“Yes, of course,” Jane concurred, forcing herself to keep smiling at the prospect of being obliged to organize this celebration of the death of her own hopes. “Still, you might like to help with the arrangements, just to learn how such things are done.” Not wishing to diminish the new mistress in the eyes of her staff, Jane explained for the housekeeper’s benefit, “Miss Ramsay has had the charge of her father’s house from a young age, but it was not so large as this one.”
Mrs. Meeks accepted this masterpiece of understatement without question. “Aye, and it being in America, I don’t doubt their ways were different from ours. Depend upon it, miss, I’ll do anything I can to help you adjust, and I think I can say the same for the whole staff, except for—tell me, Miss Hawthorne, does—that is, has Miss Ramsay met Antoine yet?”
Jane grimaced. “No, that pleasure still awaits her.” To Susannah she added, “Antoine, the chef—pray don’t call him a cook, whatever you do!—is a French émigré, as his name suggests. He is a genius in the kitchen, but is a bit temperamental.”
“More than a bit!” Mrs. Meeks put in emphatically. “He’s a regular tyrant in the kitchen, but never you mind. Miss Hawthorne here knows just how to handle him, and I don’t doubt she’ll show you the way of it.”
“The secret is flattery, no more nor less,” confided Jane, laughing. “Fortunately, his accomplishments in the kitchen make it easy to heap on compliments without the least hint of hypocrisy. Then, after you have emptied the butter boat over his head, you may approach the issue that must be addressed, making it clear that you are fully aware of the sacrifice you are asking of poor Antoine, obliged as he is to live in a world populated by mere mortals.”
“He sounds quite insufferable!” exclaimed Susannah, appalled.
“Oh, he is. But when you have sampled a meal of his creation—for last night’s cannot be said to count, as I wrecked all his plans by moving dinner forward upon Lord Ramsay’s arrival—you will see why he is to be indulged at all costs. Indeed, his lordship would be most displeased if you were to provoke Antoine to give notice.”
With these words of warning, Jane led the way to the kitchen, where she was introduced not only to Antoine, but to the army of underlings who apparently jumped at his beck and call, from the middle-aged woman who served as undercook to the ten-year-old pot boy who regarded the Frenchman with an air of awe not unmixed with abject terror.
“Once a week you will consult with Antoine over the week’s meals, so that he may plan his marketing accordingly,” Jane explained while the culinary genius and his future mistress eyed one another warily. “In fact, I intend to make out a menu later this afternoon. Why don’t you plan one of this week’s dinners your-self, and add it to my list? It will be good practice for you, and Antoine can begin to learn your preferences.”
After her initial meeting with the tyrant of the kitchen, the rest of the staff, including the male contingent under the dominion of Wilson, the butler, held no power to terrify. It was not until later, when Jane gave the unfinished menu to her with instructions that she make her own additions before sending it downstairs to Antoine by way of the footman, that something approaching panic set in.
“But—but what shall I write?”
“Whatever you wish to eat,” Jane said, thinking, no doubt, to be reassuring. “Whatever cannot be found in Richard’s own succession houses will be purchased at the village market.”
“Succession houses?” echoed Susannah, unfamiliar with the term.
“You must have him show them to you on your ride tomorrow. “Oranges, grapes, peaches—anything that will not grow in the natural climate thrives in abundance in the succession houses.” She glanced down at the unfinished list in Susannah’s hand. “As for the menu, why, you must have done something similar when you kept house for your father, even if you did not write it down. What was your father’s favourite meal? You might wish to begin with that.”
After Jane had gone, leaving her cousin alone with this task, Susannah tapped the pencil against her cheek and studied the paper in her hand. There in Jane’s neat hand were transcribed each evening’s meal: roast beef cooked in port wine sauce, potatoes with rosemary, and buttered peas; chicken with mushroom gravy, to be served over rice, and carrots with slivered almonds . . .
While meals on their Kentucky homestead were largely dependent on the season, there were apparently no such restrictions here. How, then, was one to know where to begin? What was your father’s favourite meal? Jane had suggested. It seemed as good an idea as any other. Taking a deep breath, Susannah set pencil to paper and began to write. A few minutes later, she laid the pencil aside and folded the paper in half, then tugged the bell pull and, ignoring the butterflies cavorting about her stomach, gave the folded paper to the footman along with instructions that it was to be delivered to Antoine.
Thus was her first act as lady of the manor accomplished.
* * *
While Susannah made out her menu, Richard regarded Jane across the chessboard set up in the drawing room.
“Well, Jane?”
She looked up from contemplation of her next move. “ ‘Well’ what?”
“You might as well tell me what I have done to earn your displeasure. You have given me such quelling looks since luncheon that I am shaking in my boots.”
“Yes, I can see that, for your play is slipping,” she said, and took his bishop.
He scowled at this unexpected act of aggression on her part. “Hmm, if I had been paying closer attention, I should have captured that pawn before you could commit such an atrocity. Still, I trust you are going to enlighten me as to my transgressions?”
“I wonder that I should have to,” she said, torn between exasperation and amusement. “ ‘Much better’? Was that the best you could do?”
“My dear Jane, what are you talking about?” he asked, all at sea.
“Richard! Can you have already forgotten? I am speaking of Cousin Susannah, and her appearance at luncheon!”
“What of it? I paid her a compliment, did I not?”
“Peter paid her a compliment; you merely indicated that her earlier appearance had left much to be desired.”
He stared at her, utterly baffled by her argument. “Can you truly mean to suggest that it did not?”
“Of course not! But it was unhandsome of you to point it out.”
“I did no such thing! I merely stated that I found her appearance improved—which is true. Surely there can be no objection to that!”
“I don’t object, precisely, but I do think you might have—”
Alas, Lord Ramsay was deprived of the opportunity to benefit from this advice by the arrival of Antoine, who burst into the room unannounced and uninvited. That he was labouring under some strong emotion was immediately obvious, not only by this unheard-of breach of etiquette, but also by the Frenchman’s countenance (which was of so dark a red hue as to be almost purple) and by the shaking hand that thrust a folded paper under Jane’s nose.
“Sacre bleu! It is an insult not to be borne!”
“It must be, for you to force your presence on us in this fashion,” Jane said coldly.
“Mille pardons, mademoiselle, but this—this—” He shook the paper in her face. “I will give notice before I so demean myself and my Art!”
She snatched the paper from his trembling hand, spread the sheet, and choked. There were her own instructions for the week’s meals and, below, an addition in an unfamiliar hand: squirrel fried in lard, Susannah had written, with cornmeal mush.
“I gather Miss Ramsay’s dinner choices do not please you,” she addressed the offended chef in a voice that quivered only slightly.
“Do not please me? Do not please me?”
“Let me remind you, Antoine, that Miss Ramsay is shortly to become Lady Ramsay. As such, she will expect her orders to be obeyed.”
“Très bon! In that case, mademoiselle, I will give notice at once.”
She inclined a regal head in a
cknowledgement. “We will miss you, and wish you well in your future endeavors.”
“Mais non! I will slit my throat before I defile my kitchen with this—this—”
“Thank you for informing us,” replied Jane, unmoved. “We will be sure to send flowers.”
“Cette insulte, she is insupportable!” continued the Frenchman, still in full flow.
“I know this is not what you are accustomed to, Antoine, but let me point out that Miss Ramsay is but recently arrived from the American frontier. She will learn our ways, but in the meantime, is it really so much to ask, to let her have her way this once? Surely you, of all people, must know what it is like, to be obliged to leave all that is familiar and start anew in a strange land.” Seeing his angry color begin to fade, she lowered her eyes demurely to the chessboard. “But I can see I am asking too much of you. No one could possibly do anything with such a meal plan as this.”
The Frenchman drew himself up straight as a ramrod. “ ‘No one,’ mademoiselle? Perhaps ‘no one’ could, but then, Antoine is not ‘no one’! I, Antoine, can do what others cannot—as you shall see this very night!” With this promise (or was it a threat?), he grabbed the paper from her hand and quitted the room in high dudgeon.
Richard, who had listened to this exchange in silence, now regarded his cousin Jane with unconcealed admiration. “My dear Jane! I never until this moment suspected that behind that pretty face lies a master manipulator. Well done, indeed! Dare I ask what our American cousin has in store for us that so lacerated Antoine’s delicate sensibilities?”
“I think I will let you discover it for yourself, when we sit down to dinner,” she said, blushing a little at the unexpected compliment. “I confess, I am curious to see what he will do with it.”
“Very well, keep your secrets. Still, I can’t help but wonder on how many occasions you have managed me just as successfully, and I never suspected a thing.”
She gave him a mysterious smile. “I’ll never tell.”
“In that case, there is only one thing to be said.”
“And what is that, Richard?”
“Checkmate,” he replied, and slid his queen across the board.
* * *
And so it was that, when the family sat down to dinner that night, they were served by a grinning footman bearing a platter containing half a dozen cutlets encased in a golden brown crust, all resting on a bed of parsley adorned at intervals by radishes cleverly carved to resemble roses. Behind him, the second footman carried a large plate of some pale substance molded into a ring, the center cavity of which was filled with an assortment of grapes, cherries, and plums.
“Oh!” breathed Susannah when this masterpiece was placed before her. “Antoine is a genius!”
“Monsieur Antoine begs mademoiselle’s pardon, Miss Ramsay, but he took the liberty of substituting butter for the, er, lard,” confided the footman offering the platter.
“What the devil is this?” demanded Richard as one of the breaded cutlets was transferred from the platter to his plate.
“Squirrel, my lord,” replied the footman, struggling to keep his countenance. “Or, as Monsieur Antoine calls it, Écureuil au beurre.”
“And that?” Richard’s voice rose ominously as he nodded toward the plate with the ring mold.
“Er, corn meal ‘mush,’ my lord,” the second footman said apologetically. “Or, if you prefer, ‘cirque de farine avec fruites.’ ” He pronounced the French words as if they had been dutifully committed to memory—which, indeed, they had, him having no French of his own at his command.
“If I prefer?” echoed Lord Ramsay, dumbfounded. “What I prefer is—is—” His gaze shifted from his betrothed’s glowing countenance to Jane’s pleading one, beseeching him from her place at the opposite end of the table. “What I prefer is that you should carry my compliments to Monsieur Antoine, along with Miss Ramsay’s.”
He returned Jane’s grateful smile with a rather sheepish one of his own, then picked up his fork.
Chapter 8
He’s a wonderful talker, who has the art
of telling you nothing in a great harangue.
MOLIÈRE, Le Misanthrope
The following morning, Lord Ramsay arose betimes and dressed carefully in a russet-colored riding coat, buckskin breeches, and top boots; today he was to go riding with his betrothed, and he was determined that Jane should not accuse him of being backward in any attention. He made his way down the stairs toward the breakfast room, idly slapping his riding crop against his boot, but upon reaching this sunny chamber, he was informed by the butler that Miss Ramsay had been there before him. He thanked Wilson for the information, then made a quick repast before setting out for the stables.
Or at least, such was his intention. But as he crossed the hall, he glanced toward the window, and the sight framed in the elegantly arched aperture was sufficient to make him revise his plans for the morning. A female with a basket of flowers on her arm stood there on the edge of the raked gravel drive, and although the wide brim of her gypsy hat hid her face from him, he recognized her at once as his cousin Jane. She was apparently deep in conversation with Sir Matthew Pitney but, knowing her as he did, Richard could not fail to notice the way she turned slightly away from Sir Matthew as if impatient to return to the house. Nor had he any difficulty in interpreting the shake of her head as a firm refusal to allow the middle-aged baronet to carry her basket. Alas, these cues, so obvious to Lord Ramsay even from a distance were utterly lost on Sir Matthew, who showed no signs of taking “no” for an answer.
“Devil take it,” muttered Richard, and crossed the hall to fling open the door of the small room which served as the steward’s office.
Peter sat within, carefully entering neat rows of figures into the estate ledger, but he looked up when his cousin and employer intruded upon his work.
“Peter, I fear I must ask a favour.” He glanced at the open ledger on the desk. “I hope this is not a bad time?”
“Not at all,” lied Peter, stifling a sigh as he returned the quill to its stand and mentally calculating how many hours of work he had lost since Miss Susannah Ramsay had descended upon them. “What can I do for you?”
“That prosy old bore, Pitney, is here, and I won’t have him badgering Jane with prying questions about Miss Ramsay.”
“Will he do so? I wasn’t aware that Sir Matthew had any interest in Miss Ramsay,” Peter observed. “In any case, Jane has never had any difficulty before in putting him in his place when the need arose.”
“Perhaps not, but depend upon it, he will lose no opportunity to press his suit with her, and I’ll not allow him to fill her head with visions of becoming an unpaid drudge to my wife. But the devil’s in it that I am promised to take Susannah riding.”
“I see.” Peter pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “You want me to rescue Cousin Jane from his clutches? I shall be happy to do so.”
“Actually, I would prefer that you take Susannah riding,” Richard confessed, conscious of a vague feeling of embarrassment, although he was uncertain as to why this should be so. “Sir Matthew is oblivious to hints, and you are a great deal too diplomatic to suit the purpose. An admirable trait, I’m sure, but it renders you singularly unsuitable for dealing with Sir Matthew.”
Peter grinned, taking this criticism in the spirit in which it was intended. “Very well, but would it not be better just to postpone your ride until after Sir Matthew is gone?”
Richard had the grace to look ashamed. “Perhaps, but I confess I would prefer to have Miss Ramsay well away from the house for the duration of his visit. He is as gossipy as an old woman, you know, and it wouldn’t do for him to make her acquaintance until she is fit to be presented.”
“Very well, then, I shall change clothes and meet her at the stables directly.” He started for the door, then paused as a new thought occurred to him. “I should think Daffodil would do for her, don’t you?”
“My thoughts exactly. Daffy is the
most docile creature in the stables. Susannah should have no difficulty in handling her.”
Peter nodded in agreement, then took himself off to don his riding clothes.
* * *
Susannah, in the meantime, faced a dilemma of her own. When she had dressed that morning, she had put on the same lilac muslin that Jane had given her the day before, correctly assuming that she would be expected to wear this until Madame Lavert should deliver the first of her new gowns. It was not until she had reached the stables that she discovered this costume, although undeniably more attractive than her own garments, was eminently unsuited for riding. Its skirts were much too narrow to allow her to hook her knee over the pommel of the sidesaddle without hitching them up so high as to be almost indecent. Too late, she realized that, of all the gowns discussed at length in the Frenchwoman’s shop, there had been no mention of riding attire. She glanced toward the stable door. Lord Ramsay (really, she must at least try to think of him as Richard!) would arrive at any minute; she did not want to keep him waiting, and still less did she want to bombard him with questions regarding ladies’ riding clothes which he might be ill-equipped to answer in any case.
She looked down at her straight skirts and sighed. There was only one thing to do. She stooped and took the hem of her borrowed gown firmly in both hands.
* * *
Peter arrived at the stables a short time later, having hastily changed into an olive green riding coat, fawn-coloured breeches, and top boots. Had he been in less of a hurry, he might have noticed the coterie of grinning stable hands who steadfastly refused to meet his eye.
“Cousin Richard sends his apologies, Susannah, but he—Good God!” He drew up short at the sight of his American cousin standing beside Sheba’s stall and stroking the horse’s velvety nose. Susannah wore the same muslin gown she’d altered the day before, with one new modification: the side seams of the dress had been ripped open from hemline to hip. “What—what happened to you?”
Baroness in Buckskin Page 7
