The silver pot, two porcelain teacups and saucers, spoons, a strainer, a small boat of milk, and chunks of sugar in a small bowl filled the tray. Mary hurried over with a plate of almond biscuits.
“What sort of temperament are they in this afternoon?” asked Clara, knowing the answer could easily change the next hour.
“He’s excited for the dinner tonight,” answered Mrs. Johnson, smoothing out her gray wool skirts. “It’s hard to tell with his sister, but if she isn’t complaining all must be well.”
Later that night after dinner was served, Clara and “her girls,” as she’d begun to call them, were just finishing in the kitchen. The staff were trickling in for supper.
Mr. Smalley entered the kitchen. “You have been summoned to the dining room, Mrs. Alberts.”
Clara’s heart almost stopped. Would her reception be positive? Were cooks summoned to be admonished as well as praised?
“The viscountess mentioned the soufflé was superb,” said the butler with a smile. “Do not worry, and hold your hands behind your back if they begin to shake.”
On the way up the stairs, he explained the procedure for being received by the guests. “Remember, they are people like we are. Only much, much wealthier,” he added with a smirk.
Clara welcomed the praise if her jellied legs didn’t give out. This might boost her confidence and set her mind at ease. The butler entered the dining room, and she stood just inside the entrance. The large fire in the hearth put out a good bit of light, complemented by several candelabras on the table. Crystal wine glasses sparkled, the silver shone from heavy polish, and the six guests all laughed and talked.
“Ah, this must be our chef,” said the Comte du Aveculót, his dark eyes glazed and smile lopsided. Clara wondered if he had drunk too much wine. His snowy cravat, one of the most intricate she’d ever seen, made his swarthy coloring seem darker. “I was just telling Lady Agatha how you were trained by a French chef.” His accent was thick, his voice thin and reedy. It surprised her since she had only seen the pair through the window.
Panic threatened when Clara realized that Lady Agatha, according to her title, was probably a spinster and of high rank. She swallowed, giving her best curtsy, and wondered if her legs gave out if that would be grounds for dismissal.
His sister, dressed in a coquelicot gown of silk, matching red ribbons under her bust and threaded into her cascade of dark-brown curls. The change in hairstyle and dress softened her appearance from Clara’s first view, who now thought her quite pretty and more… human.
Her tone was huskier and less accented than her brother when she addressed Clara, “Mrs. Alberts, Lady Moorsy would like your recipe for the soufflé.”
“Oh, it was monstrous good,” said the woman, a feather on her turban quivering in unison with her chin as she spoke. Her cheeks were plump and pink, and her smile was infectious. “My cook refuses to make another because it never turns out.”
“Yes, my lady, I’d be happy to.” She must be the viscountess, thought Clara.
“Wonderful, I shall send a messenger around in the morning.” She turned to her hostess. “How did you manage to find such a gem when you arrived late for the Season?”
“The butler and housekeeper arranged everything. We only had to show up,” answered the comte.
“And we’re so glad you did,” chimed in Lady Agatha. She beamed affectionately at the comte.
Mr. Smalley caught her eye and gave the slightest nod toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberts,” he said quietly.
She curtsied again, the guests all chatting once more, her presence forgotten. As she descended the servants’ stairs, Clara couldn’t wait to tell Mr. Norton about her adventure with the nobility.
CHAPTER 9
Sunday
Coleman Street, Cheapside
Elijah took Miss Alberts’s mantle and hung it on a peg next to his grandmother’s. Her hair, pulled back in a mass of wine-colored curls, shone in the late afternoon light. Tonight, he would kiss her. But first, he would ask permission to court her, not knowing what else to do with her father gone. She knew of no other relatives in England. Permission first, then kisses. His fingers itched to touch her flaming tresses. He woke up in a sweat some mornings after dreaming of her.
“Well,” said his grandmother, “I won’t mistakenly call you Diamond now that I’ve seen your glorious hair.”
Miss Alberts blushed. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Norton.” She held out her hand, but of course Grandmama pulled her into a tight hug.
“No formalities in this house,” she said, her eyes bright with laughter. “Come and sit in the parlor. We’ll have some claret.”
Once settled in her rocker, with their guest in Eli’s usual chair and he in a straight-back he’d pulled from the writing desk, Grandmama smiled and said, “Tell me about yourself.”
Elijah knew she was putting Miss Alberts at ease, for he had already told most of what he knew. But it gave their guest the opportunity to talk of things she was comfortable with, for the most part, and led to other conversations.
“Mrs. Norton, what smells so divine?” asked Miss Alberts, her head tipped back as she took in a deep breath.
