seen him for a while.”
“But there’s an army of scullions to do the washing up and sweeping. Oh, and a fine laundry, where they make sure the linen is smooth and free of spots.”
“And the rest of the household?” she continued. “The housekeeper?”
“Well”—Axel glanced at Greeve—“there’s not one appointed, just now. His Lordship’s steward has been stepping in—”
“The kitchens, demoiselle, they are magnificent,” Greeve intervened. “Half a dozen hearths, each with special metal ovens. Stone sinks … piped water … tall ceilings with louvers at the top. Good heavy oak tables and walnut chopping blocks … every size and shape of pot you could desire.”
“His Lordship’s father built the kitchen to Old Jean’s specifications,” Axel added. “Old Jean was the head cook some years back. In latter days, he was called Grand Jean to distinguish him from his assistant and pupil, Petit Jean …”
Thus, the story of the count’s former cook came tumbling out. For years, they said, the count’s family had employed Jean de Champagne, the finest cook in the south of France. The old fellow was declining in health and had begun to train an apprentice to carry on his jealously guarded techniques when he suffered a massive stroke and died. On the very day Grand Jean was stricken, Petit Jean disappeared and was never heard from again. The kitchens reeled from the double loss of master and student and, from that day to this, had never recovered. It was a great mystery, they declared, bringing Julia’s thoughts to a mystery closer at hand.
“Why does His Lordship wear that band of metal across his nose?”
Greeve and Axel exchanged glances and looked uncomfortably toward the horizon where the count had disappeared.
“His Lordship is afflicted with a wicked-keen sense of smell,” Greeve answered in confidential tones. “Smells that to us are slightly unpleasant and fairly harmless make an unbearable assault upon his senses. He prefers to forego all smells in order to prevent the miasma that comes over him when he removes it.” He leaned in and grew quieter still. “We’ve found it best not to speak of it.”
“Mentioning it puts him in a temper,” Axel added in a whisper.
“Hmmm. And is that temper responsible for the fact that he currently has no cook?” She knew she had struck a nerve when the pair drew back and looked as if answering would be tantamount to treason. “Just how many cooks has His Lordship had since Grand Jean died?”
Axel began recalling and tallying them on his thick, stubby fingers.
“Nine, demoiselle,” he submitted.
“That is a quite a number—”
“In seven years.” Greeve put it into perspective.
“Oh.” She swallowed hard and looked to Regine, who blanched.
“But now all of that will change. You will transform His Lordship’s kitchens and satisfy his hunger and sweeten his temper,” Greeve said with something of a forced smile.
“Sweeten his temper.” Julia straightened, thinking of the huge, irascible presence that had flattened her against the kitchen wall. “Of course I will.”
Reassured, Sir Axel and Sir Greeve peeled away to ride back to the front of the column, leaving Julia staring after them with a sense of impending disaster. How on earth was she to cook for a man who held his nose against the world? Half of the pleasure of food derived from the smelling of it!
What if he decided he hated her cooking? She grabbed the planking seat on each side of her and squeezed until her knuckles whitened. What if she couldn’t please him and he packed her up and sent her back to the convent?
After a few moments, her reeling thoughts stumbled on the memory of him as she had first seen him: with gravy down his chin and crumbs all over his tunic. He had already tasted her food and found it so agreeable that he braved the abbess and bishop and Duke of Avalon to purchase her services. Her racing heart began to slow. The old cook they spoke
“But there’s an army of scullions to do the washing up and sweeping. Oh, and a fine laundry, where they make sure the linen is smooth and free of spots.”
“And the rest of the household?” she continued. “The housekeeper?”
“Well”—Axel glanced at Greeve—“there’s not one appointed, just now. His Lordship’s steward has been stepping in—”
“The kitchens, demoiselle, they are magnificent,” Greeve intervened. “Half a dozen hearths, each with special metal ovens. Stone sinks … piped water … tall ceilings with louvers at the top. Good heavy oak tables and walnut chopping blocks … every size and shape of pot you could desire.”
“His Lordship’s father built the kitchen to Old Jean’s specifications,” Axel added. “Old Jean was the head cook some years back. In latter days, he was called Grand Jean to distinguish him from his assistant and pupil, Petit Jean …”
Thus, the story of the count’s former cook came tumbling out. For years, they said, the count’s family had employed Jean de Champagne, the finest cook in the south of France. The old fellow was declining in health and had begun to train an apprentice to carry on his jealously guarded techniques when he suffered a massive stroke and died. On the very day Grand Jean was stricken, Petit Jean disappeared and was never heard from again. The kitchens reeled from the double loss of master and student and, from that day to this, had never recovered. It was a great mystery, they declared, bringing Julia’s thoughts to a mystery closer at hand.
“Why does His Lordship wear that band of metal across his nose?”
Greeve and Axel exchanged glances and looked uncomfortably toward the horizon where the count had disappeared.
“His Lordship is afflicted with a wicked-keen sense of smell,” Greeve answered in confidential tones. “Smells that to us are slightly unpleasant and fairly harmless make an unbearable assault upon his senses. He prefers to forego all smells in order to prevent the miasma that comes over him when he removes it.” He leaned in and grew quieter still. “We’ve found it best not to speak of it.”
“Mentioning it puts him in a temper,” Axel added in a whisper.
“Hmmm. And is that temper responsible for the fact that he currently has no cook?” She knew she had struck a nerve when the pair drew back and looked as if answering would be tantamount to treason. “Just how many cooks has His Lordship had since Grand Jean died?”
Axel began recalling and tallying them on his thick, stubby fingers.
“Nine, demoiselle,” he submitted.
“That is a quite a number—”
“In seven years.” Greeve put it into perspective.
“Oh.” She swallowed hard and looked to Regine, who blanched.
“But now all of that will change. You will transform His Lordship’s kitchens and satisfy his hunger and sweeten his temper,” Greeve said with something of a forced smile.
“Sweeten his temper.” Julia straightened, thinking of the huge, irascible presence that had flattened her against the kitchen wall. “Of course I will.”
Reassured, Sir Axel and Sir Greeve peeled away to ride back to the front of the column, leaving Julia staring after them with a sense of impending disaster. How on earth was she to cook for a man who held his nose against the world? Half of the pleasure of food derived from the smelling of it!
What if he decided he hated her cooking? She grabbed the planking seat on each side of her and squeezed until her knuckles whitened. What if she couldn’t please him and he packed her up and sent her back to the convent?
After a few moments, her reeling thoughts stumbled on the memory of him as she had first seen him: with gravy down his chin and crumbs all over his tunic. He had already tasted her food and found it so agreeable that he braved the abbess and bishop and Duke of Avalon to purchase her services. Her racing heart began to slow. The old cook they spoke
Similar Books
