Seven Minutes in Heaven(69)

His answer:

~Would that pose a problem?

~No society, polite or otherwise, allows rodents to share the table.

~Jarvis is required to remain in his sack when outside the nursery.



Apparently Jarvis went where Otis went. Eugenia shuddered at the thought. The sack would have to stay out of sight at all times. Under the table.

~I might give the children their first baking lesson, if you approve?

~Perhaps when the time comes Otis can simply present the assembled Lords with a cake, thereby proving my fitness as a guardian.



Eugenia considered how best to answer, but in the end, she didn’t.

She had the sense that Ward disapproved of the cake baking, for all he kept a jesting tone. He disliked it on principle, as if she were teaching his siblings menial labor.

A short time later, she collected Lizzie and Otis and took them down to the kitchen—because whether their older brother approved or not, thanks to Snowe’s Registry, the ability to bake a credible sponge was a calling card in polite society.

Monsieur Marcel had yellow hair and a magnificent curling mustache. Eugenia nodded her head and introduced herself in his native language, which earned her a beaming smile and a flourishing bow.

To her surprise, Lizzie stepped forward, bobbed an awkward curtsy, and asked in fluent French what he was cooking.

“I am contemplating the evening’s meal,” the chef responded.

“Contemplating?” Otis echoed, also in perfect French. “Why do you have to think about it?”

Eugenia choked back a laugh. Before her eyes, Lizzie and Otis took over the baking lesson, following directions more or less adroitly at the same time they asked questions.

“How did you come by such excellent French?” Eugenia asked Otis, while his sister watched the chef whisk together eggs and sugar with impressive speed.

“We lived in England only four months of the year,” he explained. “We stayed in Paris during the winters, but we also went about France in the wagon.”

That went some way toward explaining how Lady Lisette and Lord Darcy had never been recognized in their theatrical career.

When the cake was in the oven, they all sat down at the kitchen table and Monsieur Marcel told Eugenia how difficult it was to manage a kitchen with only one knife boy. “Not even a scullery maid!” he said, shaking his head so vigorously that his mustaches trembled.

“You placed miracles on our table last night, given such difficult circumstances,” Eugenia said warmly. “I shall do my best to persuade Mr. Reeve to hire adequate help.”

“It’s not the master,” the chef said. “It is Mr. Gumwater.” He glanced at Lizzie and didn’t elaborate, but his shrug spoke volumes.

“Did you know that your head looks as if it’s covered in snails?” Otis interjected.

“Otis,” Eugenia said, “one never makes remarks of a personal nature. Please apologize to Monsieur Marcel at once.”

“I apologize,” Otis said, looking at the chef expectantly.

“We French adore les escargots,” Monsieur Marcel told him. “I am happy to resemble my nation’s favorite food.”

Otis grinned. “I could use wax to make my hair resemble rat tails!”

“You too could be French,” Monsieur said, bellowing with laughter. “I assure you that the biggest rats in the world are to be found in my beloved Montpellier!”

This, Eugenia thought, was precisely why she insisted upon baking lessons: young English ladies and gentlemen needed to understand their households were run by real people.

“Monsieur, I wonder if I could beg you to make a variation on a cake?” she asked. “I should warn you that it exists in my imagination only.”

“Intéressant! I would welcome it, Madame Snowe,” the chef replied. “My skills are growing rusty. Monsieur Reeve eats whatever I cook and shows little interest in food.” He capped that with a roll of his eyes.

“My visit will last a fortnight,” Eugenia said, beaming as she rose from the table. “I shall rejoin you after Mr. Reeve hires kitchen staff. I would not wish to increase your work until you have adequate help.”

Monsieur bowed magnificently. “I shall count the moments, Madame Snowe.” He turned to the children. “You shall have your own cake for dessert tonight.”

“I should like to use a quince next time,” Lizzie said. “I never knew what that play meant when it calls for quinces in the pastry.”

“Hush,” Eugenia said, taking her hand. “For one thing, quinces are not in season. But more importantly, rather than requesting cakes from Romeo and Juliet, you must thank Monsieur Marcel for his kind instruction.”