“Why are you sending for the vicar?” Tess asked me as soon as James had gone. “He’s a handsome man, I’ll say, though nothing as fine as Mr. McAdam.”
Mr. Fielding was indeed handsome, far more so than a man of God ought to be, but like Tess, I preferred Daniel.
“Mr. Fielding is clever at finding things out,” I said. “Now to the mayonnaise, which should be in every cook’s repertoire. If you master it, you have a dozen sauces at your beck and call. You never know when the mistress will demand a rémoulade for the meat or a creamy dressing for the salad.”
Tess subsided, knowing I expected her to concentrate on the task at hand. I showed her how to stir the eggs with a bit of mustard and vinegar, and then to whisk, whisk, whisk while I poured in the oil, bit by bit, never letting it be more than a thin stream.
“Ow!” The bowl rang as Tess whipped the concoction. “Me arm is going to fall off.”
“Constant whisking is key,” I said. “I’ve had many a day of aches from this sauce, but it is worth it. Mrs. Beeton says that patience and practice are essential.”
“Well, let her come here and do all this stirring, then.”
“The poor lady died young,” I said. “Very sad.”
“Yeah, that is sad.” Tess had a tender heart. “But look, it’s all creamy now.” She pulled out the whisk, showing me globs of true mayonnaise.
“Excellent. The trick is to add the oil as slowly as you can.”
“I thought it were constant whisking,” she said cheekily as she rubbed her arm. “And patience and practice.”
“All of those things. Now we’ll beat in the herbs and have a nice green sauce.”
I added the dill and parsley I’d chopped, and then we fetched clean spoons and had a taste. “Oh.” Tess’s face lit. “This is wonderful. Can we have some with our supper?”
“We have made so much, a few spoonfuls won’t be missed.” I separated them into a smaller bowl. “Now this goes into the larder to keep chilled, and it will go up with the fish. Don’t forget.”
“How can I?” Tess rubbed her right arm again. “Me poor muscles will remind me.”
“You did well, Tess.”
Tess said nothing, but her cheeks were pink, eyes shining as she turned to her next tasks. I carried the mayonnaise to the larder to set over the bowl of ice I kept in the coolest corner. Ice was an expense Mrs. Bywater agreed to, mostly because Mr. Bywater was happier when his salads and sorbets were cool and not unpleasantly warm.
As I exited the larder, I halted in surprise when a gentleman emerged from the door next to the butler’s pantry. That room was the wine cellar, which was nothing more than a niche used to store bottles from Lord Rankin’s collection. Mr. Davis guarded them like a watchdog, but Mr. Davis was nowhere in sight, and this gentleman had a bottle under each arm.
He jumped guiltily when he spied me, then took on a look of false hauteur. “You there. Cook, is it?”
When Jonathan Morris had called me Cookie, I’d been annoyed, but he’d said it as a jest, trying to rile me. This man said Cook with condescending sniff.
He was Lord Clifford. I had never seen him, but I recognized the voice that had argued with Cynthia upstairs.
I curtsied politely. “I am Mrs. Holloway.” I was growing weary of reminding people I had a name.
Lord Clifford was in his fifties, with receding light brown hair just touched by gray. Pencil-thin sideburns met an equally thin mustache under his nose, and he wore no beard. His eyes were hazel—Cynthia’s clear blue eyes came from her mother.
Lord Clifford looked me up and down. “You don’t seem a decadent chit who’s leading my Cynthia astray. You look respectable.”
“I hope so, sir,” I said stiffly.
“Hmm. Perhaps Old Biddy Bywater reads you wrong. She believes Cynthia would straighten up and be a sweet gel if not for you. But I rather think Cynthia is simply high-strung. Like her mother. And me.” Lord Clifford sent me a crooked grin, meant to disarm me.
I could see why this man would be a successful swindler. He appeared as a harmless twig of the aristocracy, happy to read his racing news and sip whatever beverage his valet set in front of him. A gentleman who’d never mislead others into giving him an inheritance he didn’t deserve.
I imagined him blinking his eyes as he did at me now, declaring that he of course was the second cousin of the deceased, and so sorry for the old chap, and all that, but only too chuffed to realize he was now a peer.
“You’ll do,” Lord Clifford said. He observed my glance at the bottles he clutched and sent me an impudent wink. “Saving old Davis the bother of tottering down here for me. These wines belong to Rankin, my son-in-law, you know. Rankin won’t mind.”
With a tip of his head, Lord Clifford turned and leapt up the back stairs, his well-made leather shoes ringing on the rough boards. He so easily balanced on the steep staircase that I imagined he’d more than once run down to grab whatever bottle he liked.
Lord Rankin, who’d never approved of Lord Clifford, probably would not be happy that Lord Clifford helped himself, but it was not for me to interfere. Mr. Davis would be incensed—he kept the wine cellar in pristine order and would be blamed for any missing bottles.
I hid my misgivings and returned to the kitchen to continue preparing dishes with Tess.
Mrs. Redfern entered a few hours later, her back stiff and her lips quivering.
“Mrs. Holloway, whatever you have decided to create for supper, you must cease. Mrs. Bywater has declared that her ladyship will take over deciding the menus.”
Mrs. Bywater had been leaving the cooking decisions to me, once she’d realized this was best. I was to serve simple meals and keep to a budget, but otherwise, I was free to cook as I pleased. I liked basing each day’s menu on what I could find at the markets—much better to see what was available and fresh than to fixate on a certain dish and then not be able to locate the ingredients.
“What sort of menus does she have in mind?” I asked, hiding my trepidation.
“She will send down a list when she is ready. I tried to explain that the household already runs smoothly, particularly the meals, but her ladyship decided she must have the food to her taste. Lady Clifford’s digestion is delicate, apparently.”
I had the sudden fear that some mad person was out to poison aristocratic ladies in general, but I told myself this was nonsense. Perhaps Lady Clifford did need a specific diet for her health.
I surveyed the beans, carrots, and potatoes I’d already chopped and the lemon tart Tess was finishing up for the oven. If Lady Clifford suddenly wanted a meal of only bone broth and watercress salad, the rest of this would go to waste.