The morning flew by, and soon she was swapping her apron for her mantle. “I shall see you tomorrow, then?” she asked Henri, who was rubbing his bald pate as he studied his journal.
Clara had also started writing down her recipes and the changes she occasionally made. Her grandfather had been a clerk for an insurance company, and he’d taught his daughter to read and write. In turn, Clara had been instructed. When Henri had asked if she had any education, she’d sent a silent prayer up to her mother.
“Ah, oui,” he mumbled, waving at her absentmindedly.
She had one foot on the stairs when he called to her. “Ruby, you are forgetting the stew for your papa.”
“Oh,” she cried, turning about and heading out of the kitchen to the larder. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have had time to make something else.”
“Take one of the breads too. It will only go stale and be used for something else.” He gave her a quick smile and returned to his ledger.
***
“Ye’re a prize, my girl. A prize to be sure,” said her father, rubbing his belly with a smile. “Best stew I ever ‘ad, and the bread never softer.” His light-brown hair was as dark as his eyes in the shadow of their small parlor. The coals were down to embers, and Clara hesitated adding more since it was so late.
Mr. Alberts kept an odd schedule, sometimes gone all day, other times disappearing in the evening and not returning until dawn. Clara was sure to have a meal prepared so he could always have a full belly when he came through the door. The poor man worked so hard and such long hours.
His dark wool coat hung next to her mantle on wooden pegs by the door. The kitchen and parlor were one room, with two smaller rooms off that for sleeping. Rugs scattered the wood floor planks, and curtains, sewn from old skirts hung on the two short windows. There was a garden in the back where she grew fresh produce and herbs in the spring. Anything which needed drying was hung from the rafters in the kitchen.
Since working with Henri, she brought home whatever they had cooked that day for the servants. Usually leftovers or something made from the leftovers. The chef had insisted it was the least he could do for her free labor.
“I have your favorite, Pa,” she said, setting a plate of warm shortbread next to him with a crock of butter and orange marmalade. “You look tired.”
“I am,” he agreed, rubbing his eyes. “But I’m a lucky one, with a beautiful daughter and a hot meal waitin’ fer me every day.”
Clara stepped behind him and rubbed his tight shoulders. “What is on your agenda this week, Pa?”
“I ‘ave to make some deliveries. More long hours, I’m afraid.” He groaned when she began rubbing his shoulders. “Ah, Ruby, don’t stop that any time soon.”
She laughed. “Would you like me to read the newspaper to you by the fire?”
Another benefit of working for Henri. He and the butler split the cost of The London Chronicle, the butler reading it aloud after dinner, then passing it on for a penny or two. It was printed every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The chef would let Clara borrow the Monday edition on Tuesday and sell it on Wednesday. The same went for the two later issues.
“How is that French dandy of yers?” asked her father as they sat by the small hearth. He held a bumper of ale, and Clara mended while she rocked.
“Funny you should ask, though he’s not mine,” Clara began, her heart pounding. If Pa said no, she would be devastated. “He believes I am ready to have my own kitchen.”
“Of course ye are. Ye’ve been workin’ this one for the last five years.” Her father paused, his brown eyes narrowed. “But that’s not what ye mean, is it?”
She shook her head, took a deep breath, and blurted, “There’s a position available in Hatton Garden, just for the Season, and Henri will provide me with a reference. It’s such a wonderful opportunity and could set me up for work in a grand house. I promise to still take care of you and our home.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, staring into the glowing coals. “I assume ye want this?”
“Oh, Pa. I can barely breathe just thinking about it.” Clara set down the sock she’d been darning and knelt before him, taking one of his rough hands in her own. “I could help you then, bring home real wages, so you don’t have to work so hard.”
He brushed back her hair and tipped her chin. “A man must work, child, till the day he dies. I’d rather be in my grave than ‘ave to take anything from ye. But”—his eyes grew misty as he studied her face—“if something ‘appens to me, it would be comfortin’ to know ye were able to fend fer yerself.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “What are you saying, Pa? Nothing will happen to you.”
“We never know what fate ‘as in store fer us, Ruby.”
Clara ignored his melancholy tone. “You’ll let me apply for the position, then?”
“If that’s what ye want, I won’t stand in yer way. Hatton Garden, eh? It’s a step up from Cheapside.” He pinched her cheek. “But I’ll ‘old ye to yer word to keep up this place. I’ll starve on my own.”
Clara threw her arms around him, kissing his stubbled cheek. “This is the path I was meant to take, Pa. I just know it. You’ll see.” How would she possibly sleep tonight?
CHAPTER 3
