The earl managed to disappear as soon as breakfast was finished. Mrs. Amberly arose from her bed in time to cook an uninspired lunch for the excited household. The housekeeper’s surly temperament, along with her aching tooth, did not improve as the day progressed. Isabella was vastly relieved when Mrs. Amberly took Jenkins’s advice and retired to her room directly after luncheon.
“I don’t believe Mrs. Amberly is up to cooking dinner this evening,” Jenkins confided to Isabella as they sat alone together in the kitchen, sharing a cup of tea. The earl was still out attending to estate matters, despite the constant rain, and the children were upstairs with Maggie and her baby. “I hope the maids and I will be able to provide something adequate for dinner.”
“Of course, if all else fails, we can always have cake for dinner, Mr. Jenkins.” The corners of Isabella’s mouth curled up in a teasing smile.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the notion of cake,” Jenkins retorted with good humor. “Maggie is the only one of the four maids who possesses any culinary skills, and she is in no condition to do any cooking. Fran’s idea of preparing a meal involves boiling everything until the last ounce of flavor and texture is gone, and Molly can only cook eggs and fry bread. If memory serves me correctly, Penny doesn’t even know how to light the stove.”
“In that case, I should like to offer my services,” Isabella volunteered.
“You can cook, Miss Browning?”
“I am far from a French chef, but I’ll wager I can produce something more flavorful than a boiled dinner.” Leaning towards the valet, she wryly added, “I dare say, I might even be able to improve on the swill Mrs. Amberly usually serves us.”
“That hardly takes talent, Miss Browning.”
“True, Mr. Jenkins.” Isabella laughed. “I will rummage through the pantry and see what supplies are available. I suppose we can send someone to one of the nearby tenant farms if there isn’t any fresh meat or vegetables.”
“Let me know what is needed,” Jenkins said. “I will see to it.”
Isabella began prowling around the kitchen to see what fresh food was on hand, feeling enthusiastic over the challenge of cooking a meal for the entire household. Pleased with the variety and quality of food she discovered, Isabella planned a dinner menu based on the recipes she could remember.
“After you have finished your tea, Mr. Jenkins, would you please go find Ian and Catherine? I suspect they will be on the third floor, pestering Maggie and the baby. There will be no time for lessons this afternoon, but I’ll find something to keep the children busy. Maggie and the baby need their rest.”
Isabella mixed a stiff ginger cookie dough, and when the children joined her in the kitchen, she taught them how to roll and cut out cookies. They were intrigued with the entire process and spent several joyful hours at the task, although they ate more dough than they rolled.
Inspired by the variety of food she found, Isabella settled on a rather ambitious menu. Vegetable soup to start, followed by fillets of fish poached in white wine, roast beef with fried potatoes, and fresh greens. For dessert there was a luscious honey-wine pear tart that had been a specialty of Isabella’s childhood cook, to be served along with Catherine and Ian’s unusually shaped ginger cookies.
The kitchen soon filled with mouthwatering aromas. Fran and Molly drifted in to investigate, and Isabella immediately set them to work chopping vegetables while she delicately worked the pastry for the tart.
Though it entailed a great deal of hard work, Isabella enjoyed her day in the kitchen. Working in compatible ease with the children and the maids, she experienced the warm sense of family that had long since been missing from her life. And she gleefully anticipated Damien’s pleasure at her culinary efforts. Deep in her heart, Isabella admitted that the need to prove herself worthy in Damien’s eyes was strong, even in such a menial task as cooking.
The excitement mounted as the dinner hour approached. After ascertaining that all was under control, Isabella slipped away for a quick bath to remove the smells of the kitchen from her skin. Freshly bathed and dressed, she waited for the earl to return, hoping he wouldn’t be too late to appreciate the sumptuous meal.
When the clock struck the hour, Isabella realized she could wait no longer for the earl to arrive. Reluctantly, she served the children their soup before going in search of Jenkins. She encountered the valet in the foyer, a open bottle of brandy in his hands.
“I have already begun the meal,” Isabella reported with dismay. “Will the earl be returning home soon, Mr. Jenkins?”
“The earl is at home, Miss Browning,” the valet replied with guarded eyes. “He is in his bedchamber.”
“Go tell him that dinner is ready,” Isabella insisted, not bothering to hide her delight. “I shall expect him in the dining room in five minuets.”
“I don’t belive the earl will be joining the family for dinner this evening,” Jenkins replied with regret in his eyes.
Isabella was instantly suspicious. “Why not? Is something wrong?”
“I am not certain.” The valet hesitated for a moment. “The earl was in a fine mood when he returned late this afternoon, but after reading today’s post he became livid. He has ensconced himself in his bedchamber with a bottle of brandy and only emerged long enough to demand a second bottle.”
Jenkins’s voice dropped to a mere whisper. “I must confess, Miss Browning. I am worried.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ll go to him,” Isabella decided. She glanced ruefully down at the brandy bottle in Jenkins’s hands, hesitated, then finally pulled the bottle into her arms.
She strode purposefully through the hallway and up the staircase, pausing a moment before the closed doors of the earl’s bedchamber. She raised her hand to knock, but changed her mind and instead turned the latch. Shoulders squared, Isabella marched in the room, intentionally closing the door with a loud bang.
“Where is Jenkins?”
Isabella halted abruptly at the sound of Damien’s deep voice. With slightly less confidence, she approached the earl. He was sprawled in a leather wing chair, his muddy boots carelessly propped on the low mahogany table before him. His discarded riding coat lay on the floor near the roaring fire, and his fine linen shirt was undone halfway down his chest.
