When Isabel arrived in the kitchen, she took one look at the bubbling copper pan on top of the range and the kitchen maid having hysterics in the corner, and rushed over to inspect the pan’s contents. White soup… Picking up a wooden spoon from the kitchen table, she stirred it and breathed in the fragrant aroma. Fortunately it wasn’t burning.
Isabel glanced around the large high-vaulted room. It was unusually light and lofty for a kitchen. Rising from the semi-basement to the first floor, the windows were ideally positioned to the left side of the range, so that sufficient natural light streamed in. The kitchen dresser, laden with essential equipment, stood close to a large kitchen table which dominated the room.
Crossing to the maid, she said calmly, “There is no need to cry. What is your name?”
The girl peered up at her and threw her hands up into the air. “I canna cook alone!”
Green, who still stood at the door, shook his head impatiently. “Come, Molly. There is no need to carry on so. Lady Axbridge is here to assist you. But you may not speak of her presence here to anyone – you understand? It is strictly forbidden. Where is Becky?”
“In – in the dry larder…”
On these words, a plump young damsel came into the room. She gazed at Isabel with wide eyes, before looking at the butler inquiringly. As soon as he had explained Isabel’s presence in the kitchen, she bobbed a curtsey. “Glad to help you, milady. Molly and me prepare the vegetables, gravies and sauces over there.” She waved towards two small brick-built ranges beside a cast-iron range. “The vegetables are ready to cook and I’m starting the sauces now.”
Isabel smiled in relief. Here, at least, was a young woman with apparent good sense and a calm nature. “I will leave those to you then, Becky. What fish, meat and poultry dishes are on the menu for tonight?”
“Roast partridge and roast goose – them birds are in the oven already.” She pointed towards the cast-iron range. “Also trout, fillet o’ roasted pork, curry o’ rabbits, roasted venison and a freaky veal with saffron milk caps.” Becky ticked each dish off on her fingers.
“A freaky veal?”
“I do believe Becky means a fricando of veal,” Green said ponderously.
Isabel suppressed another smile. “How many side dishes and desserts still need to be made, Becky? And are any of the main dishes already prepared?”
“Them jellies, custards and desserts are on ice in the pastry room. The apricot and lemon ices are in the ice house out back. Them rabbits and pork are cooked. They’re in the hot closet with some o’ the sides. Keeps ’em warm, it does.”
Isabel took a deep breath, and looked around the kitchen. “Who is the under-cook? Who works most closely with Monsieur Martin?”
Green studied his polished black shoes for a moment, before looking up and staring straight ahead. “Anna is the head kitchen maid, my lady. I am afraid she and the second kitchen maid have retired to their rooms as they are also indisposed.”
“It seems we will have to make the best of things between the three of us.” Isabel nodded her head briskly as Green murmured something about seeing to the wine and left the room. “Please bring me a clean cap and an apron, Becky.”
The maid opened a drawer in the dresser and took out the requested items. Isabel pulled the cap over her hair, and swathed the too-large apron around her slim person, before walking over to the cast-iron range, which had an oven on the one side and a water heater on the other.
She had recently installed a similar one in her kitchen at the Dower House at Axbridge Park, and she breathed a prayer of gratitude that her cousin had modernised his kitchen too. Baking and roasting food in a cast-iron oven, and making sauces and frying dishes on the brick-built charcoal burning ranges, was far superior to cooking food in pots and pans over open flames, as she had done in the long ago past.
She opened the oven and peered inside. The goose and the partridge were roasting side by side, along with the venison.
“When will these be ready?” she asked Becky.
“Just afore dinner is served, milady. Monsieur gets very angry if the food served at table is cold.”
She closed the oven door. “So all the main dishes are prepared except for the fricando of veal and the trout?”
“Yes, milady.”
Isabel passed a hand over her forehead. Her cooking skills were rusty at best, and she wasn’t sure if she would be able to cook the veal and the trout to the high standard required. But she would try, and if they tasted awful, she would just have to leave them off the menu, although Cousin George would be embarrassed if they served a meal with too few main dishes. It smacked of a lack of generosity and hospitality towards his guests.
“Is there a recipe for the fricando of veal?”
“Yes, milady. Anna showed me a picture of it t’other day.”
Becky rushed to the dresser and pulled out a leather bound book, and leafed through it until she came to the desired page.
“Here it is.” She handed the book over.
Isabel sighed. The recipe was in French, of course. Her level of skill in that language was almost as rusty as her cooking abilities. A note at the bottom of the recipe explained that a fricando was the Spanish variation of a French dish called “fricandeu”. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too difficult to prepare. She wasn’t familiar with many foreign recipes and had only ever cooked plain English food at her father’s house.
Becky brought the veal loin into the kitchen and began assembling the rest of the ingredients Isabel needed, while Molly, who had been watching them cautiously, rose and walked across to one of the brick ranges where she stirred the soup and began preparing the vegetables and sauces.
Isabel gave the maid a nod of approval, but said nothing. The last thing she wanted was to trigger another fit of hysterics. Leaving the girl to work alone seemed the best course of action. She glanced at the clock on the wall. They didn’t have much time.
Green returned to the kitchen and informed her that the footmen would be arriving within the hour to fetch the food to table. Mrs Sutton accompanied him, and when she laid eyes on Isabel she said, “My lady, I must apologise… That your ladyship should have to cook the dinner… I would offer my help but I know nothing of this fine French food…” She trailed off and gazed in dismay at Isabel’s apron-clad figure.
“You must not concern yourself over this, Mrs Sutton.”
“Indeed, my lady. But for a Lady to work below stairs in the kitchen… It’s not seemly.” She clasped her hands together. “How may I assist your ladyship?”
“Please take a message to my maid, and inform her that I will not be changing my gown for dinner tonight.”
The housekeeper curtsied, and retreated silently from the kitchen, and Isabel returned her attention to her cooking. She sliced the veal loin into thin cutlets and seasoned them, before dotting the slices with pork lard. Glancing at the recipe, she frowned. It stated that each cutlet must be dusted with white flour and cooked on each side until it was browned. And there was still the sauce to prepare.
“Please come and help me prepare the vegetable sauce, Becky,” she called. “I need you to dice the onions, tomatoes and carrots. Make haste! We are running out of time.”
After she had finished cooking the veal, Isabel fried the trout in butter, and then crossed the kitchen to Molly. “Please plate the trout and take the roasts from the oven.”
A couple of footmen arrived at that moment, and Isabel recognised the male servant who had taken her hat and cloak earlier. He goggled at her, but he had clearly received his instructions from Green, as he did not say a word when she handed him a laden tray.
Isabel was examining the roasts when she looked up and saw Mr Bateman standing at the kitchen door. She drew in a quick breath, and for a moment forgot all about time and place and plating food, as her gaze locked with his. His amused regard swept from the top of her cap-covered curls to the bottom of her apron-draped skirt, before returning to her face again.
He looked every inch the elegant gentleman in his long-tailed navy blue coat and black satin knee breeches. She viewed his immaculate person with dismay. “Please do not come any nearer. There is flour all over the kitchen table and it will ruin your clothes.” And when he continued to study her with a quizzical gleam in his eyes, she lifted her chin. “Why are you here, Mr Bateman?”
“Your cousin asked me to see if you needed any help.”
She raised her eyebrows so high they touched the top of her frilly white cap. Her relative must have windmills in his head if he believed this fashionable gentleman could aid her in any way. “Cousin George asked you?”
“Indeed. He told me his chef had taken ill and that you were preparing the evening meal.”
She shrugged. “Thank you for your kind offer, Mr Bateman, but we have prepared all the courses, and the footmen are taking the dishes to the dining room as we speak.”
He leaned against the door jamb and folded his arms across his chest. “I see,” he murmured.
Isabel glanced at him sharply before returning her attention to the roasts. “Dinner will be served soon, Mr Bateman.”
He straightened. “In that case, I will repair to the drawing room.”
“I am sure I can rely on your discretion, sir…?”
He bowed. “Rest assured, madam, that I have no intention of making either of us fodder for the rumour mill.” He studied her for a long moment. “I suspect we have both suffered enough in that regard in the past.”
He turned on his heel, and strode away, leaving Isabel staring after him, the roasts quite forgotten. The expression in his eyes had been surprisingly sympathetic. Why had he softened his attitude towards her? After their first encounter, she had been convinced he held her in dislike. Shaking her head, she put him out of her mind. She needed to concentrate on presenting the food in an expert manner. No clue must be given that it had been prepared by a complete amateur.
Chapter Four
Isabel looked up anxiously when Green entered the kitchen much later that evening. She was sitting at the table, paging through a recipe book in the hope that it would distract her from thinking about the meal she had sent upstairs.
“Have the guests retired for the evening?”
The butler bowed. “Indeed, my lady. And may I say that dinner was very well received.”
Isabel breathed a sigh of relief. “I will retire now, Green. Would you ask Becky to bring a light meal up to my bedchamber on a tray? I will come downstairs early tomorrow morning in order to supervise the preparation of breakfast.”
She removed her cap and apron, pausing as she left the kitchen to inspect her appearance in the mirror hanging on the wall in the corridor leading to the Servants’ Hall.
Her nose shone, and her golden curls, which Simmonds had so dexterously arranged that morning, were in total disarray. Hopefully she wouldn’t encounter any house guests as she made her way up to her bedchamber. Poking at her hair in a half-hearted manner, she shrugged and turned away. Her maid would be horrified when she saw her.
Isabel walked along the passage before turning sharply to the right and climbing up the servants’ staircase which came out at the back of the hall. She had just gone through the concealed servants’ entrance and was making her way towards the grand staircase, when she heard a knock on the front door. What a late hour for a visitor to arrive! She quickened her pace, but she wasn’t quick enough. A footman hovering in the vicinity opened the door, and a gentleman and two ladies entered, bringing a blast of freezing cold air with them. Isabel stared in dismay, at a complete loss for words.
The members of the small party hurried into the warmth of the hall, but they came to an abrupt halt as they stared back at her. The silence stretched into eternity until a voice from the back of the hall broke the spell.
“Lord Fenmore!” Cousin George, having no doubt heard the unexpected knock, emerged from the library. As he hurried to greet the visitors blown in by the storm, Mr Bateman appeared too, following at a more leisurely pace behind him.
“Do come in out of the cold.” Cousin George bowed in the direction of the ladies, and said, “Lady Fenmore…”
Isabel wished the floor would open up and swallow her as Lord Fenmore advanced in to the hall. “Thank you, Chernock. It is snowing heavily outside. We hoped to reach Fenmore Park this evening, but this weather has slowed us down. May we beg rooms for the night?
“Of course, of course! Please come into the drawing room, my lord. Have you dined?”
“We dined earlier on the road, thank you. You are acquainted with my mother, but I believe you have not as yet been introduced to my betrothed, Miss Hamilton.” Lord Fenmore’s gaze swept towards the staircase where Isabel stood, and he bowed. “Lady Axbridge. Bateman.”
Isabel blinked, vaguely aware that Mr Bateman had come to stand beside her. She inclined her head in the general direction of Lord Fenmore’s party, and somehow managed to force a smile to her lips as Lady Fenmore and Miss Hamilton smiled hesitantly at her and murmured greetings. Cousin George, after a brief glance in her direction, stepped forward and ushered his unexpected guests into the saloon.
Isabel stared after them in a trance. Julian was here… Julian. She clenched her hands together. How could this be possible? What particular twist of malevolent fate had decreed that she meet her erstwhile sweetheart here? She had hoped to put him out of her mind at this house party in the bustle and activity of meeting new people and renewing old acquaintances. The last thing she wanted was this kind of forced proximity to him. And his betrothed…
“You will have to mask your emotions better, Lady Axbridge, if you hope to survive this house party.”
Isabel spun in shock. Mr Bateman leaned against the wooden balustrade of the staircase, with his arms crossed. This was the second time this man had seen her at a complete disadvantage. “Sir, I – I was not aware that you were still here.”
“Do you intend to retire to your bedchamber for the next few days with the headache, my lady?” he asked, calmly scrutinising her face.
Isabel raised her chin. “I am not so faint-hearted as to retreat to my bedchamber in such a manner!”
“Bravo, madam. I salute you.”
“I will retreat to the kitchens.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “So you are going to run away.”
“Someone has to prepare the meals, Mr Bateman.”
He looked around the empty hallway, and frowned. “I will not keep you now, as I know you are eager to retire to your bedchamber. However, you must not avoid the Fenmore party if you wish to prevent tongues from wagging.”
Isabel crossed her arms. “Why do you care, Mr Bateman? About how people regard me?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “You have the look of a gazelle in distress upon occasion.”
Silence stretched between them. “Well, I bid you goodnight, Mr Bateman. I will be rising early to supervise the preparation of breakfast. Did… did you enjoy the dishes served at dinner?”
“They were delicious.”
Isabel nodded, before walking quickly up the stairs. When she reached her bedchamber, she opened the door, and saw Simmonds standing beside the bed.
“My lady! Your mama informed me you cooked the evening meal…”
“Indeed. The chef collapsed in the kitchen and I offered my assistance.”
“But, but…” Her middle-aged maid opened and closed her mouth like a flailing fish. “I cannot believe you have been reduced to working in a kitchen once again, my lady. Not when you are a Marchioness. When you were plain Miss Beresford it was scandal enough that your papa couldn’t afford a decent cook. I believed those days were far behind us.”
Isabel smiled fleetingly. “You must not concern yourself so. It will not be for long. Besides, it is only until after breakfast tomorrow. By then the new London chef and his assistants should have arrived.”
“I will accompany you to the kitchen in the morning, my lady.”
Isabel kicked her slippers off her aching feet. “I have no need of your assistance, Simmonds.”
“Wherever you go, my lady, I will go too,” her maid said in a longsuffering voice.
“You sound like Ruth following Naomi to a foreign land.”
“Well, the kitchen should be a foreign land for a Lady,” Simmonds sniffed.
* * *
The next morning, Isabel woke early, and although she wished she could turn over in her warm bed and go back to sleep, she dressed and made her way downstairs, accompanied by Simmonds, who carried a lamp. Although it was still dark, a number of housemaids were about, dusting, sweeping and polishing in the passages and the stairway, and they paused in their duties to gaze at Isabel as she passed.
When she entered the kitchen, she greeted Becky and Molly, who were setting out ingredients on the kitchen table. Isabel crossed to the kitchen dresser and removed a cap and apron from a drawer. Simmonds rushed forward to help her, but Isabel waved her aside and attired herself before walking over to the kitchen table.
“How are the preparations for breakfast progressing, Becky?”
The kitchen maid put down the bowl she held in her hands. “I’m baking the cakes, milady, and there is a ham in the meat larder… Becky has just put the French bread and brioche in t’oven.”
“I will assist you with baking the cakes then, and Simmonds can help Molly.”
They set to work, and preparations were well under way for the morning meal when the door opened and Cousin George entered the room, with Mr Bateman beside him.
Isabel glanced up distractedly from her mixing bowl as the two gentlemen greeted her and approached the kitchen table. “I am afraid I have some bad news, my dear,” Cousin George said. “My steward has just informed me that the roads are closed, and no-one is getting through as a snow-laden tree has fallen across the only access road into the nearest village.”
Isabel stared at him in dismay and sank onto a nearby chair. “Oh no! What are we to do now?”
Chapter Five
“I have brought Mr Bateman to help you,” Cousin George said.
Isabel stared at Mr Bateman incredulously. “You know how to cook, Mr Bateman?”
“I worked in a kitchen under the supervision of a French chef for a couple of years,” he said, crossing his arms.
She tilted her head to one side. “A strange pursuit for a gentleman… Did you find it a rewarding occupation?”
“It was a way in which I could earn my living, and it proved to be an enjoyable post. I am quite prepared to take over from you, my lady.”
“It is no hardship for me to stay below stairs,” Isabel said quietly.
Cousin George nodded. “You have been placed in an insupportable position, my dear, with Fenmore arriving here so unexpectedly. I do believe, however, that you should not be seen to be taking flight. Besides, it is also no hardship for Mr Bateman.” He cast an amused glance at his friend. “He is being – er – pursued by Miss Wetherby. I believe he would like to spend some time away from her and her matchmaking Mama. I will inform the two ladies that he is indisposed.”
“I believe it will be best if Lady Axbridge assists with the meal preparations during the day, but dines with the rest of the guests in the evening,” Mr Bateman said.
“That is advisable. Tell me, my dear, do we have sufficient supplies for the meals that need to be prepared?”
“Your chef has laid in an extensive array of provisions for the house party,” Isabel answered.
“Excellent, excellent.” The crease disappeared from between his eyes. “You and your dear mama are managing my domestic arrangements admirably. Your mama will have her hands full thinking up ways to entertain our guests, now that we are housebound.”
Cousin George tapped the edge of the kitchen table with his fingers, a pensive expression on his lean countenance. “I have been meaning to petition Fenmore for a seat in the House of Commons. Having him unexpectedly under my roof provides an ideal opportunity for me to do so, but I will need to provide some distraction for the Wetherbys so that I can get Lord Fenmore on his own today.”
He spoke to Mr Bateman, and Isabel, after a quick glance at the clock on the wall, hastily turned her attention to the cakes which needed to be baked. When her cousin left the room a short while later, she glanced up to see Mr Bateman studying her.
“Let me assist you with those cakes, my lady.”
“Thank you. Becky!” she called. The maid, along with Molly and Simmonds, had disappeared into the dry larder when the gentlemen had made their unexpected appearance in the kitchen.
The young girl poked her head out of the larder. “Yes, milady?”
“Mr Bateman will assist us in the kitchen today. Please bring him a toque and an apron.”
Becky’s eyes widened. “Yes, milady.” She hurried to the kitchen dresser, and while Mr Bateman attired himself appropriately, Isabel cracked an egg into a bowl for the plum cake she was baking.
“Let me do that for you, while you grate the sugar.” Mr Bateman took the bowl out of her hands.
His fingers brushed hers and Isabel whipped her hands behind her back. “You – you need to leave out half of the egg whites.”
Flustered, she looked away and rested her gaze on the cake ingredients Becky had placed on the table. A sugar container with the words “East India Sugar not made by Slaves” inscribed on it caught her eye.
She picked up the container and took out the small cone, before grating the sugar into a large mixing bowl. “I am grateful Cousin George forbids slave-grown sugar in his household. I would be vastly uncomfortable baking with Caribbean sugar.”
Mr Bateman raised one brow. “I would be surprised if he did stock slave-grown sugar when he is seeking a seat in the House of Commons to work towards the abolition of slavery.”
Isabel stopped grating to stare at him. “I did not know that.”
“That is why Cherny is trying to keep Captain Wetherby and his son away from Lord Fenmore. Fenmore is known to have abolitionist views and the Wetherbys own a sugar plantation in Antigua. It makes for an awkward house party.”
“I cannot understand why Cousin George invited the Wetherbys here if they are slave owners.”
Mr Bateman picked up the open recipe book which Isabel had placed on the table. “I believe Mrs Wetherby is a close childhood friend of your Cousin Maria and it was she who invited the family.”
“Oh.” Isabel frowned as she put the sugar cone back into the container. She began sifting the flour. “When the slave trade was abolished, slavery should have been abolished as well. It is a disgrace that it continues.” She looked across at him. “Do you not agree?”
“I find my fellow countrymen somewhat inconsistent.” He placed the recipe book back on the table. “The protestations over sugar, rum and tobacco products are admirable, but there are very few protests about the importation of slave-grown cotton. Raw slave cotton is imported from America and manufactured in our textile mills. That apron you wear is made from cotton. So is your cap, and I daresay that charming gown you are attired in. Refusing to use slave-grown sugar, yet walking around in slave-grown cotton seems hypocritical to me.”
Isabel drew in a sharp breath, and absently rubbed the cotton material of the slightly out-of-date morning dress she had donned that morning to work in the kitchen. A number of the garments she wore on a daily basis were made of cotton. Many of her gowns were muslins woven in India, of course, but she wore cotton stays and morning dresses. Yet it wasn’t something she had given much thought to in the past. She frowned. “Why is so little said about the cotton trade?”
He picked up the blanched Jordan almonds from the table, and poured them in the marble mortar. “The slavery abolitionists have chosen the easiest targets to protest against. The cotton trade is far too important to the continued wealth of this country for any protests against it to be taken seriously.”
She sighed. “And we cannot walk about unclothed…”
The minute the words were out her mouth, she wished them unsaid. The gleam in Mr Bateman’s eyes as his gaze swept from the top of her head to the tips of her toes was unmistakeable.
Her cheeks grew as fiery as the coals in the kitchen range, and Mr Bateman looked even more amused when he studied her face.
She stared speechlessly at him, finding it impossible to look away, until he said, “Let us make haste, my lady. If we don’t, these cakes will not be ready in time for breakfast.”
“In-indeed… Here are the dry ingredients.” Isabel handed him the bowl, and turning on her heel, she rushed to the other side of the room to check on the bread in the oven. The further away she stayed from Mr Bateman, the better.
She eyed him surreptitiously as he issued instructions to Becky and Molly. He seemed entirely at ease in the kitchen, and she had the subtle impression that she had been demoted from Captain of the ship to Captain’s clerk. Gone was the leisurely gentleman from yesterday, taking his ease at a country house party. Now he appeared brisk, efficient and utterly in command.
The footmen arrived an hour or so later, and Isabel sank gratefully onto a chair after all the breakfast dishes had been taken upstairs. Becky placed a pot of tea and a couple of tea cups on the kitchen table before them, and Mr Bateman drew up a chair beside Isabel’s.
She handed him a cup of tea, and said in a rush of words: “I trust that Cousin George will be able to make progress in the movement to abolish slavery. It is a terrible thing in this enlightened age that one human being can still be the property of another.”
“You would have knowledge of that,” he said quietly. “Were you not once sold yourself?”
She wrapped her arms around her middle. How did he know about her father’s actions? “I would never deign to compare marrying into a life of comfort and luxury to those poor wretched souls, sold into abject misery.”
“But you were still sold, my lady.” His voice was gentle.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away. “You speak out of turn, sir!” She looked down at the kitchen table. “Did Cousin George inform you of this?”
“I heard the rumours about your broken engagement, and how you married Axbridge shortly afterwards. That was just before I left England. However, I cannot believe you threw Fenmore over willingly. You have a very revealing face, my dear.”
She ignored the endearment as she stared at him. He hadn’t answered her question. The circumstances which had surrounded her marriage to the Marquess of Axbridge had been kept private. Very few people knew her father had forced her to end her betrothal to the man she loved as he had been unable to resist the bride price the Marquess of Axbridge had dangled so temptingly before him.
Marrying an old man in ill health, who had seen her merely as a pretty decoration to be displayed in his home, had been deeply distressing. But knowing her father had allowed the Marquess to pay him a substantial amount of money to settle his debts as part of the marriage settlement had been heart-breaking, as it had shown her that he viewed her merely as his property, another slave, just as Mr Bateman had pointed out.
She had saved her family’s fortunes, but she had lost her dignity and freedom in the process. And the irony of it all was that Julian’s father and his older brother had died a few years ago and her erstwhile suitor had eventually come into the fortune which her father had once deemed so lacking.
She picked up her cup of tea and took a quick sip. “Slavery in all its forms is abhorrent.” She glanced up at him then, and caught her breath at the sympathy she saw in his eyes.
* * *
Later that day, Isabel turned this way and that as she examined her reflection in the glass in her bedchamber. Her pale green silk evening gown, embroidered in a delicate leaf pattern, glowed in the candlelight. The broad, square neckline and moderately puffed sleeves were bordered by gold lace, which matched the softly scalloped lace which trimmed the overskirt. She tweaked a ringlet into place.
“Will I do, Simmonds?”
“My lady, you look beautiful.”
“Jewellery?”
“The cameo necklace and earring set?”
Isabel nodded, and stood still as her maid attached the gold filigree necklace, with the oval cameo in the centre, around her neck, before fastening the matching earrings. “My evening gloves, please.”
Simmonds helped her pull the long white gloves up her arms and Isabel took a deep breath as she prepared to leave her bedchamber. Her mother had spun some story to the Fenmore party and the Wetherbys that she had been nursing Cousin Maria all day, which was why she hadn’t made an appearance as yet. But now she had to face them all.
When she entered the drawing room, there were only two women present. Lady Fenmore and Miss Hamilton sat on the settee. They turned at Isabel’s entrance and the older lady smiled graciously at her. “My dear Lady Axbridge, I hear from your mama that you have been attending your cousin on her sickbed. I hope she is feeling more the thing?”
Isabel sat on a chair across from the two ladies, near the blazing fire. “Good evening, ma’am, Miss Hamilton.” She smiled at the younger woman, who had risen to curtsey. “My poor cousin is taking a while to recover from the influenza. She believes, however, that she will be on her feet within the next week.”
“That is to be hoped,” Lady Fenmore said. “It is dreadful to feel so pulled, particularly with a houseful of guests.”
“I hope you are comfortable, Lady Fenmore?”
“Indeed we are, my dear. And what a splendid library your cousin has. Miss Hamilton spent a large portion of the day there browsing the shelves.”
“Your cousin caters for readers of all tastes, Lady Axbridge. I curled up in a window seat this morning, and read Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” Miss Hamilton said.
“Byron is one of my favourite poets, although my mama is wont to believe he is excessively melancholic.” Isabel’s shoulders relaxed. Both Lady Fenmore and Miss Hamilton’s manners were impeccable in the face of a difficult social situation. She had, of course, met Lady Fenmore when she had accepted her son’s proposal all those years ago, and she had been most gracious and kind. Now, her demeanour was just as sympathetic, and her soon-to-be daughter-in-law’s chosen topic of conversation was not to be faulted.
She was about to ask Miss Hamilton her thoughts on Byron’s earlier works when she saw the other lady’s expression change as she looked across the room. Lord Fenmore and Cousin George had arrived.
Lord Fenmore was splendidly attired in evening dress, and his patrician features softened as he approached Miss Hamilton. It was clear he had eyes for no-one else, even though he bowed politely in Isabel’s direction and murmured a greeting.
Very shortly afterwards the rest of the guests followed them, including her mother who was conversing with Mrs Wetherby, who seemed quite put out about something. When her mother came over to her a few moments later, she murmured, “Mrs Wetherby is concerned about Mr Bateman’s indisposition.”
“Ah. I see. I did wonder.”
Isabel smiled and made polite conversation with the various members of the house party, including the Vicar who had come up to the Hall for dinner, but it was as if she were acting on a stage, while watching her own performance. How detached she was from it all! What a blessed relief to feel so numb, as if her feelings had been frozen into the ice sculpture Mr Bateman had so painstakingly created earlier in the day. She had watched with fascination as he had taken his scalpel and created the magnificent eagle destined to adorn the centre of the dining room table.
When Green announced that dinner was served, Isabel led the procession of guests from the drawing room into the adjoining saloon, and then beyond to the dining room. Fortunately, she, as the highest ranking female at the house party, would sit at the foot of the table at Cousin George’s right, while Lord Fenmore, as the highest ranking male guest, would sit on the right side of her mother at the head of the table. She would not have to speak to him, thank heavens. It was a small mercy, especially as it was obvious he was in love with Miss Hamilton.
After the guests had taken their seats, the Vicar said grace and the meal began. They were served the first course, which was the soup Isabel had prepared only a few hours previously. She supped the broth cautiously and breathed a sigh of relief. It tasted just like soup should taste, which was all she could hope for at this point.
“You are not too fatigued, Cousin Isabel?” her cousin asked.
Seeing the inquiring light in his eyes, Isabel smiled. “I am quite well, thank you.”
After the first course was completed, Cousin George served her from the platters closest to him on the table, and poured her a glass of wine. A multitude of dishes were spread across the table, including roast partridge, a number of jellies, a variety of vegetables, custards, puddings and game. Isabel glanced at the array of food, and swallowed nervously. Hopefully it would be up to the standard the guests expected.
Cousin George carved the roast beef and the partridge, before he proposed a toast to the general health of his guests. In response, Lord Fenmore said, “We thank you for your fine hospitality, Chernock. Indeed, I have been saying to Mrs Beresford that you have a genius at work in the kitchen. I travelled to India as a youth and enjoyed their curries. For years I have been asking my chef to replicate the recipes, with little success. He is averse to the flavours of the East and stubbornly adheres to French recipes. If it is not too much of an imposition, would you send your chef up here so I may compliment him, and request he share his secrets?”
Cousin George froze. “Of course, of course, Fenmore. Green will send a message to him. I am sure he will be delighted to write down some of his recipes for you.”
“No, indeed, I would like to meet this genius and compliment him on his efforts,” Lord Fenmore insisted.
Cousin George nodded at the butler. “Please ask my chef to come upstairs, Green.”
Isabel’s stomach dropped. How on earth could Mr Bateman avoid coming upstairs after Lord Fenmore had specifically requested to speak to him? It would smack of great incivility and impertinence if he sent up some excuse. But to meet Lord Fenmore face to face would invite disaster.
Her heart raced and her forehead became unpleasantly clammy. She stopped eating, and waited in a fatalistic way for the sword of Damocles to descend upon their heads. Poor Cousin George would be humiliated beyond belief and it would be impossible to avoid the scandal which would spread as a tasty on-dit throughout the ton, the moment the guests left Chernock Hall.
Minutes ticked away, and Isabel gave her cousin a sidelong glance. He looked outwardly calm but a fine sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead, and he held his glass of wine a little too tightly as he brought it to his lips. A lot was at stake for him. She did not know if he had approached Lord Fenmore as yet about the seat in the House of Commons, but the upshot from this evening could be that Lord Fenmore would be ill-disposed to assist him in any way.
The door to the dining room opened eventually, and Green entered, followed by Mr Bateman. However, it wasn’t Mr Bateman. Isabel gazed in astonishment at the caricature before her. Mr Bateman must have raided the amateur theatrical closet in the Little Parlour.
His closely-cropped blond hair had been covered by a wig, and his chef’s toque perched on top of it. A large curling moustache had been affixed over his mouth, and he had changed into a footman’s livery, of fancy coat, knee breeches and stockings, over which he had swathed a large white apron. He looked like a cross between an English servant and a Frenchman gone mad.
He bowed politely to the assembled company, and Lord Fenmore said: “I congratulate you, my good man, on preparing the best curry I have tasted this side of India. Your master has assured me you will not be averse to sharing your recipes.”
Mr Bateman bowed again, and spoke in rolling accents: “It ees indeed un honneur that Monsieur le Comte has requested my présence above the stairs.”
“What spices did you use in your sauce, if I may ask?”
Mr Bateman spread his arms wide. “I utilise many, many spices, Monsieur le Comte. Particulièrement ginger, cayenne, turmeric, cumin and fenugreek. C'est un mélange.”
Lord Fenmore smiled across at George, before he addressed Mr Bateman once more. “If I wished to make an enemy of your employer, I would attempt to lure you away. As it is, I will merely request that you write down your recipes. Better yet, when the snow has melted, I will send my chef here for a day to learn from the hand of a master.”
“Indeed,” Cousin George said smoothly. “Assisting one’s neighbour is one of the virtues, is it not? We will be delighted to oblige.”
Isabel stole a glance at Mr Bateman. He was a brilliant actor. If she had not known he had donned a disguise, she would have been as convinced as the rest of the party that the man standing before her was an eccentric French chef. From the gesticulations he made with his hands, to his perfect accent, he epitomised a Gallic artiste.
He glanced her way, and Isabel held her breath. The expression of unholy amusement in those eyes was unsettling, and for a brief moment, she could not look away. Gradually, she became aware of her surroundings, and lowered her gaze to the cream tablecloth. Mr Bateman appeared to be enjoying himself hugely. He was an incorrigible man, of that there was no doubt, but she couldn’t help but admire him for the confident way he had handled a very awkward situation.
She looked up again and their eyes caught and held. Then she peeked at Lady Kildaren, who was seated further down the table, and they shared a conspiratorial smile. The older lady gave a brief nod before saying in a regal voice, “You are a most accomplished chef, my good man. Most talented.”
Isabel repressed a horrified giggle and stared down at the table. They were all getting in very deep.
Chapter Six
The next morning, after she had assisted with the breakfast preparations, Isabel visited her mother in her dressing room. “Good morning, Mama.”
“My dear Belle!” Her mother laid aside the book she was reading as she reclined in her fine silk dressing gown. “How do you go on? Is it dreadful to be working in that kitchen?”
“I am quite enjoying the cooking – the kitchen is remarkably well equipped.” Isabel sat on the sofa beside her. “It is strange to be working with Mr Bateman, however. I shudder to think what might have happened last night if Lord Fenmore had seen through his disguise.”
Her mother chuckled. “Mr Bateman had the advantage over Lord Fenmore in that he would never have suspected Mr Bateman could cook. I admit to a few qualms myself after he asked to meet him, although I suspected Mr Bateman would carry the day. He is nothing if not a resourceful man, according to Cousin George.”
“He looked ridiculous in that costume.”
“Cousin George says Mr Bateman had to live on his wits when he was banished to America. He is probably used to thinking on his feet in difficult circumstances. Lady Kildaren told me so as well. I am surprised she didn’t swoon at the dining table last night when Mr Bateman came upstairs.”
“She is made of much sterner stuff than that, I suspect. Rather like her grandson.”
“Cousin George maintains he would never have made such a success of their shipping venture without Mr Bateman at his side. Of course, it helped that Mr Bateman inherited a tidy sum upon his grandfather’s passing and invested it wisely. He has recently inherited his family estate, as well, so it is a good thing the pair of them returned home when they did!”
Isabel smiled, but said nothing, and her mother said, “Why do you look so? As if you are harbouring a secret?”
“Are you not aware, Mama dear, that you quote Cousin George at every turn?”
“Isabel Jane! Whatever are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I believe Cousin George has equally warm feelings for you.”
Her usually unflappable mother turned a delicate shade of pink. “Oh my dear, do you think so? He – he is so very much the gentleman. So agreeable and – and considerate of others. However, it cannot be – his age!”
“What of his age?”
“He is seven years my junior. It is quite scandalous to even think in this vein. Children!” she said in a strangled voice. “My age!”
“He is a widower, Mama. It would perhaps be a different matter if he had never been married and hadn’t a son. But William is grown and at Cambridge. There is no reason why Cousin George should not propose to you now.”
“He was such a support when your papa died. I did wonder these past two years, after he returned home, whether he may regard me in a warmer light. However, he – he hasn’t declared himself or even hinted at his intentions.”
“Of course not, Mama. He has had to wait a respectable interval after Papa’s death to court you. Besides, I believe he has been renovating Chernock Hall for his bride. I believe he is in love with you.”
“My dear, it would be wonderful if that were so. However, I – well, never mind about that now. I have been wondering how you are faring? Is it very painful to see Lord Fenmore and Miss Hamilton together?”
Isabel shrugged. Her feelings were strangely numb. “It isn’t easy. But I must accustom myself to it.”
“Indeed! You rusticated for years at Axbridge, with only your memories of Fenmore to bring you any comfort, and perhaps that is why it is still so painful for you. Getting out into Society and meeting new people will do you the world of good. You are still young enough to find another husband.”
“I don’t want another husband.”
Her mother sighed. “But surely you want children, Belle?”
“Not if it means I must suffer the loss of my independence. I am finally free, Mama. Do you not see that? I have my jointure, and I am not dependent on the whims of a husband. I loved Julian. I don’t believe I will ever find another love like that. Besides, independence I have long considered as the grand blessing of life; and independence I will ever secure by contracting my wants, though I were to live on a barren heath.”
“Well a barren heath sounds far more comfortable than a barren womb,” her mother said tartly. “I should never have allowed you to read Mary Wollstonecraft as a girl! Her ideas are vastly unfashionable these days. You must refrain from quoting her if you wish to be accepted in Society.”
“The only good thing about being married to Axbridge was the unfettered access I had to his library. I have read so widely that I believe I am no longer a natural fit for Society.”
“But, Isabel! You need the company of others. You cannot continue to live like a hermit. I rue the day your papa agreed to marry you off as he did. You became a recluse, chained to an ailing man.” She sighed. “And you are so very beautiful, my love. You could marry again, and have a family. That is my dearest wish for you.”
“Taught from infancy that beauty is woman’s sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.”
“Well, the prison you inhabit has certain benefits! Now, let us have no more of Wollstonecraft’s quotes. I believe you are hiding behind her ideas as you are too frightened to take another chance on love.”
“I will never marry again.”
“Hmmm,” was all her mother said in response.
Isabel left the dressing room a short while later, and made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. When she entered the lofty room, she saw a short, stout man standing at the kitchen range, interrogating Becky.
He turned and threw his hands in the air. “What is this I hear of house guests cooking in my kitchen? C’est insupportable!”
“I am pleased you have recovered, Monsieur. We have been assisting Becky and Molly with the cooking.”
“We? We?”
“Oui.”
At that moment, the kitchen door opened, and Mr Bateman strode in, bringing a blast of freezing cold air with him. He bowed in Isabel’s direction. “A path has been made to the home farm, so fresh supplies will be delivered to the kitchen this morning.”
Mr Bateman was swathed in a greatcoat and wore sturdy hob-nail boots on his feet. He carried some sort of tool, which consisted of a flat board and a rope.
“Have you been packing down the snow to the outbuildings yourself, Mr Bateman?”
“A groom from the stables assisted me.”
“I am sure my cousin would not like you to do such work.”
“I do not enjoy being cooped up indoors all day, my lady. I welcomed the exercise.” He looked across at the Frenchman, whose mouth was opening and closing like a dying trout. “Monsieur Martin?” he said.
“Indeed, it is I. I have been hearing these – these strange rumeurs – that you and Madame la Marquise have been cooking in my kitchen!”
“It was out of necessity, Monsieur. We will be delighted to hand back the reins to you now you are recovered.”
Isabel studied the chef. He looked a little pale, but it was doubtful he would agree to return to his bedchamber for the rest of the day.
“Where is Anna?” Monsieur Martin asked suddenly.
“I am afraid she is also unwell, and is recovering in her bedchamber,” Isabel said.
“But this cannot be! She is ma main droite. The other girls – bah!”
“I will assist you with the meal preparations, Monsieur.”
“As will I,” Mr Bateman said.
Monsieur Martin puffed out his cheeks in an alarming fashion, and hurried to the pantry, muttering under his breath.
Isabel caught Mr Bateman’s eye, and smiled. “Perhaps it would be best if we alternate duties in the kitchen to avoid suspicion that one of us is always absent during the day? We will also both be able to dine upstairs now that Monsieur is back on his feet.”
Mr Bateman inclined his head, but said nothing, and Isabel sighed. Perhaps he had no desire to join the house party again, if it meant being exposed to the blandishments of Miss Wetherby and her mother. But it could not be helped. It was time they took their rightful places in the world again.
* * *
The gentlemen joined the ladies promptly after dinner that evening, and Mr Bateman entered the drawing room on seemingly excellent terms with Captain Wetherby. After conversing with the older man for a lengthy period, Mr Bateman made his way across the room to where Mr Wetherby and his sister were playing a hand of piquet.
Isabel, seated on the sofa beside Lady Kildaren, forced herself to pay attention to the old lady, who was making astringent observations about the state of modern society. Occasionally, Isabel allowed her gaze to wander to the other side of the room, which was how she came to catch Mr Wetherby’s eye.
He nodded and smiled, and crossed the room to join them. “Would you care to stroll to the end of the drawing room with me, Lady Axbridge? There is a painting on the wall there which fills me with admiration.”
Isabel glanced apologetically at Lady Kildaren, before standing and placing her hand in the crook of Mr Wetherby’s proffered arm.
“You are looking particularly beautiful tonight, your ladyship,” he said smoothly.
Isabel gave him a perfunctory smile. On the surface, Mr Wetherby appeared well-mannered and gentlemanlike, but there was a curiously cold expression in his eyes which made her uncomfortable. Though he did not possess his father’s florid complexion and booming voice, Isabel had no doubt he would age to be the exact image of his sire.
“Here it is.” Mr Wetherby drew her to a halt.
Isabel looked at the painting, which was of a ballroom scene. In the forefront, a gentleman leaned forward to converse with a lady, who sat alone on a settee, holding a fan in her hands.
“The lady appears somewhat reluctant,” Isabel said. “She holds that fan as if it were a shield.”
Mr Wetherby laughed. “To my eyes, she is eager to speak to her suitor. A woman is often most captivated by the man she appears to be holding at bay.”
“She is not smiling,” Isabel said. “More often than not, an appearance of indifference is precisely that.”
“Ha! The ancient art of dissimulation.”
Isabel clenched her teeth, and stepped away from Mr Wetherby, just as Mr Bateman came to her side and said, “Lady Axbridge, my grandmother begs a word with you about the indoor entertainments you are planning for tomorrow.”
Isabel placed her hand on his outstretched arm, and nodded to Mr Wetherby before walking away from him.
“You appear to be grinding your teeth,” Mr Bateman said. “Are you vexed with Mr Wetherby or with me?”
“Why should I be vexed with you?”
“Do you really wish me to answer that question?” He smiled lazily down at her.
Isabel’s cheeks warmed. “Sir! You presume too much. You do not know my thoughts – so please desist from trying to examine them. They are of a private nature.”
“Your thoughts and feelings spill out onto your features, my dear. Your eyes and mouth were never meant to repress emotion. They are too expressive for that.”
Isabel frowned. He spoke as if he knew her, and could see beneath the layers she had put between herself and the world. She moved away from him, and took refuge beside her mother, who was outlining the planned activities for the following day to Lady Kildaren.
“I think a game of charades would be a fine activity to alleviate the boredom of being housebound. Do you not agree, Belle?”
“Indeed, Mama. Cousin George has an excellent selection of costumes from which we can choose.”
The conversation turned to a discussion of amateur dramatics when Lady Kildaren was a young girl, and Isabel avoided looking at Mr Bateman again. Why did he feel the need to challenge her at every turn? It was vastly uncomfortable to have him prodding and poking around in her affairs every time she had a conversation with him. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to see right beneath the trappings of her rank and title and position. It was unnerving – and it would not do at all. She must keep him at arm’s length from now on.