Chapter Two
Daniel did not change expression, but his black gaze focused on me. “What happened, Kat?” he asked, his tone gentle.
Daniel was the only person I allowed to call me Kat. Not that I’d given him permission. He’d simply taken it up, and I’d not prevented him.
I rolled the pastry dough flat and used my scraper to fold each third in on itself before going at it again. Puff pastry was difficult to get right, and a kitchen full of curious people was not assisting me to concentrate.
“Nothing as interesting as Copley makes out,” I said crisply.
“Even so, tell me.”
When Daniel McAdam spoke in that voice—quiet and friendly, yet full of steel, people tended to obey him. I stopped pounding at the dough, which needed to rest and cool anyway, and gave him an abbreviated account of the incident. Copley snorted a few times and inserted foolish comments at intervals.
Daniel helped himself to another cup of tea, minus the whiskey this time, and sipped it as I talked. When I finished, Daniel rose from the stool where he’d been sitting and set the cup on the draining board by the sink. “Copley,” he said in that steely voice. “A word, if you please.”
Copley looked surprised, but as I said, people tended to obey Daniel without quite knowing why.
Copley followed Daniel across the kitchen and out the scullery door. The scullery maid, sniffling with her cold, let dirty water drip all over the flagstone floor while she watched Daniel with lovesick eyes.
I have no idea to this day what Daniel said to Copley, but when Copley returned he was subdued. He skulked across the kitchen without looking at me and stomped up the stairs.
***
The very next morning Sir Lionel started taking his vengeance on me for not only rejecting his advances but putting my knife to his throat. He did nothing so direct as sack me—oh, no. He went about it by more subtler means, trying to vanquish me, if you like.
Now, you may wonder why I did not simply pack up my knives and march out, but while good cooks are in demand, good places aren’t all that thick on the ground. As horrible as Sir Lionel was, he lived in London, where I needed to stay, the wage was decent, and I had my many days out a month, which was the most important thing to me. So I stayed and put up with him.
Sir Lionel did not come to the kitchen again—he’d learned that lesson. He sent his demands through Mrs. Watkins, the housekeeper. Sometimes Copley delivered the messages, but even Sir Lionel realized that Copley couldn’t be trusted when he was befuddled with drink, so Mrs. Watkins brought down most of his orders.
Mrs. Watkins had worked in this house for many years, previously for Sir Lionel’s uncle, and she didn’t think much of the current master. She was straight-backed and pinch-nosed and set in her ways, and didn’t hold with all this cooking nonsense—a bit of boiled mutton was all a body needed, and any simpleton could buy that in a shop. For all her decided opinions, Mrs. Watkins wasn’t a bad sort, although she didn’t approve of cooks being as young as I was.
I couldn’t help my age—I’d been assistant to one of the best cooks in London at fifteen, and had proved to have a talent for the job. That cook had passed on when I’d been twenty, word had spread that her apprentice could replicate her meals, and agencies fought to have me on their books.
However, I had to be choosy where I worked, and my situation with Sir Lionel, unfortunately, was ideal. Except for Sir Lionel, of course. Mrs. Watkins made it plain that Sir Lionel was a disappointment after his uncle, who’d been a true gentleman, she said, but Mrs. Watkins, like me, needed the position.
Sir Lionel began his game of revenge by sending down odd and impossible requests for his dinners—wild birds that wouldn’t be in season for another few months, tender vegetables that had gone out of season months before, and dishes even I had never heard of. I had to read through my treasured tomes to find recipes for what he wanted, and some I simply had to invent. Even the exhaustive Mrs. Beeton failed me from time to time.
Some days I’d nearly make myself ill getting the meal finished to his order—I had my pride, after all—and he’d send word at the last minute that he would dine at his club and wouldn’t be back until morning.
The delicate meal wouldn’t keep for a day, so I and the household staff ate it. I had to watch John the footman bolt my coq a vin like it was mutton stew and listen to Mrs. Watkins complain that food should be simple without all this fuss. Copley would eat steadily, then follow the meal with a mug of gin and belch loudly.
The morning after, Sir Lionel would send down a sternly worded note that I’d spent far too much money on foodstuffs and threaten to take it out of my wages.
A lesser cook would have fled. But it built up my pride that I was mostly able to fulfill his bizarre requests and build a meal around them, no matter how much Sir Lionel made clear he did not appreciate it. I rose to the challenge, wanting to prove he could not best me.
Where he came up with his ideas for what he wanted me to cook I had no idea. Sir Lionel did not strike me as a refined gentleman with cultivated tastes. Likely he found descriptions of dishes in books, or he had a friend who made up the meals for him, laughing about the good trick they were playing on a cook who needed to learn her place.
Then came the day I nearly threw down my apron and ran out the door to never come back. Mrs. Watkins, at seven o’clock in the evening, brought me down a note telling me he wanted truffles a l’Italienne with beef in pepper sauce that night.
“Truffles?” I bellowed. “Where does he think I will find a handful of black truffles at this time of day?”
“I couldn’t say.” It was obvious Mrs. Watkins had no idea what a truffle was. “But he is adamant.”
It was impossible. I knew all the good markets and who might have decent exotic fungi, but I had no time to get to them before they shut up for the night.
As luck would have it, an urchin I’d seen helping Daniel unload his goods a time or two was hanging around the scullery door. He’d been hoping for scraps or a chat with the scullery maid, but I stormed out to him, seized him by the ear, and told him to find Daniel for me.
“Scour the town if you must,” I said. “Tell him Mrs. Holloway desperately needs his help. There’s tuppence in it for you if you hurry.”
The urchin jerked himself from me and rubbed his ear, but he didn’t look angry. “Don’t worry, missus. I’ll find ’im.”
The lad was true to his word. Daniel came knocking within the hour, and the lad happily jingled the coins I dropped into his hand.
Daniel listened to me rant, his warm smile nearly enough to calm my troubles. Nearly. When I finished, Daniel held out his hand.
“Give me your list, and I’ll find the things for you,” he said.
“How can you?” My voice rose, tinged with hysteria. “In half an hour?”
Daniel only regarded me calmly as he took the paper upon which I’d written ingredients. “The sooner I am gone, the sooner I can return.”
I let out my breath, my heart in my words. “Thank you. I don’t know who you are, Daniel McAdam, but you are a godsend.”
Something flickered in his dark blue eyes, but his crooked smile returned. “I’ve been called much worse, Kat, believe me. Back in a tick.”
He did return very quickly with a bundle of all I needed, including the finest truffles I’d ever seen and a small bottle of champagne, which Sir Lionel never stocked in his cellar. I did not like to ask how Daniel had come by the rarer things, and he did not volunteer the information.
Daniel tried to refuse money for the foodstuffs. He held his up his hands, spreading his fingers wide. “It was a challenge, Kat. I never knew the intricacies of food purchasing or how many markets we have in London. Keep your money for the next meal he demands.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. I’ll not take them as gifts. Stand there while I get you some coin.”
I hurried down to the housekeeper’s parlor where we kept a locked tin of cash on hand for extra expenses. Only I and Mrs. Watkins had the key to it—Copley couldn’t be trusted not to spend the money on drink.
Daniel hadn’t given me a tally, but I counted out what I thought would be the cost of the goods and rushed back out, to find Daniel nowhere in sight.
“Where is Mr. McAdam?” I asked the urchin, who’d remained to make sheep’s eyes at the scullery maid.
“’E’s off,” the urchin answered. “Said ’e couldn’t wait.”
“Blast the man,” I said fervently.
I put the money back into the tin but vowed I’d force it upon him somehow one day. A woman couldn’t afford to have a man do her expensive favors, especially a man as beguiling as Daniel McAdam. I’d learned all about the dangers of pretty men at a very young age, and I’d had enough of that.
***
Sir Lionel’s next unreasonable dinner demand came the very next day. He decided, at five o’clock, if you please, that he’d entertain friends at his dinner table at seven. Mrs. Watkins brought down the order and stepped back as I read it.
Leek and cream soup, whitefish in a velouté sauce, green salad, squab stuffed with peppercorns, beef in a wine sauce, asparagus with egg, fricassee of wild mushrooms, soft rolls, a chocolate soup and a berry tart for pudding.
“Has he gone mad?” I screeched. “I haven’t a scrap of chocolate in the house, no hope of fresh fish or game birds today.” I flung the paper to the table. “That is the last straw, Mrs. Watkins. Either we come to an understanding or I give my notice. I ought to simply give it now and leave, let him and his guests do with salt pork and potatoes.”
Copley, lounging in his chair near the fire, cackled. “Mrs. H. can’t do it. All I hear is what a grand cook she is, how everyone wants her, how she’s wasted in this ’ouse. She’s asked to cook a few bits of fish, and she ’as hysterics. If you’re so sought after, my girl, why ain’t ye cooking for dukes, or for one of the royals?”
I dragged in a breath, trying to ignore Copley. “I agree that if I can pull this meal together it would make my reputation. But . . . oh—”
“Would it?” Mrs. Watkins picked up the list again, which she’d written in her careful hand at Sir Lionel’s dictation. “I confess, I’ve never heard of velouté or eaten chocolate soup.”
“Well, you shall eat it tonight. You, Mr. Copley, can cease laughing at me and help. I shall need a good bottle of sweet white wine and a robust red for the beef sauce and the chocolate. A claret for the table. Asparagus—I ask you. Any I can find will be woody and tasteless. But perhaps . . .” I trailed off, my inventive mind taking over.
“Ye can’t be wanting three bottles,” Copley said, sitting up. “The master comes over snarling if I open more than one a day.”
“If he wants this food and wants it done well, he’ll not quibble.”
Copley scowled, unhappy, but he stomped away to fetch what I needed. I always thought it a mercy Copley found wine sour and without a good kick or Sir Lionel’s wine collection, a fine one built up by his uncle, would be long gone.
“How many at table?” I asked Mrs. Watkins.
“Three,” she said, folding her hands. Her long string of keys hung from her belt like a jailer’s. “The master and two guests, a Mr. and Mrs. Fuller.”
“At least he didn’t invite twenty,” I said. “Small blessings, I suppose.” I scanned the kitchen, and sure enough, found Daniel’s lad and the scullery maid outside together on the steps.
“You,” I called to the youth from the back door—I really ought to learn his name. “If you find Mr. McAdam for me in half an hour, this time I’ll give you a shilling.”
The boy grinned, saluted me, and off he went.