“A lot of mice, do you think?”
“Definitely.” Cece frowned in concentration. “At least four.”
“Four?” Olivia again patted her lips with her napkin, and this time Cece was sure she hid a slight smile.
“Well,” Olivia said briskly, “I shall have to have Watkins look into the situation. Although I daresay castles like this are bound to have a few extra unwanted guests now and again. Still, I wouldn’t want to have those invited annoyed by those who aren’t.”
Cece waved a hand in an airy gesture of nonchalance. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I suspect I was the only one the least bit bothered by the pitter-patter of little feet.”
“Now, my dear”—Olivia rose—“I feel a bit of a headache coming on, so if you will excuse me?”
“Of course.” Cece cast her a concerned glance. “I do hope you feel better.”
“It all depends, my dear.” Olivia smiled faintly. “It really all depends.”
Olivia chuckled to herself and lightly climbed the stairs. Mice and cyclones. She had to give the girl credit; she was certainly creative when necessary.
Rodents in the hallways. Mice! Imagine! Some would no doubt call them rats. Olivia knew full well what kind of midnight games would be played among those particular guests. She ignored a twinge of guilt that Sir Humphrey could have posed a serious threat to Cecily or her sister. That was the very reason she had encouraged Quentin to stay at the castle and placed him across the hall. Surely he could be counted upon to act as rescuer should a scream ring out in the middle of the night. Nigel, too, would defend the girls if it had come to that. Her son’s old friend was a rake, a rogue and a rascal, but she had known her share of that type of man in her youth and prided herself on distinguishing between those with flawed moral character and others who had strayed but still possessed a true sense of honor. No matter what else he might be, Nigel Radcliffe was an honorable man.
Cecily White appeared to have her own code of honor as well. Olivia nodded approvingly to herself. She had given the girl every opportunity to indulge in what was essentially harmless gossip and Cecily had not risen to the provocative bait.
While gossip did seem to be the lifeblood of London society, Olivia firmly believed it should never be spread idly. One should, on the other hand, always listen closely and, when necessary, use the flow of rumor and innuendo for one’s own purposes.
But Cecily had nothing to gain from revealing what Olivia suspected was a rather active night in the west wing. If the girl was indeed to take her place in society as the next Countess of Graystone, she must know how to use gossip as a benevolent weapon, a weapon kept sharpened but rarely used, and never wielded simply as a source of amusement. This was an important test for the American, and Olivia was inordinately pleased with her response. Yet another check appeared on the mental list of qualities Olivia required for a bride for her son.
Olivia stepped into her chambers and paused momentarily, struck by a thought she had nearly overlooked. That windstorm nonsense might have passed muster to anyone other than a mother who had noted her son’s own untimely and disorderly arrival. She knew precisely where Jared and Cecily had each passed the night, but where had they been earlier this morning? They were no doubt together; that much was obvious.
Olivia strode to the window and frowned, absently gazing through the glass, ignoring the lush green of the rolling English countryside. Jared apparently already liked this girl and, judging from the state of her disarray, she liked him in return. Still, Olivia had no intention of permitting any kind of marriage because of an indiscretion between the two. And if Cecily did not pass the rest of Olivia’s tests…well, there would simply be no wedding at all.
So far, the girl had done beautifully, and Olivia realized, in some small way, she was hoping the child would succeed. None of the others had made it nearly this far, and it was growing more and more difficult to dream up challenges for the American—challenges that would not alert Jared to his mother’s activity. But Olivia still had a trick or two left to play.
Olivia smiled slowly at the verdant scene framed by the window. Cecily’s penchant for creativity was definitely a beneficial attribute.
She was going to need it.
Chapter Ten
Cece surveyed the remnants of her rather hearty breakfast and suppressed a small, quite dainty, extremely feminine and totally ill-advised hiccup. Even her chat with Lady Olivia hadn’t diminished the appetite the formidable lady’s son had helped build. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her intertwined fingers. The only crimp in an otherwise blissful day was Jared’s continuing reluctance to allow her free rein behind the controls of his motorcar to pi lot it on the open road.
Still, he had shown her how the machine worked. Indeed, his explanations were extremely thorough, to the point where she suspected she could take the vehicle apart and reassemble it herself, blindfolded. Thoughtfully, she sipped the last dregs in her teacup. She was so well versed on the principles and the practicalities of automobiles, perhaps she no longer needed someone to actually show her how to control the beast. Perhaps she could figure it out herself….
A throat cleared behind her. “I beg your pardon, Miss White?”
Lady Olivia’s butler, Watkins, stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Watkins?” Cece cast him a friendly smile.
The servant’s face remained expressionless. “It seems there is a problem.”
“Oh?” How odd. What kind of problem would Lady Olivia’s butler bring to her?
“Lady Olivia has a sick headache,” Watkins said solemnly.
“I am sorry,” Cece said sympathetically. “What a shame.”
“She has retired for the remainder of the day.”
“I see,” Cece said slowly, not certain she saw anything at all. “And you’re telling me because…?”
“Lady Olivia said to inform you of the situation and request you take over preparations for to night, since Lady Millicent and Mrs. White are otherwise engaged today.”
Relief flooded through her. What ever other quirks Phoebe White might have, she had raised both her girls to be flawless hostesses. Cece could handle an army of servants with the panache of a battlefield general. “I assume she has already prepared a menu? Informed the cook? Arranged for flowers? Music? Etcetera?”
“Her ladyship always arranges the flowers personally. She also selects them herself.” The expression on the servant’s face never wavered, but his voice held the slightest note of censure. “Her ladyship believes flowers express the soul of an estate, and she insists such a task should be handled by the family, not a gardener.”
“Very well,” Cece said brightly. If this was all there was left to arrange for to night’s dinner, she should be able to handle it with little effort. “I’m confident I can accomplish that to Lady Olivia’s satisfaction.”
“There is another problem.” Watkins’s voice seemed to echo in the close confines of the breakfast room.
“What is it?” Caution edged her tone.
“Her ladyship had arranged for a small group of musicians to play this evening.” A gleam appeared in his eye. “Word arrived from London a few moments ago that they would not be able to attend.”
She released an annoyed sigh. “What happened?”
Watkins shrugged ever so slightly. “Drunk, I think, miss, or dead. The message was not completely clear.”
“Wonderful.” Sarcasm dripped from the word. This was a bit more of a problem than flower arranging; still, nothing to panic over. “I shall have to think about that one for a while, but surely we can come up with some type of entertainment. And it is, after all, a small gathering.”
“Small?” A glimmer of surprise shot through Watkins’s eyes.
Apprehension tweaked her insides. “It is small, isn’t it? I understood it was just the house guests and a few neighbors.”
“Lady Olivia has a significant number of neighbors.”
Foreboding
squeezed her stomach. “What precisely are we talking about here, Watkins? How many people are expected to night?”
“Including the house guests?”
“Most definitely including the house guests.”
“When last I checked I believe the final count had come in…” he paused, and she could have sworn his hesitation was strictly for dramatic effect, “at sixty-four guests.”
She smothered a startled gasp. “Sixty-four people are expected here? To night? For dinner?”
His eminently proper butler eyebrow rose the barest fraction. “The dining hall comfortably seats one-hundred-and-twelve.”
“One-hundred-and-twelve,” she said faintly. “I suppose that’s something to be grateful for, at any rate. We shall only be half full.”
She drew herself up straighter in her chair and pulled a deep breath. “The flowers should not pose a problem. Music or entertainment will be a bit more of a challenge.” She thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Surely there are some musicians in the village? Someone who plays the piano? A minister’s daughter? Better yet, with an estate this size and the vast number of servants employed here, I cannot believe there aren’t a fair number who play some type of instrument. Fiddles, something of that sort?”
She rose from her chair and paced the room, her mind working in tandem with her step. “I would imagine a substantial percentage of those sixty-four souls play as well. We shall invite them to take part.” She shot the butler a confidential glance. “I’ve never yet met anyone who would pass up the opportunity to show off his or her musical skills, no matter how feeble they may be.”
She grinned triumphantly. “Why, we shall turn the evening into a musicale using the guests as part and parcel of their own entertainment. It should be quite a charming amusement and a great deal of fun.”
“Excellent, miss,” Watkins murmured. A tiny spark of appreciation twinkled in his eye. “However, I feel I should tell you—”
“Don’t say it.” Cece thrust her hands before her as if to stop the words from falling from his lips. “Please, don’t tell me—”
“There is another problem.” Watkins’s tone rang like the voice of doom.
Cece squared her shoulders and raised her chin resolutely. “Watkins, I am an American. We are quite used to overcoming rather incredible odds. We are resourceful and self-sufficient. This is a party, not the end of the world.” A short, anxious laugh skittered from her lips. “How bad can it be, anyway? It’s not as if I were being called upon to prepare this meal myself. After all, we have a cook.”
Watkins again lifted his eyebrow the tiniest bit. Her stomach plunged much further.
“We do have a cook, don’t we, Watkins?”
For a moment what might have been sympathy glittered in Watkins’s eyes.
“The cook is sick.”
“Hell and damnation.”
The three kitchen maids gasped at the rude indiscretion. Cece didn’t care. She paced up and down the massive kitchen past huge warming ovens, a preparation table that seemed to go on forever, even a fireplace she could literally stand in. The castle kitchen was an intriguing mix of old and new. Copper pots and pans hanging from cast-iron hooks, their surfaces shined to mirror brightness, reflected her passage.
If only her mother was here to advise her. No, that would be the coward’s way out of this dilemma. And if she was to become the Countess of Graystone, it was only right that she should be able to handle such a situation. Still, she wasn’t the countess yet, and if her mother was available, Cece would be more than willing to thrust this entire endeavor into her parent’s capable hands.
She pulled to a halt and studied the servants lined up before her. The two on the ends were similar in appearance, both dark-haired and short, with rounded figures. Like bookends, they flanked the middle maid. Taller and thinner than the others, the girl’s fair hair was of that indefinable color somewhere between blond and brown. All three were of indeterminable ages, but she didn’t think any were much older than she, or much wiser. And all three appeared, if not exactly terrified, then at least more than a little apprehensive.
“Do any of you know how to cook?”
They shook their heads quickly and nearly in unison. Cece sighed and tried to fight the panic rising within her.
“None of you knows how to cook anything?” Cece cast them a hopeful look designed to forge alliances and create the impression that servant and master alike were all in this together. “Anything at all?”
The maid on the far end raised a timid hand. “Cook ’as been lettin’ me cook veget’bles of late. Carrots, onions, potatoes.”
“Excellent!” Cece beamed and clasped her hands together. “And your name is?”
“Mary, miss.” The maid bobbed a quick curtsy.
“’scuse me, miss,” the other half of the bookend maids said tentatively. “I pretty much bake the bread ’ere. ’Ave for a few years now.”
“Splendid!” Cece said with a satisfied smile. “And you are?”
The girl dropped a curtsy exactly like the first maid. “Ellen, miss.” She nodded toward Mary. “She’s my sister.”
“I thought as much,” Cece murmured. She turned to the middle servant. A head taller than the other two, she appeared a year or two older.
“Desserts, miss,” she said sheepishly and dipped a curtsy. “I’m Willomena. Cook ’as been teaching me to do desserts.”
“Did you have dessert planned for to night?” Cece said hopefully. “If it’s already made, that’s one less thing to worry about.”
The maids traded swift glances; then the tall one stepped forward, apparently the spokesperson by virtue of a silent vote. “’T were the oddest thing, miss. We all knew about the party. ’Er ladyship ’asn’t ’ad a party ’ere since the old earl died. But aside from the dustin’ and the moppin’ and the scrubbin’, and that more fer the ’ouseguests than anything else,” she said confidentially, “there ’asn’t been a lick’o preparation for this party.”
“No bread,” Ellen said somberly.
“No menu,” Mary said soberly.
“Nothing,” Willomena said solemnly. She shook her head in dismay. “What ’as the castle come to, I ask you? It’s a disgrace.”
“A scandal,” Mary moaned.
“Oh, the shame of it,” Ellen lamented. “The ’orrible shame.”
For a moment Cece could only stare at the trio, the import of their words escaping her in the sheer absurdity of their dismay. It was exceedingly nice to have servants who held their positions with pride. Still, a party was nothing but a party, after all. And even in the rigid societal structure of 1890s Britain, a social disaster would, in time, be forgotten. Beyond that, it was still morning. She and this downhearted trio had the entire day to come up with some kind of miracle.
“Well,” Cece drew a deep breath, “if there is nothing planned, then we can do nothing wrong. That is to say, anything we do should be quite acceptable.”
The maids exchanged looks once again, seemed to reach a unified response and turned matching smiles toward her.
“Very good.” Cece nodded. “Now we seem to have the ability to take care of some of the superficial details of this dinner. Still…none of you know how to cook…”
She directed her gaze to Mary “…beef?”
Mary shook her head. Cece turned to Willomena. “Lamb?”
Willomena’s gesture mirrored Mary’s. Cece faced Ellen with a sinking heart. Her voice held a note of last-ditch hope. “Poultry? Fish? Game?”
Ellen looked as if she wanted to say anything but what she did. “Just bread.”
“Vegetables,” Mary added.
“Dessert,” Willomena sighed.
“That is a problem.” Cece leaned back against the table and raised a skeptical brow. “Any ideas, ladies?”
“Don’t you know ’ow to cook, miss?” Mary blurted.
“Me?” Cece snorted in derision. “Why on earth would you think I’d know how to cook?”
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“You’re from America, miss,” Ellen said, as if that explained everything.
Willomena nodded eagerly. “We read a lot of stories about America, miss. About brave pioneer families crossin’ the whole country—”
“About cowboys and Indians and scouts and gunslingers,” Ellen said eagerly. “About the Wild West, mostly.”
“With people named Dead Eye McCall and One-Shot Willie and Sam the Serpent Saline.” Mary released a heartfelt sigh. “It sounds bloody excitin’.”
“Dime novels,” Cece said under her breath.
“And you bein’ from there and all, we thought sure a little thing like cookin’ wouldn’t present a problem.” Unblemished faith shone in Willomena’s eyes. “For an American.”
“Yes, well…” How much better could things get? Not only was she expected to plan and execute an evening for sixty-four people, but the staff with which she had to pull it off apparently viewed her as a combination of Buffalo Bill and Lady Liberty.
She eyed the trio before her cautiously. Confidence practically glowed about them. It seemed that in their eyes, America—more specifically, the Wild West—was as close as one could get to heaven on earth. And anyone even remotely connected with that paradise was a virtual saint.
“I’m from Chicago, ladies,” Cece said. “It’s extremely civilized.”
The expectant expressions before her did not fade. She tried again.
“I don’t live in the Wild West. I’m not stout-hearted pioneer stock. I’ve never met a real Indian. And the only time I’ve ever even been around cooking was…”
Like lightning before a storm, unforgettable memories flashed through her mind.
“…Fork Tongue Frank,” she said softly.
The expectant faces in front of her faded and she was swept back to the summer she was twelve years old. The months her mother always referred to as “that unfortunate incident with your father.” It was the most wonderful time of her life.
Henry White was indeed a self-made man, beginning his career as a cowboy on the open range. Henry quickly decided there was little future in the rugged life of cattle drives and working other men’s herds. He suspected the way to make his fortune was closer to the market end of the beasts’ progress from prairie to table. With the small amount of money he had saved he started his own meatpacking venture in Chicago.
The Princess and the Pea Page 17
