Chaos ensued while the staff swarmed the kitchen and fussed over the chef. Simone, a dark little woman with worry lines around her eyes, muttered something in French and then scurried off to telephone for a physician. Two giant footmen helped the sick chef stumble off to his bedroom.
“Poor man,” Mrs. Finnegan murmured. Then she noticed Charlotte. She stepped closer and whispered, “It’s probably dyspepsia. He overeats his own good cooking and every once in a while it doesn’t agree with him.”
She took her by the arm and introduced her to the staff before they dispersed. More than a dozen uniformed servants greeted her with polite, but minimal, interest. It was just as well. They soon disappeared, chattering about Chef Jacques, leaving Charlotte alone with the Wilmonts, and the kitchen maids busy at the sink washing the staff’s supper dishes.
The professor lowered his voice. “I’m sure the kitchen help is capable of preparing a simple dinner for my children and me, but they’ll probably need some supervision.” He rubbed the small cleft in his chin. “Hmm. I don’t know if they actually can cook or merely assist with the food preparation.”
“Might I be of some assistance?” Charlotte asked, hoping he’d decline her offer.
Relief crossed his face. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I know you were not hired to cook, but undoubtedly the kitchen maids would appreciate your assistance or direction—if you think you’re up to it.”
“I’ll be glad to pitch in,” Charlotte said with feigned cheer.
“Excellent. Something simple and easy would suit us.”
Charlotte hid a smile. She hoped simple and easy wasn’t beyond her capability. And did his notion of a simple meal match her own?
Suddenly she regretted she hadn’t learned to cook. Aunt Amelia always made all their meals, and given their funds, it was hardly anything fancy. But she was resourceful, wasn’t she? She could read and follow directions. All she needed was a recipe and a few ingredients. There was no reason to alert the professor to her deficiencies.
She grabbed a tattered cookbook from an open shelf. Searching the tome for an appropriate recipe, she soon realized she didn’t know an easy one from a hard one. With a sigh, she laid the book aside and glanced through the pantry. She looked up to discover Professor Wilmont watching her.
He reddened like a boy caught with his fist in the cookie jar. “I don’t mean to stare at you. You just seem so intent. What were you thinking about, if I may ask?”
“Food. Is there anything you’d especially like?” she asked without considering the consequences. What if he expected a dinner with fancy cream sauces and all those other buttery concoctions French chefs were famous for? He might think the hardest of recipes were simple cuisine and easy to prepare.
“I’m partial to chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and biscuits. Uncomplicated fare.”
Her laugh twittered. “I like that too.” But I can’t cook anything except oatmeal. “Why don’t I look around and see what I can find?” There must be something edible in the large iceboxes on the far wall or in the well-stocked storage rooms.
Professor Wilmont slouched against the black coal stove as she tried to focus on her task. With the man staring at her, she couldn’t concentrate—except on his kindly smile. Or was it a quizzical smile? Surely she looked like a complete incompetent. She took in a gulp of hot air and slowly exhaled.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He regarded her with warmth. Blinded by his concern, she averted her gaze. “I’m fine, just a little uncertain about finding my way around a strange kitchen.”
“You do look a bit bewildered.”
Panicky said it best.
“I’ll get out from underfoot. I’ll be in the library.”
She wanted him to stay for moral support, yet she wanted him to go.
The professor strolled off obviously confident he’d have his dinner. With the kitchen help in tow, Ruthie introduced the pair to Charlotte. She judged Fiona, the bigger one, to be around eighteen or so. Her bold stare stripped Charlotte of all confidence.
“So Fiona, what shall we cook for the Wilmonts’ dinner this evening?” Charlotte asked in a chipper voice.
The hefty girl shrugged. “The chef won’t let me near his stove, so I can hardly boil water. And Ellie, she does less than me.
We scrub vegetables and cut’em up, but we don’t even put’em in a pot.” Her mouth pressed with stubbornness.
“Mostly we scour pots and pans.” Ellie raised red, rough hands as proof. Tiny and hunched, she might have reached fifteen years, certainly no more.
Fiona thrust her beefy arm into an icebox and pulled out a whole fish. “Maybe you can cook this fresh cod. We also have potatoes and summer squash. The professor likes plain food, not the fancy foreign stuff that his mother wants.”
“Good. How does Professor Wilmont like his fish cooked?” Charlotte asked.
Fiona shrugged. “We don’t pay any mind to how Chef Jacques does things. That’s his business, not ours. And I don’t think he wants us to learn his secrets.”
“All right. I’ll do the cooking,” Charlotte said, pretending self-assurance.
Aunt Amelia usually fried or baked cod and so would she—if she remembered how. Although the fish must have been cleaned at the market, some scales remained. She regarded it with trepidation. Cautiously she drew a knife over the top, starting at the tail and then proceeding toward the head. But the scales flew up in her face like fragments of glass. The kitchen maids snickered. Charlotte grabbed a dish towel, wiped off the mess, and glared at the dead specimen that would no doubt do her in. Drawing in a deep breath, she lopped off the head and tail of her nemesis, skinned and boned it. Only shreds remained, but at least no one would catch a bone in their throat. She sprinkled the little devil with cornmeal. Satisfaction coursed through her like balm. She’d managed to prepare the fish without assistance. Aunt Amelia would be proud.
Ellie dumped the potatoes in the sink and washed and peeled them while Fiona returned to the pantry.
Ruthie piped up, “Would you like help, Miss Hale? I can’t cook, but maybe you can give me a quick lesson.”
Charlotte shook out a laugh. “Why would you want to cook? You’ll always have a chef.”
Ruthie shrugged, her face downcast. “I’ll watch you then, if you don’t mind.”
Charlotte did mind, but she couldn’t explain that she didn’t relish an audience while she fumbled around. Thankfully, Ruthie soon grew tired of Charlotte scurrying about and wandered off. Twenty minutes later potatoes boiled and bits of cod sizzled in the black cast-iron pan. Fiona lumbered off to help Ellie wash the dishes from the servants’ meal.
Supper in progress, Charlotte dropped into a chair to read dessert recipes. Chocolate pudding with whipped cream was her favorite, so she examined the directions. Butterscotch also looked delicious. Perhaps when she returned home, she’d surprise Aunt Amelia and try these out.
“Can I help?”
Startled, Charlotte looked up at Professor Wilmont. She tossed him a big smile. “No thank you, sir. I have everything under control.”
“Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” he asked again. “I smell smoke.”
FOUR
Charlotte gasped. “The fish is burning!” She ran to the stove and grabbed the skillet. She jerked her hand away and shrieked. A muscular arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back from the range. With one hand, Professor Wilmont slapped on the faucet. With the other, he caught her wrist and thrust her fingers under cold tap water.
“Is it painful?” He leaned close.
“It hurts quite a bit, but no sign of blisters.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Keep your hand under there. I’ll take care of the food.”
He rushed to the stove. Smoke billowed upward. The kitchen filled with a thick black stinking cloud from what was supposed to be the family’s dinner. Charlotte gasped in dismay and sucked in a lungful of the acrid fog. It clogged her throat and stung her eye
s.
She pulled her fingers out of the streaming water and shook them dry. But they immediately began to burn again.
Two screeching children burst into the room followed by Mr.
Grimes, the butler, and the kitchen maids.
“Fire! Fire!” Tim rushed toward the coal stove, thrilled at the bliss of unexpected chaos.
Professor Wilmont threw open the back door. A blast of cool air freshened the kitchen and dissipated the smoke. The kitchen maids stood by the icebox, useless.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t pay attention. I can’t believe my carelessness. Can you ever forgive me? Never mind, don’t answer that.” Charlotte babbled, unable to control herself. “But we still have potatoes. I’ll mash them and they’ll taste delicious. You’ll see. And squash. I see the squash is all cut up and ready to cook. I’ll boil it.” In her haste to read about puddings and pies, she’d forgotten all about the vegetables. She ignored the amused looks on the servants’ faces. And the laughter scarcely hidden behind their hands. The butler shoed them away.
“Do calm down, Miss Hale. It’s all right,” Professor Wilmont said soothingly.
Charlotte collapsed onto a chair. Overwhelmed by her disgrace, she cupped her cheeks in her hands and leaned her elbows on a small side table.
Why had she thought she could cook a meal without any practice? What foolish pride! She should admit defeat, apologize, and slink away. Forget her career and her future at the Rhode Island Reporter. The professor would soon be showing her the door. I may as well grab my reticule and disappear, never to be heard from again.
Yet she wasn’t a quitter. She had two bosses, Mr. Phifer and Professor Wilmont, and she would serve them both to the best of her ability, which admittedly wasn’t much. She’d stay and take the ridicule. Or until either of them fired her.
“Something else is burning.” Ruthie sniffed and pointed to the potatoes.
Professor Wilmont strode to the range once more and pulled the pot off the stove top and looked inside. He laughed heartily.
“Miss Hale, please come here.”
She hesitated. Now was the right time to bolt for the back door. But she followed his direction and peered into the pot. A mess of potato mush, thick like cooked oatmeal, clung to the bottom.
“How did that happen?” she murmured.
“You overcooked the potatoes,” Fiona chirped.
“I’m so sorry I ruined dinner. I know you’re all famished.” Charlotte’s voice rang loud and shrill. She blinked back tears, but they slipped to the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made a spectacle of herself in public.
“Don’t worry. We can go to a restaurant for dinner,” Ruthie suggested, casting a longing look toward her father.
“Or better yet, eat cookies,” Tim added.
“No need.” Chef Jacques shuffled into the kitchen, leaning on Simone’s arm, his toque tilted precariously. His eyes dropped, his shoulders slumped. He sniffed the lingering smoke with a long, pointed nose and took charge. “What happened here? Who destroyed my kitchen?”
“I ruined supper,” Charlotte admitted. “I’m afraid I really can’t cook.”
“You don’t say,” Tim snorted.
“That’s enough.” Professor Wilmont placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder and steered him toward the staircase. “She’s not familiar with our kitchen, Tim.”
The chef’s face reddened. “I shall cook. She will never again burn good food in my kitchen.” He glared and pointed an accusing finger at Charlotte. “No one else has the skill or imagination to take my place, least of all this governess. I rose out of my sickbed, for my duty to this family comes before my health. When the doctor arrives, tell him I’ll be with him as soon as I concoct something simple but elegant for the family’s dinner.”
“Thank you, Chef, but we can go out to dine, as my daughter suggested. You need to recover,” Professor Wilmont said.
The Frenchman held up his hand. “No, sir. It shall never be said that Chef Jacques was in residence while the Wilmonts were forced to dine out. I shall rally once again.”
The professor shrugged. “As you wish. Don’t go to any trouble, however. Anything will do.”
Ruthie looked at Charlotte. “Papa, can Miss Hale eat with us, please?”
Professor Wilmont waved Charlotte toward the staircase. “We’d be delighted if you’d join us.”
“Are you certain, sir?” Head down, Charlotte followed the Wilmonts upstairs. She’d join them tonight because her empty stomach rumbled like thunder, but she’d almost prefer to go to bed hungry. Still, the sooner she got to know Professor Wilmont, the faster she’d gather information for Mr. Phifer.
“Yes, I’m certain. Please join us.” The professor grinned sheepishly. “This dinner debacle is really my fault, not yours.”
“Oh?” Charlotte sent him a grateful smile for taking responsibility when the blame was hers alone. She so wanted to reach over and plant a big kiss on his cheek, but naturally she wouldn’t dare to even give his hand a squeeze.
Dinner was served by a footman in the large dining room lit by crystal chandeliers and candles in tall silver holders. Throughout the meal, the children laughed and teased her. The red-faced Professor Wilmont tried to quiet them, but he failed to curb their high spirits and good-natured jibes. They were simply kids having fun at her expense, but Charlotte had to keep reminding herself of that.
Chef Jacques worked a culinary miracle. Clearly it was concocted from leftovers, but it was the best meal Charlotte had ever tasted. She ate a small portion of tender beef bathed in rich onion gravy, but the shock of destroying dinner had robbed her of her normally robust appetite. A Parker House roll sunk to the bottom of her stomach and she couldn’t swallow another bite.
She’d destroyed tonight’s supper. Would she fail at her other duties as well?
The professor leaned back in his chair and tilted his head. Early evening sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains behind him and streaked his light hair to pure gold. “Don’t look so upset, Miss Hale. Our meal turned out fine.”
His cheerful manner brought sunshine to her anxious heart. “No thanks to me, I’m afraid. But I’m grateful for your tolerance. I promise you I’ll be much better at taking care of the children than at cooking.”
“That’s all I ask,” he said, lifting a silver forkful of blackberry pie.
Still, she wondered if she were up to all her duties. The professor was compassionate, but would his mother be as understanding? Ladies tended to expect more from the help. Charlotte pushed that disturbing question out of her mind; with any luck she’d return to the newspaper long before Mrs. Wilmont came home from the hospital.
After dessert, the professor excused Ruthie and Tim to retreat to the veranda for a game of checkers.
“Miss Hale, you should have told me you were uncomfortable in the kitchen.” The professor’s words carried more censure than his voice, but his tone held an earnest appeal she couldn’t ignore.
Her voice trembled. “I—I was afraid you’d dismiss me if I wouldn’t pitch in.” Heat spread from her tightly collared neck up to her cheeks. “And I wanted to please you. I apologize, sir. I thought I could manage well enough even though I seldom cook at home. Actually, I never cook at home. My Aunt Amelia prepares all our meals.” She lowered her eyes and hoped the flames in her cheeks would quickly fade. “I never darken the kitchen except to eat.” Be quiet, Charlotte. You’re making a fool of yourself.
He didn’t crack a smile. “You should have explained your inexperience. I would’ve understood.”
“You’re right, of course. But I truly wanted to help.”
She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions.
“I appreciate your good intentions and all your hard work.”
“But not my cooking.” She tossed him a shy smile as she rose and began to carry the dishes to the dumbwaiter.
“That’s not necessary. The footman will clear the
table.”
She put her hands on the back of a chair. “I’m very grateful for your understanding. I took on more than I could handle.”
He steadied his gaze. “Always be honest with me, Miss Hale. Please. I value the truth and I cannot abide lying.”
“I understand.” She averted his appraising stare. This assignment was becoming more complicated than she’d anticipated. What terrible fury she’d provoke if he learned of her underhanded work.
His smile broke the tension. “You look frightened to death. Don’t give your dinner attempt another thought. And please don’t cry. I don’t handle tears well at all.”
Charlotte giggled nervously before her trembling lips slowly curled in a tentative smile. “I promise you, sir, I never cry in public.” Well, she’d shed a few tears in the kitchen, but perhaps he hadn’t noticed.
“Nor in private, I hope. You applied for the position of governess, not cook. Chef Jacques’ duties were thrust upon you. So don’t fret about tonight.” He pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “Please excuse me. I have piles of work to attend to. Enjoy your evening.”
“What about the children? Shouldn’t I attend to them?”
The professor shook his head. “No, Miss Hale, I can do that myself. You’ve done enough for one day.”
Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You’re quite right, sir. My day was rather eventful.” More than he could ever imagine.
Charlotte returned to the basement and found Mrs. Finnegan alone in the servant’s hall reading a newspaper. The elderly woman looked over her frameless spectacles. “Do come in, dearie, and have a seat. Would you like to look through the Newport Gazette when I’m finished?”
“Yes, I would. Thank you. I like to keep up with what’s going on in the world.”
“Well good for you. I try to as well, but often I’m too weary at the end of the day to do more than drink me tea and put me feet up. They tend to swell if I’m on them too long.” She sighed. “I know you’re feeling bad about the supper, but truly there’s not a thing wrong with trying to help out when help’s needed. I applaud you for pitching in. So put it all out of your mind.”
Love on Assignment Page 5
