The Marriage Test

by Betina Krahn

  Archie patted her friend’s hand and poured her another cup of wine.

  “She’s a brave little thing, she is.”

  The abbess narrowed her eyes to search her friend’s innocent smile.

  “You are so full of horse manure, Mary Archibald. She’s not brave, she’s reckless. And hot tempered. And prideful, hardheaded, and disobedient. She served that blasted ‘hedgehog’ of hers when I specifically told her not to.”

  “Lovely almonds, those,” Archie observed. “So crispy and brown on the outside, so pale and tender inside. That girl has a way with almonds.”

  “And with a saffron and plum-pork pie.” Distracted, the abbess closed her eyes and allowed herself to be transported for a moment by the memory of it. “And with the crust for pasties stuffed with chicken and cheese. So flaky. So tender. So beautifully golden.” She opened her eyes abruptly. “It’s been years since we had a feast like that.”

  “Humph,” Archie said, shedding her slippers and propping her feet up on a stool. “We’ve never had a feast like that.”

  “We’ve never had a cook like Julia.” The abbess focused her gaze past Archie, studying a vision only she could see. “She’s God’s gift to the convent. We’ve never had such harmony and contentment among the sisters. It was the best decision I’ve ever made, turning the kitchen over to her when Boniface died. She’s my legacy to the order and I do not intend to see it brought to naught because some wealthy nobleman has an itch he can’t scratch.”

  “A year passes quick enough.”

  “And what if she doesn’t want to come back?” The abbess finally voiced the real cause of her anxiety. “What if she experiences the luxury and relishes the praise a silver-tongued nobleman can heap on a woman? She never took the slightest bit of interest in religious vows. What if we lose her to the world?”

  “In the first place, her new master’s tongue ain’t exactly silver. He’s arrogant and prideful and most likely has a temper. Ye heard how long he’s looked for a cook. He’ll not be an easy man to please.” Archie frowned as she considered the pair together. “They’ll probably get on like oil and water.”

  The abbess thought on her wise friend’s observations and felt some of the burden lifting from her heart.

  “You’re right. It is Julia, after all. She’ll be just as difficult and temperamental and disobedient there as she is here, and they’ll have at each other fang and claw. And if the wretch even thinks about breaking his word, the prospect of answering to the duke will make him reconsider.”

  “An’ thanks to the greedy old bishop, ye got the gold to pay the convent’s tithe to the cathedral for four years,” Archie reminded her. “Ye won’t have to worry about his harangues for money for another two years. Almost makes you want to thank the old trout.”

  The abbess’s smile soured.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Chapter Six

  The Beast of Grandaise was living up to his name the next morning as he led his men on horseback through the convent gates. It had rained the entire night and every rock for miles around had somehow collected beneath his pallet as he slept. He had quit his bed of misery early, and two hours of predawn pacing in the cold and wet hadn’t improved his mood. Now his head was pounding, his stomach was growling, and his rain-wetted garments felt cold and heavy and restrictive. But by far, the most annoying thing he had to bear just now was his own prickly conscience.

  The moment he rode out of the convent’s main gate last evening and heard it slammed and bolted behind him, he sensed he’d made a terrible mistake in allowing the abbess to dictate when he could have the cook for whom he had just bargained away half a year’s wine profits. Given the abbess’s attitude, how could he be certain the cook she handed him that morning would be the real one? Dammit. He should have insisted she produce the woman then and there and questioned her thoroughly before agreeing to such a costly scheme.

  It was the food, he realized grimly. He’d been under the spell of that magnificent lamb, those mouthwatering pasties, and that absurd but delicious hedgehog. All he could think about was getting the abbess to let him have the woman responsible for his first unblemished taste of pleasure in years.

  Now as they entered the convent courtyard, he groaned at the sight of the throng of females gathered to bid farewell to the cook. The sisters and their maiden charges parted to allow him and his men to pass but then stood glaring at him as if he were the devil himself come to spirit off one of their blessed number. Thankfully, their attention was soon redirected to the inner gate, where several women in black habits and veils emerged and moved toward the cart.

  He scowled and rose in his stirrups to see what was happening. There was emotion in the voices coming from that knot of nuns and he witnessed a great deal of spontaneous clumping going on here and there.

  Hugging, he realized. Why was it females never went anywhere without endless rounds of hugging?

  Seized by the need to reassure himself he wasn’t being had, he urged his horse forward through the crowd until he spotted the top of a bare head crowned with a halo of reddish hair. It had to be her. She was the only one not wearing a habit and she was being hugged fervently by everyone else. He tensed for some reason as he watched her being passed from embrace to embrace and thought for a moment of his encounter with that kitchen wench … what she had said about the cook being strong …

  Then the woman with the reddish hair paused some distance away and held out her arms to several distraught little girls. Those arms, even viewed through heavy sleeves, didn’t look sufficiently brawny …

  “Don’t cry.” He heard only snatches from where she knelt in the midst of them. Something about a “recipe for gingerbread with Sister Helena,” “if you’re good,” and “tonight’s supper.”

  Her condolences only elicited louder wails. She tried to move on; the girls attached themselves to sundry parts of her anatomy and had to be peeled from her by equally unhappy sisters. As she set the last child back into a pair of outstretched arms, she turned straight into his searching glare.

  His heart stopped.

  Her? The kitchen wench with the peppery tongue?

  This couldn’t be!

  She met his gaze with a bold air of defiance, and then continued on with her good-byes until she came full circle, back to the cart.

  “Sister Helena, I’m counting on you,” she said to a younger-looking nun dabbing at her eyes. “Don’t forget the older sisters’ bedtime cups … to help them sleep.” The sister bit her lip and nodded.

  He kneed his horse forward, sending sisters and girls alike skittering out of his path.

  “This?” He motioned to the red-haired vixen. “This is my cook?”

  “I am afraid so,” the abbess said, making her way to the fore and taking a stand with her hands lodged up her sleeves. “We have decided to send one of our sisters with her as a companion and chaperone. Sister Regine.” She nodded to the sister arranging herself on one of the planking seats that lined the sides. The sister lowered her eyes and blushed as red as a berry.

  “Chaperone?” Griffin scrutinized the abbess, seeing in her aged face the sum of years of shrewd dealings. “Nothing was said about a chaperone.”

  “Nothing was asked. Julia of Childress is of noble birth and as such is entitled to the same consideration we would show to any of our charges forced to travel abroad in the world.”

  “But … it can’t be her,” he said, gesturing irritably to her.

  “And why can’t it?” the wench “Julia” demanded brazenly.

  “You. You told me she could … you said she was big enough to … you said …” He was halted by the taunting spark in her eyes.

  “I’ve said nothing to you, Your Lordship. How could I? We have never met before this moment.”

  He looked from the kitchen wench to the adamant abbess and then to the hostile faces of the nuns and maidens gathered around them.

  This was it. Whether she was the Angel of the Spit a
nd Griddle he had purchased or not, this was the female they were handing over to him. He suffered a brief, alarming visitation of his body pressed hard against hers as he struggled to hold her against the kitchen wall, and prayed it wasn’t a harbinger of force he’d have to use in dealing with her. His face reddened and he looked up to find Axel and Greeve staring with undisguised fascination between him and the fiery young maiden he had just paid a knight’s ransom to procure.

  “Into the cart,” he ordered the wench irritably. “We’re wasting daylight.” Barking orders to his men, he swung his horse around and headed out the gate.

  Behind them rose a wail of voices calling farewells. One would have thought he was stealing some holy relic from all the racket. Not that he was stealing anything. He’d paid dearly for the services of the tart-tongued female riding in the cart. Then it occurred to him that there had to be a reason they were so distraught at losing her. It was cold comfort to be sure, but better than none.

  By the time they crested the first rise and started down the hill, he had decided to question the wench before they went any farther. If she were an imposter, he would turn straight around. He rode back to rein up beside the cart.

  “Julia of what?” he demanded.

  “Childress,” she answered, without turning to look at him.

  “That doesn’t sound French.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “And your father was?”

  “The Baron Childress. Deceased.”

  “After which you were brought to the convent just like the rest of the ‘maids awaiting.’ Where did you learn to cook?”

  “The convent.”

  When he was silent, she turned to glance at him. Green eyes. Glinting in a way that made him wonder how much he would come to regret this bargain.

  “Who taught you the kitchen?”

  “Sister Boniface. She was the head cook before me.”

  “Head cook? You? You expect me to believe you were the convent’s head cook?” He gave a snort of disbelief. “You’re scarcely eighteen.”

  “Age is no indicator of experience,” she said defiantly. “I’ve worked daily in the kitchens since I was ten years old, and have been head cook since I was seventeen. I am now twenty years.”

  “In charge of an entire kitchen at seventeen?”

  “The abbess saw that I was capable and diligent, and handed over the spoon to me,” she said defiantly. “She has had no cause to regret it.”

  “Of course not. How badly could you ruin a pot of porridge?”

  She bristled at the implication that her repertoire of dishes extended no further than sops and gruel. “You ate my food. You know my worth.”

  “Do I?” He raked her with a look, taking in unblemished skin the color of fresh peaches, eyes the shade of new leaves in spring, and hair the colors of ginger and cinnamon. “How do I know you were the one responsible for the feast last night?”

  “If you truly don’t believe it was my work”—she folded her arms and tightened into an irascible knot—“why did you take me with you?”

  Caught without a response to the very question he’d been asking himself, he glanced at the sister muttering and fingering a chaplet of prayer beads on the other side of the cart. Pray for me, too, Sister.

  “The bishop left last night with my coin. When I saw you, it was too late to cancel the bargain. It appears I am forced to trust the abbess.”

  “Trust the reverend mother?” She gave a taunting laugh. “Oh, Your Lordship, you are in trouble.”

  Julia watched her new lord and master turn crimson, spur his mount, and head not only for the front of the column but past it, motioning to Sir Axel and Sir Greeve to stay with the cart. When she looked around, she found Sister Regine staring at her in horror.

  “It’s probably not my place to say,” the round-faced sister said, “but I think you might have handled that a bit better.”

  “His Lordship is clearly used to having his way,” she declared. “I must make him respect me and my work or I’ll be finished before I’ve begun.”

  Sister Regine’s wince expressed her opinion of Julia’s chance of success. Then she looked toward the count’s diminishing figure and frowned.

  “Why do you suppose he wears that bit of metal pinching his nose?”

  “I was wondering about that, too.” Julia frowned and pursed one corner of her mouth. “Last night I heard them say he was afflicted in some way.”

  She followed the sister’s gaze, but ran straight into the eager faces of the two knights who had accompanied the count to the convent.

  The pair, Sir Axel and Sir Greeve as they introduced themselves, came rushing back to the cart, drew up alongside, and proved to be eager sources of information … including exactly where they were bound.

  “Grandaise … east and a bit south of Bordeaux,” Sir Greeve said proudly. “Wine country. Cold ocean-borne winds in winter, sizzling hot breezes in summer … a fine mix for grapes.”

  “And what about His Lordship’s home?” Julia asked. “And his family? Who oversees his household? And what are the kitchens like?”

  “Good, sound walls … fine windows … real glass,” Sir Greeve answered.

  “Hearths in all the main chambers. His Lordship loves a good warm fire,” Sir Axel added, grinning in approval of his lord’s extravagance.

  “And a cup of mulled wine after a hard day of riding and training.” Greeve added. “But you won’t have to worry about that. He has a cellar master to oversee the household wines and brew up his mulled drinks.”

  “He has?” Julia glanced at Regine with widened eyes, then back. “What other staff is there for the kitchens?”

  “A larder, an oven man …” Sir Greeve’s eyes flicked upward, as if a roster were written in the clouds. “A fire tender, a fueler, half a dozen turnspits …”

  “What other cooks?” she persisted.

  “Well, there used to be a woman who saw to the cold cellar and buttery,” Axel said, looking uneasily at Greeve, who took it up.

  “And there was that poulterer. Took care of all the seizing, chopping, singeing, and plucking. Haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “But there’s an army of scullions to do the washing up and sweeping. Oh, and a fine laundry, where they make sure the linen is smooth and free of spots.”

  “And the rest of the household?” she continued. “The housekeeper?”

  “Well”—Axel glanced at Greeve—“there’s not one appointed, just now. His Lordship’s steward has been stepping in—”

  “The kitchens, demoiselle, they are magnificent,” Greeve intervened. “Half a dozen hearths, each with special metal ovens. Stone sinks … piped water … tall ceilings with louvers at the top. Good heavy oak tables and walnut chopping blocks … every size and shape of pot you could desire.”

  “His Lordship’s father built the kitchen to Old Jean’s specifications,” Axel added. “Old Jean was the head cook some years back. In latter days, he was called Grand Jean to distinguish him from his assistant and pupil, Petit Jean …”

  Thus, the story of the count’s former cook came tumbling out. For years, they said, the count’s family had employed Jean de Champagne, the finest cook in the south of France. The old fellow was declining in health and had begun to train an apprentice to carry on his jealously guarded techniques when he suffered a massive stroke and died. On the very day Grand Jean was stricken, Petit Jean disappeared and was never heard from again. The kitchens reeled from the double loss of master and student and, from that day to this, had never recovered. It was a great mystery, they declared, bringing Julia’s thoughts to a mystery closer at hand.

  “Why does His Lordship wear that band of metal across his nose?”

  Greeve and Axel exchanged glances and looked uncomfortably toward the horizon where the count had disappeared.

  “His Lordship is afflicted with a wicked-keen sense of smell,” Greeve answered in confidential tones. “Smells that to us are slightly unpleasant and fai
rly harmless make an unbearable assault upon his senses. He prefers to forego all smells in order to prevent the miasma that comes over him when he removes it.” He leaned in and grew quieter still. “We’ve found it best not to speak of it.”

  “Mentioning it puts him in a temper,” Axel added in a whisper.

  “Hmmm. And is that temper responsible for the fact that he currently has no cook?” She knew she had struck a nerve when the pair drew back and looked as if answering would be tantamount to treason. “Just how many cooks has His Lordship had since Grand Jean died?”

  Axel began recalling and tallying them on his thick, stubby fingers.

  “Nine, demoiselle,” he submitted.

  “That is a quite a number—”

  “In seven years.” Greeve put it into perspective.

  “Oh.” She swallowed hard and looked to Regine, who blanched.

  “But now all of that will change. You will transform His Lordship’s kitchens and satisfy his hunger and sweeten his temper,” Greeve said with something of a forced smile.

  “Sweeten his temper.” Julia straightened, thinking of the huge, irascible presence that had flattened her against the kitchen wall. “Of course I will.”

  Reassured, Sir Axel and Sir Greeve peeled away to ride back to the front of the column, leaving Julia staring after them with a sense of impending disaster. How on earth was she to cook for a man who held his nose against the world? Half of the pleasure of food derived from the smelling of it!

  What if he decided he hated her cooking? She grabbed the planking seat on each side of her and squeezed until her knuckles whitened. What if she couldn’t please him and he packed her up and sent her back to the convent?

  After a few moments, her reeling thoughts stumbled on the memory of him as she had first seen him: with gravy down his chin and crumbs all over his tunic. He had already tasted her food and found it so agreeable that he braved the abbess and bishop and Duke of Avalon to purchase her services. Her racing heart began to slow. The old cook they spoke of had managed to satisfy him. She would find a way to pacify his palate, and in pleasing him—