Friday
Hatton Garden, London
Clara stopped in front of the townhouse and checked the address. It was a sandstone structure, and one of three residences. A servant’s entrance with stairs leading down to the kitchen, she assumed, was on the left of each home. She pushed back her hood, smoothing back her hair tightly contained at the base of her neck, and checked that her mob cap was in place. Then she picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps before she lost her nerve. As she knocked on the door, Clara sent a prayer up to her mother. “Cross your fingers for me, Ma.”
A young girl, thirteen at most, answered the door. She gave Clara a friendly smile, her blond curls spilling from her mob cap. “May I ‘elp ye?”
“I’m to interview for the position of cook,” she told the girl. “Is Mrs. Johnson about?”
Henri had told her a housekeeper and butler had already been hired to ready the house for Comte du Aveculót’s arrival. “Yer young fer a cook, ain’t ye? My name’s Sally.” The girl stepped back and let Clara into the small entry of the kitchen.
Clara shrugged. “I’m not sure how old a cook should be?”
Sally giggled. “I s’pose I thought ye’d be as old as Mrs. Johnson.”
“And how old is that?”
Both girls jumped and turned to find a short, plump woman with fading auburn hair and sharp blue eyes. “Don’t you have chores to do, miss? Or should I add some to your list?”
Sally shook her head, mumbling “No, ma’am,” and ran toward the back of the kitchen.
Mrs. Johnson stared at Clara, who began fidgeting with the clasp on her mantle. “I am here to interview for the position of cook.”
The housekeeper arched a brow. “Are you, now?” She spied Clara’s small satchel. “I assume you have references?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s go to my office, and we’ll have a look.” The woman turned and left the kitchen, Clara hurrying behind her.
They went into a narrow hall with several doors, all closed. Mrs. Johnson stopped before one and opened it. “This is my domain, so to speak. The room next to this is my bedchamber, and the cook’s quarters are across from that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Intimidated by the older woman, Clara kept her eyes downcast, not wanting to appear as if she were gawking at the woman’s personal items.
“The door directly across the hall from my office is the butler’s pantry. I believe Mr. Smalley would skin anyone trying to enter that room without an invitation. His bedchamber, and the sleeping quarters for the male staff is on the other end, along with the servants’ hall.”
Clara took a wooden straight-back chair at the large table on one end of the room, her shoulders back and legs crossed at the ankles. She gripped the satchel so tightly, her fingernails left marks.
Don’t be nervous and hold your head high. You are a steal at the wages being offered. Henri’s words came back to her. She took a deep breath and turned to the housekeeper with a smile, handing her the reference from Henri.
“I realize I am young, but I have been working with?—”
“Lord and Lady Gosset.” She nodded, her eyes darting down the paper. “I know Chef Henri, very talented. My old employer tried to lure him away but never succeeded.”
“He has been very generous to train me,” added Clara.
“Will you need board or do you prefer to be a day worker? The new owner of the townhouse will be renting it out each year for the Season, so if your performance is satisfactory, this could be a full-time position. The wage is a bit higher if you don’t require board and will, of course, increase during the Season. How much depends on the present occupants. Comte du Aveculót does not seem willing to pay much more, considering his requirement for French training.” She glanced up from the reference. “Do you have anything else to show me?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have a collection of my recipes.” Clara handed over the leather-bound book, a gift from Henri. “I am always adding to it.”
Mrs. Johnson flipped the pages, pausing here and there. When she looked up and smiled at Clara, the housekeeper’s entire face changed. The woman went from severe to warm and approachable.
“I will work hard, Mrs. Johnson, and take any and all advice you have to offer.” Clara bit her lips, wondering if she was too forward. “Since I live with my father, I will not require a room.”
The housekeeper tilted her head, studying Clara. “This could be a nice stepping stone for you, Miss Alberts. As far as advice, you’ll be in charge of the kitchen, not me. I will guide you in the ways of running a household—as it pertains to the position of cook—but you will lead your own brigade.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara’s stomach knotted, not knowing if this was leading to a yes or a no.
“I will consult the comte on menus, and you will be in charge of the rest. You will be provided with one assistant, who I will be interviewing tomorrow. If you want to attend and share your opinion with me, that would be satisfactory.”
