Chapter 4

Christmas Day, 1812

If one more person arrived, they would need to sleep in the stables. Every room in the house was full, and the under servants were sleeping several to a bed.

Cedrica could not help a guilty thank you to whatever impulse set Mr. Arbuthwick climbing a tree to retrieve Miss Ellison’s parasol, blown there by a stray gust of wind. He insisted that ice on the branches led to his fall, but Cedrica suspected a contribution from the warming punch he and his friends had been passing around. 

Perhaps his relaxed state was for the best, as he suffered nothing worse than a sprained ankle. He was conveyed to the nearby town where his parents lived, to convalesce in the care of his fond mama, Miss Ellison’s offer of nursing services having been vetoed by her own mother.

But Mr. Arbuthwick’s room had not been empty above seventeen hours before Viscount Elfingham turned up at the door begging shelter. Yesterday, it was. Christmas Eve. He claimed his horse was lame, but Sophia confided that he was pursuing Felicity and that Hythe said it would not do.

Before the day was over, the sons of the duchess had also arrived. Lord Aldridge had been expected, but Lord Jonathan Grenford was thought to be somewhere in Russia. His mama was delighted, of course, but if Lord Jonathan had not cheerfully pronounced himself willing to sleep on a trundle in the room set aside for his brother, Cedrica did not know where she would have put him.

And now, on Christmas Day, another late arrival. Thank goodness Lord Elfingham did not object to sharing his room with Mr. Halevy! Mr. Halevy seemed a very nice gentleman, polite, not fussy, and with a charming French accent that reminded her of Monsieur Fournier. Although hearing him speak disproved one of the theories she had developed to explain her inconvenient fascination with the chef. The accent was clearly not the cause. She felt no such attraction to Mr. Halevy.

She left the new guest to the care of his room host and the servant allocated to valet far too many gentlemen for efficient service. What had seemed a large staff of servants was stretched almost to breaking point now the house was at capacity. To make things worse, Her Grace had declared that the servants were to work shortened hours today and a half day tomorrow, but her guests still wanted their breakfasts served, their clothing brushed, their chins shaved, their bath water carried, their corsets tightened, their forgotten gloves fetched, and on and on and on. So all day yesterday and today, Cedrica and Mrs. Stanley the housekeeper had been trying to juggle hours and people to perform the impossible.

The kitchens, her greatest trial in the early days of the house party, had become a haven, and she headed there now. She would just check that all was running smoothly for the second most important dinner of the whole event. And she would do so by way of the servants’ stairs, thus avoiding the kissing boughs that Sophia and her decorating crew had hung everywhere. Cedrica had already been saluted by Hythe, Weasel Winderfield, and Lord Jonathan, and could not quite see the attraction of the pastime.

Since the kitchens had stopped sending for her several times a day, she had evolved the habit of visiting in the morning after the breakfast service and her meeting with Grace and Sophia. She took a cup of tea in one kitchen or the other, consulted with Mrs. Stanley, and admired whatever plans Mrs. Pearce and Monsieur Fournier had for the house party’s meals. Frequently, she was called upon to sample some delicacy while its originator watched anxiously. She had no idea what had happened to the war, but the two kitchen heads were now firm friends, each bending over backward to help the other succeed.

Mrs. Pearce was alone when Cedrica arrived. Cedrica was not disappointed. Not at all. She was here to work, not to ogle Monsieur Fournier, however ogle-worthy he might be.

“No monsieur today?” she found herself asking.

“A busy day for Mark today, miss.”

The words Monsieur, Fournier, and Marcel all being too difficult for Mrs. Pearce’s tongue, she had taken to calling her colleague Mark.

“He gave permission for those who wished to go to the Christmas service, but of course that has put him behind and not many hours now until Christmas dinner.”

Cedrica felt guilty. “Did Monsieur Fournier not wish to go to the Christmas service himself, Mrs. Pearce?”

“No church for his kind here, miss. He’s a papist, see? French, of course. Lots of them are papists, so I hear. He’s a nice boy for all that, and a good chef. He’ll get his ordinary, right enough.”

“‘His ordinary?’” Was that a kind of award for chefs? Or something to do with being French? Or Catholic? It was not clear from Mrs. Pearce’s speech which of the two made his niceness a surprise.

“You know, miss. A French ordinary in London. A place for the gentlemen to have their dinners. It’s what Mark wants, why he is taking jobs like this instead of a proper position in a house, like me. Good experience, good contacts, and good money, Mark says.”

Cedrica’s spurt of resentment was most unreasonable. Monsieur Fournier was free to confide in his fellow cook if he wished. And Cedrica’s life was calmer now the two were friends.

“Go and say hello, miss,” the cook urged. “He’d appreciate the interest, I’m sure.”

“I would not want to disturb him when he’s busy.”

“We’re all busy today, miss, you as much as the rest of us, I’ll be bound.” Mrs. Pearce and her staff would be serving Christmas dinner in the servants’ hall. Three times: once for her own kitchen staff and the outdoor servants, once for the upstairs servants when their masters and mistresses went down to dinner, and once and finally for Monsieur Fournier’s kitchen.

And Cedrica, as soon as she put her nose above stairs, would be pounced on by a guest with a problem only she could solve. Indeed, even here, the housekeeper or the under butler might track her down. They would not trespass in Monsieur Fournier’s kitchen, especially when the temperamental chef was under such pressure. He would not have time to make her a cup of the coffee she had come to enjoy since being taken up by the duchess, but perhaps she could just sit for a minute or two and watch other people work.

The kitchen was as chaotic as she had expected. She took a chair at the end of the kitchen table farthest from all of the activity, and a few minutes of careful observation disclosed the order and patterns of frantic movement centered on Monsieur who stood, the calm center of a purposeful storm: barking orders, giving advice, tasting from spoons and plates that anxious disciples brought to him.

A hand appeared over her shoulder, a cup of coffee, followed by another with a plate of the small cakes Monsieur decorated with such artistry. She smiled at the maidservant who was placing it for her, but the girl nodded toward Monsieur, who caught Cedrica’s gaze for a moment, smiled, then turned back to the next in his line of supplicants.

She took a sip. Hot, creamy, and sweet. Just as she liked it.

Moments later, Monsieur Fournier joined her, hooking a chair with one foot and sitting on it back to front so he could rest one arm along the top rail while he sipped his own black, bitter brew. “Is there something I can do for you, Mademoiselle Grenford?”

“No, no. I had no wish to disturb you, Monsieur Fournier. I just wished to sit for a minute and not be interrupted. I can go.”

He put a hand on her arm to stop her rising and snatched it back as if he, too, felt the shock of that connection.” My kitchen is your refuge. I am honored, and only sorry it is so…” He shrugged helplessly, an expressive lift of his shoulders and a wave of his free hand.

“It is nice,” Cedrica confided, “to see everyone working and not to be responsible for any of it.”

He smiled. She had noticed before how the smile transformed his lean dark face, making it seem much younger. “I am responsible for them, and to you, Mademoiselle.”

“To the duchess, surely.”

“Oh no.” He stared at the coffee cup as if it held the secrets of the universe. “To you, Mademoiselle, make no mistake.” His dark lashes swept up, and his eyes, dark as his coffee, looked deep into hers. “My kitchen, my craft, my service. All are devoted to you, Mademoiselle Grenford.” He pushed himself to his feet, flushing slightly. “I should not have spoken. I am tired, I think. Forgive me, Mademoiselle. You need not fear that I will embarrass or importune you. I know my place.”

A loud crash startled Cedrica and drew Monsieur Fournier from her side to berate the boy who had darted through the door without looking just as a maid crossed the room with a stacked pile of serving bowls.

Cedrica sat and sipped until her cup was empty, hoping he would come back, but he did not look at her again, returning instead to conducting the work of the kitchen, and in the end she went back upstairs, where she did not belong any more than she belonged down here.

What good did it do knowing he was attracted to her as she was to him? He was right, of course. The duchess would never countenance such a connection. It was impossible.

Wasn’t it?