Evelyn watched as he heated the milk and stirred in the spice, turning the hot liquid a golden yellow. Mr. Rudge’s movements were deft and sure, almost like a dancer as he went from hearth to the spice cabinet and back again. Although it was hard to tell beneath the thick, white cloth that was his cook’s uniform, he seemed to be well muscled, like an athlete. A tight-fitting cap, not like the baker’s hat he wore to accept thanks for meal preparation, kept his dark hair out of his face.
Evelyn imagined for a moment what it might be like to dance with him. He would, no doubt, be graceful and in time with the music. She knew he could sing for she had surprised him once or twice humming over the pots. He said that he could more easily time the cooking of sauces and the like by how many verses it took for them to thicken. She gave herself a mental shake. It was only the Duchess’ instruction of her son, she thought severely to herself. John was her one true love, and she was fortunate to have had him. Now, she had their bills to pay and no time for romantic nonsense.
Mr. Rudge carefully spooned just a little sugar to the mix, then turned to face her. “That should do it,” he said. “Now just a little care with arranging the tray...” He covered the top of the cup with a linen cap, then a tea cozy. He then set the blancmange in its dish onto the tray, and arranged a few candied mint leaves around it, then a spoon that was neatly rolled into a napkin.
“Lovely!” Evelyn exclaimed. “It looks too beautiful to eat.”
“I assure you that it is completely edible,” Mr. Rudge smiled at her. “If you do not mind, I will carry it up for you. The stairs are a little tricky at night.”
“Not at all. That would be wonderful,” Evelyn said. She had been dreading trying to get that tray up the stairs without spilling something.
“How did you learn to cook so well?” Evelyn asked.
“Kitchens have always been my favorite place,” he replied. “There was one particular cook who would let me hang about, and even sent me on errands. Soon I learned the difference between a carrot and a parsnip, so to speak.”
Evelyn laughed softly at this sally. “A carrot from a parsnip… well, they are both root crops and they are more or less the same shape.”
“But definitely not the same flavor,” Mr. Rudge beamed at her. “You catch on quick. I would bet that you know your way around the inside of a kitchen.”
“To some degree, yes. But the things I cook certainly do not turn out the same way as yours.”
As they entered the upper halls, they both fell silent. The Dower House was largely empty, with only a few servants and the dowager in residence. But the Duke had been spending the night, of late, so none of the serving maids went about alone.
The Duchess greeted them with a smile. “You helped her carry the tray up, Mr. Rudge. What a dear boy. What do you have for me tonight?”
“A blancmange with candied mint leaves, and golden milk,” Mr. Rudge replied. “I was glad to carry it up. Those stairs are tricky when one is carrying a tray at night.”
“Always so thoughtful. Do you know that the maids always have good things to say about you, Mr. Rudge?”
“Do they? I am sure I would not know. I am glad to have their good regard.”
“Yes, indeed. Do you mind if I taste before you go?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Rudge replied. “I hope it is to your liking.”
The dowager took up her spoon, and dipped it into the confection, then she nibbled a little of one of the mint leaves. “Perfection,” she pronounced. “It takes genius to make blancmange taste like anything, and this is divine. Thank you so much for bringing it up.”
Mr. Rudge apparently knew a dismissal when he heard one, for he bowed and said, “I am glad you like it. Bon appetite, Your Grace. Good night.”
After he had withdrawn, the Duchess continued to spoon up the treat. When the last of the blancmange was eaten and the final sip of golden milk gone, she said, “That makes my poor tummy feel calm and satisfied. How he makes the dishes my physician recommends palatable I shall never know, but I am infinitely grateful.”
“He does seem to be an excellent cook. And the maids do, indeed, speak well of him,” Evelyn observed.
“Quite so,” said the Duchess. “What do you think of him, my dear?”
“He seems exceptionally amiable without being forward or pushing,” she replied. “I do not know him well, but from our few encounters, I find him to be a person of good sense, with a kindly attitude toward others.”
For a moment she wondered how a cook could develop such a well-muscled form, and such grace. But perhaps he had been something else before he was a cook. A gymnast, she thought idly, or he could even have been a dancer. In all events, not her business.
She put him firmly out of her mind and set about the small chores needed while the Duchess’ maid helped her prepare for bed. But a tiny seed of thought had lodged in her mind. As she closed her eyes that night, she could see again the graceful stretch of muscle as Mr. Rudge reached up to take the dessert out of the cupboard, and the well-bred timbre of his voice as he gracefully accepted the Duchess’ thanks.
Foolish, completely foolish, she chided herself. Go to sleep, Evelyn. Tomorrow will be another long day.
Chapter 9
Evelyn hurried down the steps to the kitchen, carrying the two trays with the empty dishes from the Duchess’ late-night snack atop them. At the bottom, her steps slowed. What could she say to Mr. Rudge? Thank you seemed banal, and begged the question of what she was thanking him for. Was it for deceiving their employer? Offering a distraction? Either could apply, yet both suggested wrongdoing on the Duke’s part. Thank you for carrying the trays? For taking such good care of the Duchess and her needs? None of it seemed quite right.
Nonetheless, she continued on, for the trays and dishes must go back to the kitchen.
As she opened the door, she beheld an astonishing sight. Mr. Rudge seemed to be battling an unseen opponent. He leaped into the air delivering what would have been a lethal kick had anyone been standing before him. He came down in a graceful roll that had him facing the opposite direction. Immediately he began punching and poking at his unseen adversary, sometimes with fist, sometimes with the tips of his fingers. His face was wild, as if belonging to someone demented.
“Mr. Rudge?” Evelyn called timidly.
Mr. Rudge halted mid-lunge, drawing himself back into a semblance of civilized order. “Mrs. Swinton! I hope I did not startle you. I am merely engaging in a little shadow boxing. It keeps me in good form, you see. I must do something to work off all the tasting I do during a day.”
Evelyn recovered her equanimity, swallowed and said, “That was quite impressive. I am very glad not to be your adversary.”
Mr. Rudge shrugged a little diffidently. “I have never had occasion to use it for real. I learned it from the same gentleman from the East who recommended the turmeric milk. Here, let me take those trays. You should have rung, and I would have sent someone up for them.”
“I wanted an excuse to speak with you, Mr. Rudge. I wanted to thank you for distracting the Duke today.”
Mr. Rudge sighed. “The Duke is a fine gentleman in every sense of the word. As such, he cannot imagine why a kitchen maid or even a companion would not welcome his attentions. While not all peers behave so, our Duke has a certain reputation. The Duchess is completely blind to it, of course. Your predecessor succumbed to his charms, and when she came up in the family way, the Duchess dismissed her as a matter of course.”
“Oh, dear! What became of her?”
“The Duke, who is to some degree a responsible gentleman, set her up in a cottage on the lower side of the village and arranged for her to be married. It isn’t a very happy marriage, I fear. Her new husband relies on the largess from the Duke to maintain the household. Of late, the fellow has taken up drinking up his own wages and a good part of the largess, leaving the former companion to take in laundry and the like to support herself and the baby.”
“That is terrib
le!” Evelyn exclaimed. “Something should be done.”
“Something is being done, as much as can be,” Mr. Rudge replied. “The constable has his eye on the fellow, and the village ladies do as much as they can for the woman. She is proud, however, and does not wish to be dependent on charity.”
“Now that I know about this, I am doubly grateful to you. Although, I do not think I should be so foolish as to be taken in by any gentleman, nor so poor-spirited as to succumb to him.”
“Perhaps you are quick to judge, Mrs. Swinton.” Mr. Rudge looked troubled.
“Oh, dear. I do not mean to be. But every shop girl knows what lies down that particular slippery path.”
“True enough. But when a young woman is employed by a great house, there are many ways that the young master can put pressure on her, not the least of which is being turned off without references.”
“I suppose so,” Evelyn agreed. “Shortly before I was hired on here, I interviewed for a house where the Lord made suggestive remarks, something about what might happen to me if someone was to buy up my debts. Fortunately, the physician who cared for my husband holds all of my debts, and I do not think he would sell them off.”
“That is good to know,” Mr. Rudge said soberly. “But what if the physician fell on hard times? Would not those debts be part of his assets?”
“And could be sold at auction,” Evelyn said soberly. “Fortunately, I believe him to be at least comfortable, if not well off. He has society patrons as well as his charity patients. He is the Duchess’ own physician, I might add, which is partially how I came to be offered this position.”
“Was your husband a charity patient, Mrs. Swinton?”
“Not at first. Mr. Swinton was a hard worker, and a frugal man. As soon as he realized that he was mortally ill, he started taking extra jobs and setting aside money against the time when he could not work.” Then she looked troubled. “I fear he might have hastened his death in the hope of making me secure.”
“Any man who was a man would have done that, Mrs. Swinton. If he truly knew that he was dying, I do not believe he could have done otherwise. Not if he loved you at all.”
“I think he did,” she said slowly, reflecting on the past. “I certainly loved him. Toward the end, there was very little left save the illness and trying to make him comfortable. He would not kiss or hold me, for fear of passing the illness to me. Indeed, he begged me to get someone else to care for him lest I be made ill also.”
“A good man, then,” Mr. Rudge comforted her. “And one who loved you well. While it is a great trial to be the one left behind, you were fortunate to have been the object of such adoration.”
“I suppose.” Evelyn sighed. “But I would have just as soon had a living husband, even if he tended to stay late at the local inn on a Friday night, or usually slept in a-Sunday instead of going to church.”
“Better a living man than a dead saint,” Mr. Rudge nodded. “I quite understand.”
“Have you lost someone, Mr. Rudge? You seem knowledgeable in the ways of grief.”
“My father,” he replied. “He also had a lingering illness, although his did not seem to have any specific cause. When he passed from this life, I tried to carry on. But my own health seemed likely to suffer, so one day I simply walked away.”
“Do you regret it?” Evelyn asked.
“Not really. I find ‘cook’ to be a fulfilling role in life. I prepare good foods that will sustain life, and sometimes even heal. Or at least Her Grace’s physician is of the opinion that they will.”
“I think he might be on to something there, Mr. Rudge. Especially when he has such a willing ally as yourself who can make his food prescriptions into something delightful, rather than a chore to consume.”
“Speaking of that, Mrs. Swinton, I have saved back a few scraps for you.” Mr. Rudge went to a small cupboard on the wall well away from the fireplace and withdrew a covered plate. “I had meant to send them up to your room tonight, but since you are here perhaps you would not mind keeping me company at my own supper?”
Evelyn stepped farther into the kitchen. “That would be a pleasure, Mr. Rudge, as long as all we are discussing is supper.”
“Only that, and plenty of it, Mrs. Swinton. I believe that your long months of nursing your husband, followed by the arduous task of caring for the Dowager Duchess, has taken its toll on you.”
“Are you trying to fatten me up, Mr. Rudge?” Evelyn teased gently.
“I am hoping to put a little meat on your bones, yes,” he replied with a grin. “Besides, if you share a meal with me, you might also stay and talk for a little while. I am afraid that most of the kitchen staff are doing well to write their own name or to puzzle out the ingredients in a recipe. I grow lonely for conversation that goes beyond the village gossip.”
“Then I will be glad to sit at table with you, Mr. Rudge.”
Evelyn smiled as he laid out crackers, cheese, apples, and a few small pieces of sliced meats.
“The Duchess does not stint the help,” Mr. Rudge said. “I am charged with feeding anyone from the household who might wander through my kitchen day or night. So do not fear that we might be breaking some house rule.”
“She is such a charming person,” Evelyn said. “I had heard such horror stories about being a companion, but she is wonderful.”
And so are you, Mr. Rudge. I wonder if you realize just how unusual and special you are? Many in your position would abuse their power, but you make the care and well-being of the household your particular charge.
Aloud, she said, “Goodness! This is a lot of food.”
“The better to fatten you up, my dear,” Mr. Rudge said in his best theater villain voice.
Evelyn laughed, and began to feel a lonely place that had been growing since her husband had died, to feel a little less empty.
Perhaps life could be worth living, after all. I can, at least, have a few good friends to help fill the emptiness.
Chapter 10
Mayson could scarcely believe his luck. She consented to sit at the kitchen table with him! He supposed that it might be somewhat inappropriate, but the kitchen was not a private place. Anyone could come wandering through at any time, seeking food, comfort, and perhaps even some advice.
Mayson was not quite sure how the advice part had come to be. He was, after all, much younger than most head cooks. But perhaps it was because he was younger, and therefore perhaps a little less intimidating than the butler or the housekeeper. However it might have come about, he was often the confidant and gatekeeper for the younger staff members and their small concerns. In all events, it meant that the kitchen was often a lively place where the younger staff members might gather at any hour.
“Is this not late for you?” Mrs. Swinton asked. “Not that I do not appreciate a good meal. I usually have a little something squirreled away for after Her Grace has gone to bed.”
“To some degree,” Mayson replied. “But I have made arrangements with the potboy to start the fires and put the loaves in the oven to bake. He has done it a time or two now, with good success. I think I might be able to begin training him to be the undercook.”
“That will be pleasant for both of you,” Mrs. Swinton observed. “It is kind of you to take him under your tutelage. Many cooks are so jealous of their position that they would as soon cut off an arm as share their secrets.”
“Ah, but where would I be if a kindly cook had not allowed me to run tame in the kitchen, getting underfoot, and then being put to work at various menial tasks until I finally began to learn the secrets of proper cookery.”
Mrs. Swinton buttered a cracker, then placed a thin slice of cheese atop it. She contemplated it a moment then asked, “What was he like? The cook who taught you.”
“Gruff. Solid. He was not loud or angry-sounding like some cooks can be. He used a bosun’s whistle to get the attention of the staff. There was a special whistle for each person, and he expected them to quickly learn the tune that
meant they were to attend him. There were also whistles for dishing up, adding wood, and more. It was quite complex.”
“Oh, dear! What a tangle that would have been for someone new!”
“It could be. Fortunately, for all his gruffness, he was a patient person with those who truly did not know. He was less patient with those who did not pay attention or try to learn.”
“What became of him?” Mrs. Swinton fixed her gaze upon him. Tonight, her eyes were a deep green, almost black in the dim light of the nighttime kitchen. It made her look enigmatic, he thought, like some ancient forest goddess stepped out of the dawn of time.
“To the best of my knowledge, he is still cooking in the same kitchen where I learned. I’ve rambled around a bit since then. Cooked for the army for a while, then for an inn or two. This place suits me. Big enough to be a challenge, but not so large that I must toil day and night to oversee providing food for everyone.”
Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 6
