“I am sure it is. But with the war barely over...”
“Yes, yes. The mail ispeu fiable.”
She nodded, echoing, “Yes. Unreliable, indeed.”
His head snapped up, eyes alight with surprise. “You speak French,mademoiselle?”
Too late she realized her error. “Oh... no. Not really. My mother has a French lady’s—lady friend, and I heard French spoken now and again. That’s all.”
He studied her, his expression measuring and perhaps even suspicious. Then he seemed to shake it off. “In his last letter, more zan a year ago now, my brother promised to sendLeCuisiniere Impérial—the very best book of French cuisine. But... well...” He lifted both hands and shrugged.“C’est la guerre.”
Margaret licked her spoon. “Perhaps you should write your own book.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I shall.”
From down the passage, the tinkling of keys filtered into the kitchen and swelled into melody. The old pianoforte being played in the servants’ hall. She looked up in surprise, but monsieur seemed to take it in his stride, listening distantly as he spooned another bite into his mouth.
“Who is that?” Margaret asked, reluctant to leave her sweet dessert to investigate.
“Madame Budgeon.”
“Really? I had no idea she played.”
“She is a woman of hidden talents, Anna Budgeon.”
Anna?Margaret mused, “I wondered if she would take the afternoon off, or do the work of all the missing staff combined.”
“She could no doubt, with vigor to spare.”
He said it with admiration, and she regretted her sarcastic remark.
“And you?” she asked. “Why are you not off at some inn with the others?”
He pulled a face. “I cannot abide English food, Nora. I make no secret of zis. English ale little better. No. I told Mr. Upchurch I appreciate his offer, but I prefer to stay and prepare somethingextraordinairefor Miss Helen’s birthday.Seulement moi, in a quiet kitchen. Sweet music in my ears and sweet aromas in my nose.”
His last word drew her attention to his abundant nose hairs, and she forced herself to look away. She guessed the scullery maid would not enjoy the mountain of dishes awaiting her return but didn’t say so.
Rising, she said, “Then I shall leave you to it.”
“If you like. Though you are pleasant company.”
“Thank you. And thank you again for the delicious pudding.”
He nodded. “Not going out?”
She shook her head. “Betty was kind enough to ask, but... I think I shall do a bit of reading instead.”
His head tilted to one side. “The new maid reads books and speaks French.Très intérresant.”
———
Leaving the kitchen, Margaret tiptoed down the passage and peeked into the servants’ hall. Mrs. Budgeon sat, head bent, hands spread wide, playing with abandon. And though the instrument was not in perfect tune, the housekeeper played very well. Hidden talents, indeed.She wondered who had taught her and guessed Mrs. Budgeon did not often have opportunity to practice and enjoy her skill.
Margaret decided not to disturb her.
She returned to her room but was too restless to read. The warm, sunny afternoon beckoned her out of doors. She tied on her bonnet and retrieved her reticule, which still contained her worldly treasures—her few remaining coins and cameo necklace. Then she trotted down the back stairs and out the servants’ door.
The warm late-August air embraced her. She paused to tip her face to the sunshine, the warmth on her skin as sweet as the pudding had been. The wolfhound, Jester, appeared and trotted beside her, tail wagging.
