Chapter 3

It began with a set of ice molds.

Marcel planned a spectacular centerpiece for the second remove at tomorrow night’s dinner—Italian creams made with eggs, rich cream, and a variety of fruits and other flavors molded into flower shapes, frozen, and then presented on a mountainous tower of ice, itself with pillars and platforms molded into fantasy shapes.

The Italian creams were made and stored in the estate’s ice house. He sent an assistant to fetch the box containing the carved wooden mold for the tower. “Open it,” he commanded. “Check that you have the correct box. The one I require has dolphin shapes to support the first tier.”

But the assistant returned empty handed. “Monsieur, I cannot find the box with the dolphins.”

He knew straight away of course, and a visit to Madame Pearce’s kitchen soon confirmed it. The encroaching woman had taken the mold and intended to use the larger shapes for a salmon aspic!

Marcel tried to be reasonable. He really did. He could fill the molds with water this evening, and they would be set hard when the time came for setting up the display tomorrow. But Madame Pearce refused to consider it. Her salmon aspic was also for tomorrow and must remain in the molds until just before serving, or it would lose sharpness and definition.

“Then choose another set of molds, Madame,” he suggested. “A set that is not a foundation piece of an entire tower.”

The woman smirked. “You find something else. I got these ones first. That is what you said yesterday, Moosewer, when you refused to give up the waffle iron.”

They had both wanted the waffle iron with the flower impression, but the mansion’s shelves held three others equally pretty. He had found only one tower mold, and Madame Pearce did not even plan to make a tower! She could use any one of dozens of molds and make as lovely an aspic.

Marcel explained this to her, slowly, using simple words.

“You don’t need to look down your long French nose at me, Moosewer,” Madame Pearce told him. “I know I could use else, just like you could of yesterday. And I don’t want to. Just like you yesterday.”

He had promised Mademoiselle Grenford not to shout at Madame Pearce and not to swear at her in French. Or English. He had promised. He turned on his heel and marched away before he strangled the stubborn woman.

“Good riddance,” Madame yelled after him.

Marcel went straight upstairs to the mademoiselle. At this time of day, she would be in the little sitting room where she and the other ladies of her committee had their meetings.

Once he left the service stairs for the main hallway, he set a bland look on his face and walked with determination. He passed several guests who ignored his existence, as he had expected. Servants should not be seen unless wanted, and therefore they would not see him.

Now. Around this corner and the fourth door on the right. Or was it the third?

He slowed, uncertainly. The third door was slightly ajar, and he could hear women’s voices. Not the little mouse’s, but those of the two ladies who were also helping to manage the house party.

“Lady Stanton is a difficult woman.” That was the pretty young widow, Lady de Courtenay.

“Lady Stanton is a cold-hearted bitch.” Lady Sophia Belvoir, the goddaughter of the duchess.

Marcel smiled a little. Who knew a lady would use such words? Deserved, undoubtedly. Even he, keeping though he did to his own domain, had heard stories of maids reduced to tears and footmen to helpless rage by the lady they named.

But the next words sobered him instantly.

“Do not cry, Cedrica. You are doing wonderfully well, and the duchess knows it. Lady Stanton will receive no support there.”

Cedrica? That cold-hearted bitch had upset his mademoiselle?

“I agree with Grace, Cedrica. Aunt Eleanor shall give one of her deadly little set-downs, and I should dearly like to see it. Here. Dry your eyes, darling. It shall all be well, you will see.”

Then the mademoiselle’s voice sounded, trembling with unshed tears. “You are right. I know you are. I do not know why I allowed her to upset me so. Only I am so tired of stupid conflict. This gentleman does not want to share a room with his wife. That one has kept every guest in his wing awake with his snoring. This lady cannot have the same breakfast as that one, and another must be served the identical tray, right down to the color of the inlay. And as for the war between the kitchens! I swear, if I have to referee one more battle over who has first use of the lemon zester, I shall scream.”

Really? She was not enjoying their little dramas as much as the two combatants? Marcel frowned and shot a glance both ways down the hallway to make sure he was not observed as he leaned closer. The two other ladies were making soothing noises and offering to take up the mademoiselle’s duties while she rested.

“No, no. Aunt Eleanor would be so disappointed in me. Besides, you have your own tangles to straighten. Making sure that Lady Stanton and her cronies are not in a position to bully Miss Baumann, that Lord Trevor is dissuaded from taking out a gun, since he cannot see beyond the end of his arm and refuses to wear glasses, and that Lady Marchand can only cheat at cards with those who know her little ways.”

The three ladies laughed together, Mademoiselle’s chuckle still a little watery.

Her voice was forlorn when she added, “It was the other that hurt most, you know, because it is true.”

More soothing noises, which she rejected.

“No. I am not a fool. I know that I have dwindled into an old maid. Well, look at me. Plain ordinary Cedrica Grenford. A useful person to have on a committee, but not one man has ever looked at me twice nor is likely to. I know Aunt Eleanor thinks dressing me up like a fashion doll and sending me in to talk to all these lords will turn me into a… a swan. But I am just a plain barnyard hen when you come down to it.”

Lady de Courtenay disagreed. “Oh, but surely Lord Hythe—”

Another heart-wrenching chuckle. “See, his sister is shaking her head. And you are right, Sophia. Hythe is polite to everyone, and kind to me because I was at school with Felicity. He treats me as a lady, which is nice of him when I am, as Lady Stanton so kindly pointed out, merely hanging onto gentility by the charity of Her Grace.”

“Oh, Cedrica…” That was both ladies.

Marcel’s response to Lady Stanton’s cruel words would have been much more forceful.

“He does not look at me and see a woman. No one does.”

Lady Sophia spoke decisively. “You are blue-devilled, my dear. Who knows whether any of us will meet a man who can see past our elderly exteriors to the treasures we all are? If we do not, you and I shall be old maids together.”

“Yes,” Lady de Courtenay agreed. “Perhaps we should set up house together. Certainly Sophia and I have no more wish to live forever on the sufferance of our brothers than you do on the Haverfords’. Who needs men, after all? Selfish, conceited creatures, always jumping to conclusions.”

This time, Mademoiselle Grenford’s laugh was more genuine.

Lady Sophia said, “Rest for an hour. Read a book. I will order a pot of tea and some cakes, and Grace and I shall deal with anything that arises.” Her voice was coming closer.

Swiftly, before she could open the door and find him listening, Marcel retreated down the hall and around the corner, all the way back downstairs, thinking furiously.

First, he must order a tray set with the most delicate of cups, the finest tea, and some of the little cakes from the test batch he had made that morning, in preparation for the real challenge of Christmas Day’s dinner. Each was a work of art with its own sugar flower, and it had not escaped his notice that his mademoiselle liked them.

Then, while his assistants made the tray, he must make peace. This war must end. If that meant giving Madame Pearce her way on the tower, then so be it. He could not be part of causing pain to his mademoiselle.

His! How foolish he was. He was a chef. She was an aristo, of a family with a duke, despite her humble words. Yet un chien regarde bien un évêque. A dog can take a good look at a bishop. The English proverb was similar. A cat may look at a king. What would Mademoiselle Grenford think if she knew Marcel saw her as a woman, as she put it?

Perhaps bread to go with the cakes? Bread sliced thinly and buttered by his own hand and topped by some of Madame’s conserve. A peace offering from them both.

Determined, he gave his orders to his kitchen and braved the kitchen of Madame Pearce. An odd quest, but would not a knight dare anything, brave any danger, undergo any humiliation, for the lady he must adore from afar?