The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Instead, she said, “Come with me.”

  She turned down the alley. Once they reached the basement stairs, Nico stored his cart beside the Crane house’s servants’ entrance. He grabbed a paper, then opened the door. She led him down the hallway to the kitchen. After their coats and hats were hung on the wall pegs, she pulled on her apron and wrapped the kerchief around her head. Mrs. Horton, whom she expected to see in the kitchen when she returned from her walk, was nowhere to be seen. The dear woman must be managing the housecleaning . . . or meeting with Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane. A new household cook would need to be hired. If Mrs. Horton failed to find one, she would be responsible for the cooking until one was employed.

  Which did not have to be. Zoe could stay and cook.

  Tears again blurred her vision.

  Blinking them away, Zoe pointed to the table in the far corner of the kitchen. “Sit.”

  Nico obeyed.

  Zoe then focused on her work. She warmed the oven, collected a pot of stew from the icebox to feed her fellow servants, set it on the cookstove for it to reheat, grabbed a dinner plate, and then descended to the cellar to study the contents. The remains of last night’s banquet would be enough for Nico. She filled his plate with salted petit fours and a few dry and glazed ones, leaving what was on the platter for the rest of the staff to enjoy with their stew.

  She eyed the shelves. The cellar needed restocking after last night’s dinner. She should go after her meeting at the bank and—

  Her chest tightened, her pulse raced, her heart pounded, and she suddenly felt moisture on her forehead. The ceiling had no leak. Could it be . . . ? She touched her face. Why was she perspiring? She shivered. The cellar was nippy, even more so in the winter. It was so cold down here that fine hairs on her arm verily stood tall. Verily? A panicked bubble of laughter slipped across her lips. Why did she laugh? She had nothing to laugh about. And yet another panicked bubble of laughter slipped out.

  Unsure of what was happening to her, she grabbed a half-filled bottle of milk, pulled the string to turn off the light, and then hurried up the steps to the kitchen. She closed the cellar door. Leaning against it, she drew in a deep, calming breath. The strange panic that had washed over her began to lift.

  “You all right?” Nico asked.

  Zoe nodded. She walked to the table. “Please say grace,” she said, setting the heaping plate of food and the milk bottle in front of him. She waited until he bowed his head before she closed her eyes.

  “Come, Lord Jesus, be our Guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.”

  “Amen,” she echoed. Leaving him to eat, she stepped to the worktable in the center of the kitchen. She lifted the fine cloth covering the rolls she had prepared before leaving for her walk to the park. Perfect. She slid them into the oven to bake.

  After making herself a cup of café au lait, she sat across from Nico.

  He frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  She shook her head. Truth was, she had no appetite.

  Where was Mrs. Horton?

  Zoe glanced at the kitchen door, then at the watch pinned to her apron bodice. The time for the housekeeper to prepare Mr. Gilfoyle’s breakfast tray had passed. Zoe had little time to spare to wait around to help her. In an hour and four minutes, she must leave for the bank. She must change clothes. She must—

  Her lungs tightened, restricting air, and her heart pounded like horses racing down a track. What was this happening to her?

  Hearing a noise from the hallway, Zoe glanced again to the kitchen door. She waited.

  It stayed closed.

  “You worried about someone finding me here?” Nico asked.

  “No. Everyone knows I feed you from time to time.”

  “Then why do you keep looking at the door?”

  “Mrs. Horton should be arriving soon with Mr. Gilfoyle’s meal request.”

  “Ah, the Nephew.” Nico returned his attention to his food. “I’ve seen him come and go with that odd dog of his.”

  Zoe lifted the teacup to her lips. As she sipped the warm café au lait, the kitchen door was flung open.

  “Miss Difflers, I—”

  She froze.

  Manchester Gilfoyle IV, in a three-piece gray suit, stepped into her kitchen, clenching his black derby in one hand and the leash of his three-legged dog in the other . . . and looking decidedly annoyed. The door closed. His dog lay down and released a low-pitched “awrrr-oomph.”

  Mr. Gilfoyle’s mouth pressed together in an angry line. “You have a guest,” he said, glaring at Zoe.

  “Nico sells papers on ze corner. Your aunt encourages her staff to show kindness to all.” She looked from Mr. Gilfoyle to Nico, then back to him. According to the staff, Mr. Gilfoyle called all servants “you there.” He had called her Miss Difflers this time. Better than when he called her Miss de Flowers. She set her teacup on its saucer. “Is zere something you need?”

  He quirked a brow. “My aunt told me what transpired. I’ve heard the servants laud your kindness, so I am surprised you would attempt to sabotage such a great chef.”

  The sabotaging had been Chef Henri’s. She would never!

  Mr. Gilfoyle tapped his derby against his thigh. “Before you leave my aunt’s employment on Saturday, you will prepare me a five-course meal which will include poulet à la crème and mille-feuille.”

  “Why?” Nico put in. “She doesn’t work for you.”

  Mr. Gilfoyle’s blue-eyed gaze narrowed upon Nico, and Zoe had the distinct impression he was weighing and measuring the boy and his impertinent comment.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Nico’s chin lifted. “I’m Miss de Fleur’s friend. Close friend. Almost a brother.”

  His answer was enough—or possibly more—than Mr. Gilfoyle sincerely wished to know, because he turned his annoyed attention to Zoe. “Inform Mrs. Wharton to deliver the food at two-fifteen Saturday afternoon. Not a minute later.”

  “You mean Mrs. Hor—”

  “Shh.” Zoe hushed Nico before he impolitely corrected his—their—superior. She considered Mr. Gilfoyle but then paused, taking time to choose her words. “It has been an honor to cook for you.”

  He stared at her blankly before blinking and saying, “Of course.” After he gave a minuscule tug on the leash, his dog rolled onto its feet. The pair left the kitchen.

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Nico said. “The man is a bad egg.”

  Zoe ignored the insult.

  Nico gulped the last of the milk. He set the bottle on the table. “I take it Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane sacked you because of Chef On-ree?”

  Zoe nodded, then pulled the newspaper in front of her.

  “I don’t mean no offense,” Nico said in a most caring tone, “but can you read any of that?”

  “New York Times. March 1, 1888.” She pointed at a paragraph. “Zis, no.”

  “You speak pretty decent.”

  “I understand English when I hear it, most of ze time, but words written—” She shrugged. “English has too many conundrums, too many exceptions, too many inconsistencies with pronunciations. Why is trough pronounced troff, rough pronounced ruff, bough pronounced bow to rhyme with cow, and through pronounced throo? All too confusing.”

  “Like reading Shakespeare.”

  “I have never read his work,” Zoe said with pride. “Before leaving France for America, Papa took me to a performance of Romeo and Juliet. Adulation for ze play confounds me. It was a pleasant story with an expected ending.”

  Nico’s eyes widened. “You expected that ending?”

  She nodded. “A romance always ends with a happily ever after.”

  “You must have seen a different play than I did.”

  “I wish I had not seen it at all.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re strange.” Nico grabbed the paper. “So, what are you looking for?”

  “I need work and zen a place to live.”

  His brow furrowed as he studied her.
“Why stay in the city? If I were you, I would start over somewhere new, where people appreciated my cooking. I’d also want to cook for someone who doesn’t believe the worst of me when he hears criticism like the Nephew did.”

  Zoe opened her mouth, but the back of her throat tightened and closed, hindering her from speaking. Leave the city? Start over somewhere new?

  At that thought, the tightness in her throat abated.

  If she found employment in a private residence as a household cook, she would oversee the kitchen her way. She could make a home there. Perhaps she would marry the butler or gardener. They could live in a little cottage beside the grand house and start a family. She would no longer have to have a job. She would no longer have to work. She could be a wife and a mother. Everything could be perfect again.

  If she started over somewhere new.

  If.

  When.

  When?

  Needing a moment to ponder this new possibility, she sipped her lukewarm café au lait. She liked to try new things. She liked to experience new things. She had loved the anticipation she felt each time she and Papa moved from one castle in France to another. When Papa suggested they move to America, she happily agreed to another exciting adventure . . . because they were together. She now had no one to journey to the unknown with. No one.

  Could she do this on her own?

  If Papa were here, he would say she should never leave the future to chance, and instead do all she could do today to make her future better. That was how he had lived.

  “Carpe diem,” she whispered.

  “Here’s something!” Nico slapped the folded newspaper on the table, then turned it to face her. He pointed at an eight-line advertisement. “‘Finest kitchen west of the Mississippi seeks trained chef. Only women need apply.’”

  Zoe studied the words. The only words she recognized were fine and dining, which must also mean kitchen in the English language. As for the Mississippi River, she thought it divided the country in half, but she was unsure. That the river was not next to New York she knew with confidence.

  She looked at Nico. “Where is zis kitchen located?”

  “Denver, Colorado.”

  “Colorado is in ze middle of ze United States, yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Zat is too far to travel.”

  “No. It’s barely over the Mississippi.” He leaned forward. “I heard Denver is called the New York of the West. It’s an exciting town, Miss de Fleur. Here in New York, you are one of dozens of French chefs. Denver—well, I doubt they have more than one. If that. Move there and you’ll reach stardom.”

  “Stardom?”

  “You’d be a celebrity.”

  “Ah.” Zoe moistened her bottom lip as she considered being a cook in Denver. Any job would be temporary until she fell in love and married. “Is zis kitchen in a hotel?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “I have never worked in a restaurant, but I know zey are loud, smoke-filled, and busy.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I fear I will abhor it.”

  Nico turned the paper and read the advertisement. His brow furrowed. “I’m pretty sure this is a private residence. It also says chefs will be required to demonstrate their skills. That shouldn’t be a problem. You’re the best chef in all of New York.” His lips parted, and he hesitated a moment before saying, “I could go with you, if you’d like. Help read things. I don’t suppose you can write English, either.”

  She shook her head.

  “You really need me to go with you.”

  Having him along would be convenient.

  Zoe beheld the spacious kitchen and sighed. This was no longer her home. If she left now for Denver, Colorado, she could miss the meeting at the bank. She would spare herself the discomfort of explaining to Mr. Soutter why she did not wish to take out a loan or even open a restaurant. If she left now, she could avoid Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane and her vocal disappointment that Zoe had refused a loan. If she left now, she would not have to cook a meal for a man who was too full of himself to learn another person’s name.

  She wanted to create delicious food for people who appreciated her skills.

  And she could.

  In Denver.

  Where she would meet the man of her dreams.

  She smiled at Nico. “We shall go West.”

  Capitol Hill, Denver, Colorado

  Tuesday, March 6

  Zoe rested her gloved hands atop the blue-beaded reticule in the lap of her blue-striped dress as she waited for Mrs. Archer to return to the parlor. The woman’s two-story wood-framed home paled in size to the Crane house, but the ornate carved mantel and the wall paneling looked to be made of mahogany, Zoe’s favorite wood. Sunshine streamed through the windows framed with yellow silk curtains. The room smelled of roses. Likely from the four arrangements about the room.

  She breathed deeply.

  Her future home would have fresh flowers. Brought home by her husband.

  She loved the house’s dollhouse-style architecture. She loved the porch that wrapped around the front and sides. She loved that the house had been painted the same shade of yellow as the parlor curtains, while the spindles and fish-scale shingles under the eaves were a vivid peacock blue. Most of all, she loved how the parquet de Versailles in the hallway flowed beautifully into the parlor. Were she to ever own a home, she would choose warm wooden floors over cold marble flooring like in the Crane house, which was exquisite to look at yet required constant washing.

  Nico bumped his arm against hers. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Zis could be my new home.”

  His mouth indented in one corner. “Could be.” He patted her arm. “Thanks for inviting me to come with you to Denver. This is a new opportunity for both of us.”

  Zoe nodded, yet felt as if his words held an additional meaning. What could it be? He had offered to join her, had he not? Or had she done the inviting? She could not recall.

  What mattered was that he had been gracious in helping her purchase tickets for her travel in a ladies’ Pullman car, while he happily traveled in third class. He even found them a lovely hotel next to the cable line. He had secured directions to Mrs. Archer’s home. Even though Zoe disliked his insistence at the depot and to every conductor on the journey that they were siblings, Nico had been a true friend.

  “Ah, here we are,” Mrs. Archer said cheerfully, sailing into the room with a thick folder in her hand, her lime-green taffeta skirt rustling. “I apologize for making you wait. You are the first prospect to arrive in person.” She sat in a chair opposite Zoe and Nico. “This isn’t how I usually do this. Everyone else has sent a letter, per the dictates of the advertisement . . . but because you’re such a beautiful young woman, well-mannered and well-spoken, I’ll adjust.” Her brown-eyed gaze lowered to the coffee table’s bare surface, her smile dying and her brow furrowing. “Antonia didn’t bring refreshments?”

  Zoe exchanged a glance with Nico.

  He shrugged.

  She looked at Mrs. Archer. “No one has seen to us.”

  Mrs. Archer glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, farthest from the crackling fire in the hearth. “She may have left already to visit Luanne, so I shan’t complain about her absentmindedness. In the last nine months, Luanne has taught my daughter more about behaving as a lady should than I’ve been able to accomplish in twenty-four years. Antonia even joined the Ladies’ Aid Society at church. I know she only did so because Luanne had. I choose to see this as Antonia finally moving past her grief over her father’s unexpected passing. He died eighteen months ago.”

  Zoe smiled to be polite.

  Mrs. Archer rested the file on her lap. “Mrs. Luanne Bennett is a few years older than Mr. Gunderson—”

  Mr. Gunderson?

  “—but their families are close.” Mrs. Archer took a breath. “Luanne highly endorsed him. If you wish to interview her, I know she will agree. She confirmed everything in his letters, as well as those letters f
rom his three references—a judge, a reverend, and a prominent widow. My standard practice when an unfamiliar man secures my services is to seek out additional references. My clients, except Mr. Gunderson, live here in Denver.”

  Clients? Had Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane been this detailed prior to hiring Papa? Zoe could not remember. Unsure if Mrs. Archer expected a response, Zoe continued to smile

  And Mrs. Archer continued to talk. “I subject them to intense interviews to ensure their motivations are sincere. Jakob Gunderson is”—she gazed heavenward for a long moment—“let’s say he is less affluent than my regular clients, not that he is poor by any stretch of the imagination. His family owns an exclusive resale shop in Helena and is working toward opening a second store, which Mr. Gunderson will manage. Of course, I don’t know why a man of his ilk isn’t already married.” She sighed.

  Zoe shifted in the chair, trying to make sense of the woman’s treatise on her client, Mr. Jakob Gunderson. Could he be the one who wished to hire a chef? “Madame Archer, where is Helena?”

  “In the Montana Territory,” Mrs. Archer answered.

  Zoe looked to Nico.

  “The state above Colorado is Wyoming,” he said with devastating calm, “and Montana Territory is far north of here. It’s uncivilized. You don’t want to go.”

  Upon the first opportunity, Zoe was going to buy a map of America.

  Mrs. Archer’s confused gaze shifted from Nico to Zoe. “My dear Miss de Fleur, Montana sounds farther away than it is. Helena is quite civilized. Over ten thousand people live there.” Mrs. Archer opened the file. “Let me find you Jakob Gunderson’s photograph. Once you see it and read his letters, you will understand my willingness to help him find a bride.”

  “A bride?” Zoe interjected. “I wish to apply for ze chef’s position. Ze one posted in ze New York Times. Zat is you, yes?”

  Mrs. Archer blinked a few times. Her gaze then shifted to Nico.

  Zoe turned on the settee to face Nico, who sat there with a strange, smug grin. “Is zere something you failed to tell me?”

  “I lied, Zoe, about the newspaper ad. It wasn’t for a chef. It was for”—he shrugged—“a mail-order bride. Tell Mrs. Archer you aren’t interested and we can leave.”