“You missed all the uproar,” Terrence said. He was scraping a plate into the trash. I recognized The Painter’s half-eaten mushroom omelet.
“I was barely gone for 20 minutes. And how could there be more uproar? What happened?” I asked.
“More like 45! For one thing, Rose walked in on Daffy and Lord Ambridge getting off in the toilet off the staff dining room.”
“Whaaaaat?”
“I tease you not. She walked in and I heard her scream, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! And on Christmas Eve!’ Then she shut the door behind herself and the three of them were stuffed in there together for ages. There was yelling and crying from every vocal range on the scale! It was operatic! Daffy came out hanging her head and Lord Ambridge was bowing and practically kissing Rose’s ring. I guess she let them off with a warning and decided not to spill the beans. Rose is in the laundry, ironing costumes for tomorrow and Daphne’s being monitored by Chizzy. They’re decorating the tree in the ballroom. After they decorate it, they’re to wrap it in sheets so it’ll be a surprise tomorrow.”
“There’s a tree?”
“Wait till you see! During lunch, Seamus and Isaac heaved in the first tree that the nursery had delivered yesterday morning and left out by the vegetable garden. They set the great hulking thing up and Roth immediately started shouting about how it wasn’t big enough and it wouldn’t do. So, Seamus enlisted Isaac and Chizz, and they went out and took a chainsaw to the tallest tree they could find on the property. And in all this snow! Took three of them to move it, and they had to open the tops and bottoms of the lead-glass French windows. It looks like bloody Rockefeller Center in there!”
“Where are all the guests?” I asked.
“Oh, they were shooed upstairs. The tree’s to be unveiled tomorrow in a Hungarian secret ceremony.”
“Secret ceremony?”
“Oh, all right, a traditional Hungarian party. Did anyone ever tell you you’re no fun? Daffy and Chizz are covering the great, pine giant in szaloncukor – don’t mock my pronunciation, I can’t help it I’ve never been to Hungary on my poor butler’s salary – which are these frilly decorative candies which he ordered for, like, a thousand pounds, from the top confectioner in that exotic and far-away land. I think usually the shindig is supposed to happen on Christmas Eve, but you know Roth is a big drama queen. You get a bigger bang out of Christmas Day, don’t you? Legend has it that the angels and the baby Jesus bring the tree and the gifts. If you squint hard, you can sort of see Isaac as angelic and Jesus-like. The rest fall short of the mark, sadly.”
“A lot happens around here when you turn your back for a moment,” I said.
“Oh, that’s not the end of it, by far,” Terrence said. “P. S. – you’re i-in trou-buuuul!” he said in a childish singsong.
“Do you mean more trouble?” I asked. “For God’s sake.”
“Oh, calm down. It’s not that big a deal, I’m just on a roll. Well, first, you were gone from the kitchen and they were looking for you. Once Lady Ambridge saw The Painter’s mushroom omelet, all she could talk about was the time she was a guest of the Swiss Count Amadeus the Third of Geneva and how they toured the Cotswolds late one autumn with their party and stayed at The Crown Inn in Frampton Mansell. The inn served a dish of wild field mushrooms with wilted spinach in a creamy blahblahblah and couldn’t she just taste it on her tongue now. Needless to say, Mr. Roth was about to have you whip one up. Lady A insisted she couldn’t eat another bite and Chizzy, that gormless git, announced that you weren’t in the kitchen anyway.”
“Nice. I owe him one.”
“Anyhoo, they were cackling back and forth and The Painter slammed down his glass and said, ‘Keep her out of the kitchen! She’s killed my dog and now she’s trying to kill me with all this rich food. I’m going to die of indigestion!’”
“No way! The Painter said that about me! What was he doing at the table, anyway? Are you joking? I made him an omelet and dry toast! And he didn’t even eat it all.”
“Calm down. All’s well that ends well…everyone jumped in and told him he was just upset and he needed a lie-down. He was just spouting off. Plus, his stomach wasn’t right. Dr. Dearden took his pulse and looked into his eyes and throat. He even palpated his abdomen right at the table. Hot senior citizen, man-on-man, action, that,” intoned Terrence. “I nearly pulled up a chair to watch. In the end, Dr. Dearie told him to take some flax seed capsules and drink some plain soda water. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s got a bellyache and he’s embarrassed from the fuss – it would make Mother Teresa herself cranky.”
“Maybe so, but that’s the second time he’s been angry with me. He’s always liked my work in the past…I, I, just…” I was starting to lose my footing. I’m a good chef, aren’t I? I could feel myself headed down a path on which I let Mother into my head. Luckily Rose came in just as I was sitting down at the table.
“Oh, there you are,” she said. “Lovely!”
“Rose,” I asked, “am I a good chef?” I hated myself for asking.
“The best, dear. Why?”
“I told her about the mad shouting at lunch,” Terrence said. “Her tough skin is soft today.”
“I don’t have tough skin!” I snapped. “Can’t I want people to love me?” I’d said it without thinking. “You know what I mean. I think I really do have to quit.”
“My dear,” said Rose, “if you worry about these people’s tempers, you’ll never know a moment’s peace. How many times have I carried a third cup of tea up a flight of stairs just to hear that is still wasn’t ‘lapsang-y’ enough? Take it with a pinch of salt. The Painter thinks you’re grand. He’s having a hard day. Give him a wide berth.”
“She’s telling the truth, Juliet. Whenever he hears you’re coming to cook, he says things like, ‘Smart girl, that Juliet,’ and ‘That’s a chef who listens when you talk,’ and ‘Damn, I’d like to hit that!’ OK, I’m lying about that last one, but he does like you,” Terrence said. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“I don’t know. It’s irrational, but it makes me angry that he doesn’t think I’m good. Everyone else does, I think. I’m solidly booked most of the time.”
“Right then,” said Terrence, “you’re acting with your clients the way you act with men…If most of them like you, why are you focusing on the one who doesn’t?”
“Who doesn’t like me? Do you mean Edward? Oh. You mean The Painter, don’t you?”
“You’re on my last nerve, Cheflette. Drop it already,” said Terrence.
“I know I’m being tedious, but I think I should just leave now. I’m quitting after the New Year anyway. I dread telling my agent.”
A shadow passed over Rose’s face. “Quitting what? Being a chef? Because of one bad day? Take it from me, it’s not in the falling down, but in the staying down.”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I decided to go home and finish my studies.”
“That, my girl, would be a real pity. Unless of course all you’ve ever wanted out of life was to be an academic.”
I didn’t answer.
“You’d really deny what you were born to do?” Rose asked. “I know I’m not your mum, dear. This might not be my place, but I’m going to say it. I finally thought you’d recognized who you are. I’ve watched you over these years, taking baby steps, looking a bit lost from time to time. But I thought you’d gotten over the wall with all that.”
I turned my back on her. At the sink, I started running water into a deep pot.
“Here’s a story I meant to tell you ages ago about Mr. Roth. He and Seamus were meeting about accounts, and when I was bringing them a tray, I heard them talking about expenses. According to budget, you were too expensive, but Mr. Roth said, ‘Pay her what she asks, she’s worth it, and she’s the only chef I’ve had in five years who doesn’t get on my nerves.’ I agree with him. My heart would break if you went and buried your nose back in a book.”
I felt like I might cry, so I changed the subject. “Edward got on his nerves?” I asked, setting the pot over a flame.
“Forget that part,” said Terrence. He was right. Asking about Edward was just reopening a wound that I was trying to heal.
“The point is, people who do the hiring think you’re good. When The Painter was going on just now, he was on pills and half-drunk.”
“They gave him alcohol?” I asked, gasping.
“Sure. Bit of brandy’ll always calm you,” Rose said. “Medicinally.”
“Someone needs to take that man to the hospital,” I mumbled.
“Well, you’ll need to go to the hospital to see a psychiatrist if you’re thinking about quitting.”
“Everyone was hitting the sauce pretty hard,” Terrence went on. “Not to mention, pharmaceuticals were being flung about like it was Mardi Gras. The Painter broke out the really, really old Scotch, and I mean ancient, to toast the late Rex of Gloucester, and the men took the tribute quite seriously. Lord Ambridge was feeling his oats…or feeling Daf’s oats, as it were.”
“Terrence, let’s not make evil twice by gossiping! As my mum always said, ‘A good word never broke a tooth.’ The fewer people who get hurt, the better. We all get one mistake.” She paused and looked at me. “Don’t we, my girl?” I looked away.
“But I’m watching that Daphne like a hawk. She’ll learn how to behave like a young lady if she wants to work in my house. Just because you come from nothing it doesn’t mean you have to act like trash. There’s the wife to think about. Young girls today seldom remember that fact.”
I blushed crimson, worried that she sensed my eyeballing Mr. Roth.
“Right, then. That’s enough of all this, there’s work to be done and we’d better make hay while the sun shines. Everyone is upstairs resting, except Lady Penelope, who’s reading magazines in the drawing room. And for the love of heaven, she doesn’t need disturbing, so keep your voices down.”
I was even more tired now, from the post-panic letdown of The Painter’s accusations. I loaded a capsule into the Nespresso machine and poured milk into the frother. I stood at the sink, still holding the half-gallon jug, looking out the kitchen window. It was gray outside from the heavy clouds and the still-falling icy snow, and because of the winter solstice, it was one of the shortest days of the year.
“I could go to sleep standing up,” I said to no one, as a figure in a black hat, face wrapped in a scarf appeared out the window, in front of my eyes. I screamed a high-pitched scream and dropped the milk to the floor. Standing there, with milk dripping down the bottoms of my trouser legs, I heard myself still screaming the word “Yah!” in a stream that was growing weaker and weaker but wouldn’t end.
“Shut up, you ninny! Lady Penelope’s practically right next door and she doesn’t need to be pushed that extra inch into the loony bin. What the hell is the matter with you?” Terrence said.
Rose ran in, saw the damage, grabbed kitchen towels and started mopping up the mess around my shoes, saying “Shh, shh, shh.”
“I just saw, I don’t know, some guy out the window. Right outside the window,” I said.
“Well, was he wearing a hood, and carrying a scythe covered in blood?” demanded Terrence.
“No, it’s just…it surprised me is all.”
“Then keep your bleating to a dull roar!” said Terrence.
“Everything’s all right. Just a little startle,” said Rose.
“Skip the coffee. I’d say you’re jittery enough as it is,” Terrence said, pouring the coffee and hot milk into a cup, then drinking it himself. “Was it MacGregor? Barry?”
I felt silly. Of course it was one of the men from the grounds, and even if it weren’t, where could be a safer place than Thornton Hall? The security system here rivaled Buckingham Palace’s.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly to Rose and Terrence.
Daphne came through the door. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing to worry about,” Rose said. “Juliet just had a fright. Where have you been? I need you to do the mirrors in the library and the conservatory.”
“I’ve, uh, been with Mr. Chisholm..”
“You don’t answer to Mr. Chisholm,” Rose said. “You answer to me. Would you please do the mirrors? And use newspaper and ammonia.” Daphne stood looking dumbfounded.
“Oh, come on, then,” Terrence said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll show you,” he said, grabbing a stack of papers off a table by the door of the laundry room.
“Right,” said Daphne, looking out the window. “Just let me nip up to my room. I have to do something. It’s my time of the month, you know.”
“You can keep any references to your coochie to yourself, Daffy. I’m like Oscar Wilde in that respect – everything below a lady’s waistline is cold mutton to me.”
“That’ll do, Terrence,” said Rose, shoving a bottle of ammonia at him. “Will you please start with the mirrors in the dining room while no one’s in there?”
“A woman’s work is never done, is it?” Terrence asked, doubling back for my cappuccino.
As the door closed, Rose grabbed sprigs of Rosemary, a bunch of carrots and a pile of turnips, and set them, along with a cutting board and chef’s knife, on the corner of the table. There was no real cooking left to do, as I’d prepped the whole roast goose meal ahead of time.
“Right then, Juliet. You’re jumpy as a cat. Dinner’s cooked, the kitchen’s clean. Everyone’s napping off the lunch and spirits and I don’t expect any demands except for the odd cup of tea, which I can handle. Why don’t you go back to yours, shower off that milk before it sours and put on some fresh trousers?”
Chisholm came through the door, wearing an overcoat and hat, and pushed the button on the hot water kettle.
“I’m frozen through,” he said, shivering. “Mr. Roth sent me out to the stable to festoon the sleigh with bells and pine boughs. I fell down twice on the icy path, making my way back to the main house. I can’t imagine anyone’s going to be sleigh-riding in this snow. You can’t open your eyes and it’s getting too deep for the horses.”
“Was Daphne helping you?” Rose asked.
“I haven’t seen her since after lunch,” Chisholm said.
“Hmm,” Rose said. “Well, never mind. I’ll set her to work now. Idle hands are the devil’s tools. Juliet, go get changed and rest for a while. Your nerves are stretched and I’m guessing it’s going to be a long night. I’ll call you on the intercom if anything changes. Seamus and I are going to the lounge. There’s an on-air Mass at 4 o’clock. Doesn’t hold a candle to Father, but it’ll have to do in a pinch. We’ll be saying a prayer for His Lordship’s recovery. Now go, break time will be over before you know it.”
“Thanks, Rose. If you have a spare minute, will you ask God if he can straighten out my head?”
“There’s always time for a prayer. I’ll send a special petition up to Saint Dymphna for you.”
“Who?”
“She’s the patron saint of the mentally ill.”
“If the shoe fits,” I said. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”