Chapter Three
Isabelle gave the stew a stir. She wiped her palms against the faded linen apron around her waist, then peeked into the oven to check on the roasting chickens. Everything was coming along nicely, but a few customers had been kept waiting longer than she — or they — liked.
In the month she’d been working in the kitchen at the George, word of the inn’s uncommonly good cook quickly spread beyond the village. The inn now often saw customers who came just to dine, rather than to stay the night or spend the evening drinking in the common room.
The first dish to win the locals’ acclaim had been her savory beef stew. Initially, Isabelle made use of the last bit of ale in the barrels as the base for her concoction. The dish had become so popular, however, Mr. Davies now purchased ale specifically for cooking.
A serving girl stuck her head in the kitchen. “Is the stew ready yet, Miz Smith? Some of the blokes are startin’ to grumble.”
“Almost, Gretchen.” Isabelle fished out a slice of carrot and bit it. Still a touch too firm in the center. “Ten more minutes,” she told the girl. At the servant’s harried expression, Isabelle snapped, “I could give it to them raw, but they wouldn’t like that, either.”
“I s’pose not,” Gretchen muttered. “But they’re ’plainin’, and I’m the one has to hear it.”
Isabelle’s annoyance fell away, and she gave the girl a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you hide in here with me for a few minutes?” She blew at a wayward strand of hair that had fallen loose of the cap containing her unruly tresses.
The serving girl gave her an appreciative look and stepped farther into the kitchen. It was a large room, but cramped for all that.
A brick oven was set into one wall, pouring out heat as a steady supply of bread went in and came out. Beside the oven was a long counter on which the dough was mixed, kneaded, and set aside to rise.
A large table for preparing meats and vegetables dominated the center of the room. Above it hung a black iron rack covered with saucepans, stockpots, and skillets. Beside the pantry, a door opened on stairs leading to the modest wine cellar.
Another wall had a sink and scullery counter. The fourth side of the room held the massive stove and roasting oven where Isabelle toiled her hours away.
Isabelle directed Gretchen to pull fresh loaves from the brick oven with the long bread paddle, while she cubed a cut of beef for another pot of stew. A boy came in carrying dirty plates. The omnipresent rumble of talking and laughter was momentarily bright and clear until the door swung shut again, dampening the noise.
“Sammy,” Isabelle said to the boy, “run to the larder and fetch me some suet.” The boy dropped the dishes to the counter with a clatter and scampered out the door.
Isabelle dumped the beef cubes into a hot skillet to brown. She washed her hands, wiped them on her apron, and checked the stew again. Perfect.
“Gretchen,” she called, “stew’s ready.” She glanced over to where the girl had set the steaming, fresh loaves on the bread counter and was struggling to get an unbaked loaf into the oven.
“Bollocks! I forgot to flour the paddle,” Gretchen exclaimed.
“Do you need help?” Isabelle ladled up a bowl of stew, set it on the counter, and reached for another empty dish.
“I can manage.” The serving girl gave up trying to shake the dough free of the paddle and moved right to the oven, where she attempted to force the loaf off with her hand.
She shouldn’t do that, Isabelle thought with trepidation. “Careful,” she called. “Pull the whole thing back out and I’ll — ”
Too late.
“Yeouch!” Gretchen snatched her hand back and grabbed it with the other. The paddle clattered to the floor and the stubborn loaf of dough rolled traitorously onto the stones.
Isabelle hurried to the girl. Three of Gretchen’s fingers were red and one was already blistering. The serving girl kept up a steady stream of cries and curses. Isabelle dragged her to the washing station and plunged her hand into the basin of rinse water.
Gretchen yowled.
Isabelle made a shushing sound. “The water will cool the skin.”
“What is going on in here?”
Isabelle looked up. Mr. Davies, her employer and the proprietor of the George, cast a look of wide-eyed alarm over the chaotic disarray in his usually orderly kitchen. His balding pate glistened with sweat. He grabbed a dishtowel from the counter and ran it over his head and mutton-chopped cheeks.