Chapter 2

Hollystone Hall, Buckinghamshire

18th December 1812

“Excuse me, miss.”

Cedrica did not have to look up from her writing desk to recognize the person who had interrupted their meeting. It was Mrs. Pearce’s assistant cook this time.

Two hours ago, she had been taken away from her inconspicuous supervision of the house party’s first breakfast service by Monsieur Fournier’s senior kitchen maid. Yesterday, amidst the hustle of arrivals, no fewer than five inter-kitchen battles had broken out and needed mediation. And four the day before. And six the day before that.

Since Monsieur Fournier and his coach-loads of ingredients and equipment had taken up residence five days ago, the troubles between the two kitchens had been Cedrica’s biggest headache, dwarfing her concerns about bedchamber allocation, seating plans, and spreading the services of the team of maids and valets among those who had arrived without servants.

“Oh dear,” commiserated Grace, Lady de Courtenay. “Another shot fired in the kitchen war?”

“I am sorry, miss. It’s the large soup tureen, miss. Mrs. Pearce says she needs it, and that Frenchie, he has it in his kitchen and won’t give it up, never so.” Aggie Wilkins nodded firmly, her message delivered.

“We are almost done.” Lady Sophia Belvoir blotted the paper on which she had been neatly writing notes about the day’s activities. “I shall report to Aunt Eleanor, ladies. Shall we check with one another here at,” she consulted her notes, “two of the clock?”

Sophia had been right that the three of them would have the most work of all. Each led a team of volunteers to manage some part of the party: Sophia in charge of all the casual activities that would be available for guests to enjoy, Grace the many more formal events, and Cedrica the domestic matters such as food and bed linen. They had all arrived early to have the house in readiness, and every day, they would meet several times to make sure the organization was, as Her Grace insisted, both invisible and seamless.

Grace patted Cedrica’s hand. “Cedrica, do you need help?”

Cedrica smiled, grateful for the offer. “I can do it.”

In truth, Cedrica would rather be managing the kitchen staff than the grand ladies and gentlemen who fell into Grace’s and Sophia’s purview. She could talk easily with those below stairs and resolve their arguments, too. Cedrica was a veteran of the 1809 war between Widow Siddons and Miss Martha Ridley over the flower arrangements for the Easter ceremonies. Monsieur Fournier and Mrs. Pearce were child’s play compared to those two ladies.

“One wonders whether the man’s talent is worth his temperament,” Sophia observed.

“After last night’s dinner?” Grace asked.

Sophia acknowledged the point. “It was exceptional, was it not?”

“To be fair,” Cedrica told them, “Mrs. Pearce is as bad. She has originated at least half the quarrels. Come, Wilkins, you shall tell me all about this soup tureen on the way below stairs.”

The tureen lived, apparently, in one of the service pantries that the two kitchens reluctantly shared. Mrs. Pearce decided that the massive piece, which sat on its own warming burner, would be ideal for the potato and leek soup, served with crusty fresh bread, that would be one of the dishes offered in the less formal of the two dining rooms during the afternoon.

But the maid sent to fetch it returned empty handed, and further investigation disclosed that Monsieur Fournier had chosen it for the crème de champignons soup that was on the menu for dinner. He found it first, he said, and Mrs. Pearce would have to choose another tureen.

“But it’s the spirit lamp, miss, see?” Mrs. Pearce explained. “Could be two hours that soup will be out, ’cause they don’t all come in together, do they? Many of the ladies will sleep in and come down around noon, and some have broken their fast already, and won’t want to eat till later. Most of the gentlemen have gone out for birds, and they’ll want summat hot when they come in. Could be any time.”

“Are there not other tureens with their own warmers? Or stands with spirit lamps you could put other tureens on?”

Mrs. Pearce reluctantly agreed there might be, but then rejected those they found. These were too small, and would lose heat too quickly. Those did not fit properly together. And that lot were not what she’d like to see in a duchess’s dining room, and that was a fact.

“The big tureen is perfect, miss. And he don’t need it, not really.”

Cedrica sighed. “I shall go and see this wonderful tureen for myself, Mrs. Pearce. No, you do not need to come with me. I shall return and let you know what I have decided.”

When she entered Monsieur Fournier’s kitchen, he pretended to ignore her, though his gaze slid sideways and met hers for a second. Very well, let him carry on instructing some hapless undercook in the correct way to bone a swan. She was not waiting on his attention like a supplicant.

The disputed tureen was on a table on the far side of the room. He would notice her soon enough if she picked it up and started to carry it off! Not that she could even if she wished to. It was nearly large enough to bathe in and would need two people at least to lift it. She pushed at one handle, put her strength behind her hand, and managed to hoist the monstrous piece an inch or so.

It was a fine piece, she had to admit—fluted and curved, edged with scrolls and plaits of silver, polished to a mirror finish, and rearing majestically from the tiled warmer platform with not one but three burners to keep the soup hot.

But her eyes began to twinkle as she considered actually using it as part of a dinner service.

“Something is amusing, Mademoiselle?”

Monsieur Fournier had moved up beside her, the soft slippers he wore making no sound on the slate floor.

Cedrica blinked rapidly, determined not to show she was startled. “I came to solve your problem, Monsieur.”

He gave a theatrical shrug, his hands widespread. “I have no problem, Mademoiselle. La Pearce has a problem. Not I.”

“You are in the right, Monsieur. You were first to the tureen. It will look magnificent full of your wonderful mushroom soup. Only…” She allowed her voice to trail off and bent over to examine the platform more closely. Were the feet lion’s paws? She rather thought they were.

Monsieur Fournier’s hand appeared in her view, tapping on the table. He had long, rather elegant fingers, with neatly trimmed nails. He said nothing, but Cedrica could wait him out. And he proved no more immune to silence than a naughty choir boy caught with a broken window, an angelic smile, and a sling in his back pocket.

“You say, ‘only’, Mademoiselle? You will not judge in my favor despite your grand words?”

“Oh no, Monsieur. I cede you the tureen. If you wish to use it. Only…”

“‘Only’ again? Bah! What is this ‘only’?”

She turned to lean against the table and smiled at him, trying to keep from laughing aloud. “Monsieur, it is very heavy, and we have fifty-six to dinner tonight. More, perhaps, if all those who are promised for the next two days arrive. How will you convey to them their soup? It is heavy even empty. Once it is full of soup…”

Monsieur Fournier’s mouth dropped open, and he looked aghast at the magnificent tureen.

“I know,” Cedrica said wickedly. “We could put it in a wheelbarrow, and the footmen could take it from guest to guest so that—”

She got no further. The chef’s face darkened, and he roared, “A wheelbarrow? A wheelbarrow? You mock me, Mademoiselle!” He glared at the tureen. “A wheelbarrow, indeed!” He blinked, and his lips twitched. “The footmen could take it from guest to guest…” He began to chuckle and could barely get the last word out, “…in a wheelbarrow!”

The kitchen servants stopped what they were doing to stare as Monsieur Fournier roared with laughter, and Cedrica could not hold in her own amusement, until both of them were clutching the table with tears rolling down their cheeks.

At last, Monsieur Fournier collected himself, using the corner of his apron to wipe his eyes. As Cedrica used a kerchief for the same purpose, he asked, “And will you propose a wheelbarrow to Mrs. Pearce, Mademoiselle?”

“It is a different case, Monsieur. The monster here can be set up on the serving board ahead of time and filled with hot soup from buckets. Then the guests will go to the tureen themselves as they come to find sustenance a few at a time. For the dinner, though, we want something altogether grander, do we not? Four matching tureens, perhaps, each carried by a footman to a different part of the table, and the soup served from there. Or eight, marching in procession. Can I find you eight matching tureens, I wonder?”

Monsieur Fournier bowed elegantly. “Mademoiselle, you are as wise as you are beautiful. Let Madame Pearce have this monster. I, Marcel Fournier, will present the most delicious crème de champignons that England has ever tasted in a procession of eight tureens.”

As Cedrica left to search the storerooms for matching tureens that would be worthy of the finest mushroom soup ever made in England, she heard the chef chuckling to himself in between barking orders at the undercooks. “Wheelbarrows! Was there ever such a woman?”