He lifted one dark eyebrow. “I don’t believe so. It’s fortunate you already know how to cook, n'est-ce pas?”
“Yes...umm...very fortunate,” Tess uttered without a blush. “But I'm not familiar with your Provençal cooking. Have you any recipes?”
He shrugged. “It doesn't matter how you cook them. Your English way will be fine. You'll find potatoes and carrots in the garden.” Gesturing toward the wood bin beside the cast iron stove, he asked, “Shall I light a fire for you?”
“Yes, thank you.” Tess studied the stove as he built a fire inside its black iron cavity, hoping she could figure out how to cook something on it. When he had finished and closed the hinged door, he stepped aside. Leaning his back against the wall, he again folded his arms across his chest and waited.
Did he intend to stand there and watch her the whole time? Tess stepped forward. “Well,” she said, hoping her voice sounded brisk and efficient, “I'm sure you have many things to do. Painting or sketching or something. I'll fetch you when the meal is ready.” She waved him toward the door.
“Very well.” His lips curved with the hint of a smile as he took the hint and moved to the door leading into the hall. “I shall be in the library,” he told her. Stepping through the doorway, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Mademoiselle? You might try boiling them.” And with that small piece of advice, he was gone.
Tess lost no time. Hastily, she began searching the kitchen, looking for a recipe box or book. She knew there were such things. As a vicar, her father had been generously supported in his living by Lady Deverill, and had been able to afford several servants, including a cook. Tess had seen old Mrs. Moorehouse pouring over various recipes in the vicarage kitchen’s cookery book many times. Surely French cooks kept such books, too.
Opening one cupboard after another, she familiarized herself with what they contained as she searched. Pots, pans, utensils, but no recipes. With a sigh, she placed her hands on her hips and glanced around. How on earth was she to manage this without any sort of instruction?
She glanced toward the stairs, remembering she had noticed two doors at the bottom. One door went outside, but did the other perhaps lead to a cellar? She lit a lamp and went down the stairs, finding herself in what seemed to be the storerooms of the original castle keep. She found no cookbook or recipes, but she did find a bin of apples beside the stairs. Dessert, she decided, in a flash of inspiration.
Behind the bin was a wine rack filled with dusty bottles. Tess held the oil lamp high and pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. Blowing off the dust, she studied the label. “Dumond Red,” she read aloud. “1814.”
Wine from the now-deserted vineyards. She tucked the bottle under one arm, gathered some of the apples in her apron, and returned upstairs.
Locating potatoes and carrots was not an easy task. As a child, she'd spent many hours helping old Herbert in the vicarage garden, so she was as at home in a garden as any real cook could be. She knew perfectly well what potato vines and carrot tops looked like, but finding the vegetables amid all the weeds was difficult. Soon, she vowed, she’d take care of that.
Back in the kitchen, she located a kettle large enough to the crabs, filled it from the water pump in the courtyard, and put it on the stove to boil, then she peeled the potatoes and carrots, cutting her finger in the process. By the time she had finished that task, the water in the huge kettle was boiling, and she hauled the bucket of crabs over to the stove.
“Cooking isn't so hard,” she murmured as she reached into the bucket, but the words were barely out of her mouth before she appreciated the task that now lay before her. One of the shellfish nearly clamped a claw around her finger, and she barely snatched her hand back in time. ‘Boil them,’ Dumond had said, but did he really expect her to toss the poor creatures into boiling water while they were still alive?
Tess knew she couldn’t afford to be squeamish. She drew a deep breath and reached for a pair of long-handled tongs that hung beside the stove, but when she lifted one crab out of the pail and it waved a claw sluggishly in her direction, she nearly lost her resolve. With a heartfelt apology, she used the tongs to send the poor creature and his brethren to their death, and she could only hope she didn’t have to wring the neck of a chicken or butcher a lamb any time soon.
An hour later, exhausted and nursing a few cuts and burns, Tess arranged the cooked crabs on a large platter, still feeling somewhat sick at how they had met their fate at her hands. Trying not to think about it, she carried the platter into the dining room where she had set two places at opposite ends of the long dining table. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry about that. A cook didn’t customarily dine with her employer, but the idea of each of them eating alone in separate rooms according to custom seemed so absurd when they were the only two people in the house.
An unpleasant smell greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, and with a groan of dismay, she raced to the stove. The potatoes had boiled dry, and their scorched smell permeated the room. With a sigh, she pried them from the pan with a fork, cut off the browned edges, and piled them into a bowl. She tossed butter over them, hoping for the best, and turned her attention to the carrots, putting them in a separate bowl and sprinkling some thyme from the garden over them for artistic effect.
She opened the oven door to check on the apples baking in a juice of sugar, brandy, butter and cinnamon, a recipe she'd invented out of necessity because she'd had no idea what else to do with them. To her relief, they seemed all right. They smelled heavenly and were turning a nice, delicate shade of brown. Pleased, she closed the oven door and carried the bowls of vegetables to the dining room.
The meal might be a simple one, but as she studied the food on the table, she felt rather proud of herself. For the first time in over two years, she had done something truly worthwhile. As Nigel's wife, she had been an ornament whose only accomplishments were looking attractive and being obedient. Cooking, she decided, was much more satisfying. After flicking a speck of dust off the table with the edge of her skirt and taking another moment to admire her achievement, she went in search of Monsieur Dumond.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the dining room behind her was the wine. He picked up the bottle on the table and looked at it, then glanced at her. “You found this in the cellars?”
She nodded.
“Four years,” he muttered as if to himself. “It seems a lifetime ago.” He fell silent, staring at the bottle, but after a moment, he roused himself from his own thoughts, and added a bit ruefully, “Let's hope it hasn't turned to vinegar.”
He uncorked the wine with the corkscrew she had laid beside the bottle, then poured a bit of the wine into a glass. He lifted the glass, staring at the liquid, which was a surprising shade of apricot-yellow. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Just a hint of blush.”
She frowned, puzzled, and walked over to stand beside him. “The label said it was red wine.”
“It’s Dumond Red.” He smiled slightly, swirling the glass, studying the wine. “Made with Muscat white grapes. The pink blush is from adding a slight amount of Muscat Hamburg. Not a high-quality grape, but being red, it gives the wine its unique color.”
He swirled the wine in his glass once more, then held it beneath his nose, inhaling the fragrance. At last, he sampled it. With a satisfied nod, he picked up the bottle and filled both glasses.
Taking the one he offered her, she took a sip as he watched. It was marvelous, full-bodied and fruity, like swallowing sunshine. “I like this wine,” she told him, licking a droplet from her upper lip. “It's sweeter than I would have expected.”
“The sweetness comes from the way we harvested our grapes. At harvest time, we would twist the stems, but leave the grapes to hang on the broken vines for several days. Then we would pick them.”
“But the grapes would rot.”
“Precisely.”
She gave him a skeptical stare, wondering if he were teasing her. “You made your wine from
rotten grapes?”
He laughed. “Not all of them were rotten,” he assured her. “But it is a very old technique here in the Midi, dating back many centuries. It is hot here in the south and heat destroys the wine, causing it to spoil too fast,” he explained. “If a good percentage of the grapes are overripe, the sugar content of the wine is much higher, making it a stronger wine and preventing it from spoiling.”
“I see.” She glanced down at the wine and took another sip. Looking back up at him, she said, “Whatever you do, it works. I don't particularly care for wine, but I like this.”
“I'm glad, mademoiselle.”
“Since you are so good at it, why don't you make wine anymore?”
He froze, the glass poised in midair. Then he took another swallow before he replied. “I will never make wine again.” Frowning down at the food on the table, he added, “We should eat.”
She didn’t point out that he had changed the subject without answering her question. Instead, she filled two plates, handed his to him, and moved to take her seat. He took his as well, and down the long length of table that separated them, she watched anxiously as he broke apart the crab on his plate. As he took the first bite, she held her breath, watching him chew. And chew. And chew.
Something was wrong. Tess broke apart her own crab and one bite confirmed that the meat, which was supposed to be tender and sweet, had the texture of rubber and no taste at all. Across the table, their eyes met as they both valiantly chewed in silence.
Tess finally gave up the struggle and swallowed the bite whole with a gulp of wine. Hoping the vegetables were better, she pushed her fork into a bite of slightly brown, boiled potato. The potatoes, at least, had a taste. Scorched.
With growing dismay, she sampled the carrots and found that they were not scorched. Instead, they were only half-cooked and had the pungent flavor of too much thyme. She crunched bravely, but she knew she’d bungled her chance, and he’d never let her stay. Why should he?
Dumond said nothing. He politely ate what was on his plate and the longer she watched him, the more wretched she felt. Finally, she could stand it no longer and rose to her feet. “Would you care for dessert?” she asked in a strained voice.
Alexandre swallowed another gulp of wine and rubbery crab. “Certainly.”
A man about to be executed probably spoke in that same brave tone of voice, she thought, heading for the kitchen. Almost timidly, she opened the oven door. The apples were golden brown and simmering in their juice, and the smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen. They seemed to be done. Unwilling to trust her own eyes, she pushed a fork into the fruit. It was tender, but not mushy. Relieved, she put the apples into a serving dish, poured some of the sauce over them, and took the dish into the dining room.
“What is this?” he asked as she set the bowl beside his plate.
“Baked apples,” she answered, spooning some of the fruit onto a dessert plate for him and one for herself.
“It looks quite good.”
“Really?” She looked at him and saw him nod. His smile was so reassuring, so understanding, and somehow that made her feel worse than before. Taking her plate back to her end of the table, Tess sat down, but didn't make any move to eat. She stared down at her plate, knowing that even if the dessert was good, it probably wouldn't matter. She couldn't cook, and he knew it.
When he picked up a fork to sample her dessert, Tess caught her breath, lifting her gaze to his face with a slight flare of renewed hope. Perhaps, she thought, she’d gotten one thing right. Perhaps the dessert would be good and he would like it. Holding her breath, she watched him bring the fork to his lips.
When he choked on the apples, she couldn't bear it and jumped to her feet. “It's a lovely evening. I think I'll take the air.” She practically ran for the door.
***
Alexandre found her in the courtyard, sitting sideways on a stone bench, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her profile was pensive as she stared out over the crumbled stones of the wall to the setting sun.
She didn’t hear his approach, and he watched her for a long time, wishing he had his sketchbook. The vulnerability he sensed in her was never more clear than at this moment and he would have liked to capture that on paper. He also felt a sudden, unwanted desire to comfort her, a notion that made him grimace. He was starting to feel sorry for her, and that would make sending her on her way that much harder.
He stepped into the courtyard, his boot heels crunching against the loose and broken flagstones.
Tess started at the sound, and she brushed hastily at her cheek, turning her face away. “What was wrong with the apples?”
He tried to make light of it. “I don't know about you, but I prefer a bit of cinnamon with my apples, not a bit of apples with my cinnamon.”
“I used too much spice?”
“A bit.” He studied her discouraged expression. “It isn't so bad,” he added. “We could put the stuff in jars and use it for potpourri.”
Her answer was a choked sound, partly a laugh, partly a sob.
“It was only a meal, mademoiselle,” he said quietly.
She shook her head. “No, it wasn't,” she said in a hard voice. “Not for me.”
He frowned, not understanding her enigmatic remark, but he did not pursue it. He came closer, and as he did, she swung her legs over the side of the bench and scooted over, making room for him to sit beside her.
“I should not have let you do so much on only your second day out of bed,” he said. “You should have been resting.”
“I doubt rest will make me a better cook.” Her tone was wry.
He chuckled. “Perhaps not.”
They sat in silence as the sun slowly disappeared and left the courtyard in dusky twilight. Finally, it was she who broke the silence. “Now that you know I can’t cook, shall you send me away?”
His jaw tightened. He should. For his own peace of mind, he really should. “No.”
Her sigh of relief was audible. “Thank you.”
“I have two conditions,” he added, casting a sideways glance at her. She stiffened, only a slight movement, but he saw it.
“What conditions?” Her voice was low, a little wary.
“No hard work until you are feeling better, for one.”
She considered that for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But tomorrow you must show me what tasks I can do.” She took a deep breath. “And the other condition?”
He turned to face her. “I do the cooking.”
Her teeth flashed white in the dusk of evening as she smiled. “That would hardly be fair. If you are employing me as a cook and housekeeper, I should do the cooking, too. I want to earn my keep.”
He considered her words. He really didn't care what tasks she did or didn't do, but he knew that for the sake of her pride, it was important to her. “Very well.” He paused, then added, “Tomorrow I will begin teaching you how to cook.”
“You will?”
He rose to his feet. “If I don't, I fear we'll both starve.”
Chapter Five
When Tess awoke the next morning, she found a bucket of fresh water and a silver-backed mirror and brush outside her door. Beside them was an untidy pile of dresses, underclothes, and shoes. She smiled down at the collection of things Dumond had left at her door, for it was a sure sign he was letting her stay.
She shed the blue muslin dress she'd been wearing the past two days, bathed, and brushed her hair. Then she donned fresh underclothes and a gown of peach muslin and went downstairs, where she found him in the kitchen making tea. “Good morning. Thank you for the water.”
He glanced at her, then returned his attention to the worktable. “I have to bathe as well,” he said as he picked up the teapot and filled two cups. “It was no trouble.”
“And thank you for the clothes as well.”
He made no reply to that. Instead, he held out a steaming up to her, and when she took it, he pointed to a porcelain jar on the table. “Sugar’s the
re, if you want it,” he added and turned away. “I’m going to the garden. I’ll be back.”
He took a big basket from a hook on the wall and left the kitchen. While he was gone, she drank her tea and thought about him and about the girl in the portrait. She wanted to ask him about her, but it was not her business, and besides, Dumond's manner did not invite questions. Also, he might start asking her questions in return. They both had secrets, and she wanted to keep hers. So did he, it seemed.
The door opened and Dumond came in, bringing Tess out of her reverie. The basket he’d taken with him was now heaped with herbs and vegetables, and he brought it to the work table. “Are you ready to begin work?” he asked as he set it down.
“Of course.” Tess set aside her empty cup and her curiosity. “What dish shall we prepare?”
“Something simple. An omelet, I think. But first, we have other tasks. We must milk the goat and fetch the eggs. Come.” Taking one small pail and one large one from their hooks on the wall, he once again left the kitchen.
Tess followed him out into the bright morning sunlight toward the group of crumbling buildings she had passed on her walk the day before.
Dumond led her to the henhouse. He must have let the hens out of their night roost earlier, for they were in the pen, and they scattered as he walked past them toward the coop. Tess moved to follow him inside, but the smell that greeted her through the doorway made her want to retch. She was often queasy these days, and it had obviously been some time since the coop had been cleaned. Hand over her mouth, she choked, “I'll wait out here.”
“If you are to be the cook, tending the chickens will be your responsibility,” he answered. “Come.”
She felt her stomach turn and she was certain her face had gone green. “I can't.” She pressed her other hand to her stomach, fearing her tea was going to come back up. “The smell...”
He shrugged and turned away, entering the coop alone. When he reappeared, the small pail was filled with eggs, and he handed it to her. He then walked back inside, returning with a bucket of feed. He scattered a few handfuls for the hens, tossed the empty bucket back through the doorway and left the pen, picking up the larger pail he’d brought on his way out.
Prelude to Heaven Page 5
