, as the train whistle blew and, a moment later, the train began to move out of the station. “At least I have two students. Where shall we hold our lesson? Switzerland? Austria? Or Italy?” I grinned, thinking about what was ahead of us yet, and feeling as privileged and audacious as Vivian for once. What a gift this trip was. How wide my world had become in the space of a few short weeks.

  I closed my eyes, thinking through all we’d seen, all we’d experienced…and again and again, my thoughts came to rest on Will. Will in Montana. On board the Olympic. Dancing with him in England. Crossing the Channel, the wind in his hair…

  On and on again, my memories of him went through my mind, like Arthur’s photographs, until I at last gave in to sleep.

  I awakened hours later as we neared Lyon. Vivian had fallen asleep too, as had the girls across from us. Vivian yawned and stretched, both of us feeling a bit awkward when we realized we’d been dozing for so long. But then we realized the men had done the same. The night before had taxed us all. There was an odd intimacy in it that I equally chafed against and wanted to embrace. I stared out at the passing farms, a man driving a wagon piled high with hay. Did I want to be a part of this family and their friends…or not? More and more, I found connection and ties with them. But was that a good or bad thing?