“I would like it very much,” Christa said. She halted on the threshold of the small maid’s room and said, “Oh, how lovely!”
It was a very attractive chamber. The furnishings were not new but were well made and looked mellow rather than obviously worn. Not only was there a pretty blue-patterned carpet on the floor, but the pitcher and basin on the washstand matched each other, and a striking watercolor of a ship at sea hung on the wall. A door in the back of the room led to the servants’ passages. It was not uncommon for a lady’s maid to have a room in her mistress’s suite, and this arrangement meant that Christa could doze in comfort when Annabelle was out late, yet still be available to undress her mistress when she returned.
She gave Annabelle a shining look. “It makes me very happy to be here. I hope you will be happy too.”
Annabelle smiled. It was an incongruous thought for an aristocrat hiring a maid, but she had the sudden feeling that they might become friends.
* * *
The servants’ hall at Kingsley House was vastly different from the Pomfrets’. The house was still understaffed, so everyone ate gathered around one large table, with Mr. Morrison, the butler, presiding at one end and his wife at the other. Mary Morrison had been the head housemaid when she married her husband but had to give up her job because the late Lady Serena did not approve of having couples in her employ. When the butler suggested his wife as the new housekeeper, the new Lord Kingsley had been happy to give his permission.
Together the Morrisons ruled over their domain like firm but affectionate grandparents. While chairs were assigned by rank and the seniors led the conversation, all of the servants were entitled to speak. To her delight, Miranda was no longer the least important person in the household; as the vegetable maid she ranked above the scullery maid, another foundling like herself, named Daisy. Each of the two girls was pleased to find someone her own size, and a fast friendship was in the making.
After a comfortable evening meal, Miranda described her earlier interview with Monsieur Sabine to Christa, explaining how the rotund chef had inspected her with scowling intensity, muttering deeply in French and periodically clapping a red hand to his brow in despair. After some minutes of such carryings-on, he had barked, “Zee green beans—wash them!” before stalking off. Miranda had hopped to the task willingly; oddly, she said she found the Monsieur endearing rather than frightening, and seemed to understand him even when he was raving in French. She had never been happier in her life.
Christa did not meet the Monsieur (as he preferred to be called) until later in the evening of her first day. Though a chair was kept for him at the communal table, he chose to eat alone after the upstairs meal was over. Miranda served him a cold collation in his private belowstairs sitting room while he relaxed and helped himself to a few glasses of the household’s best wine. The Monsieur had been with the Kingsleys less than a week, but he believed that it was important to train employers quickly and firmly. Since his sauces were superb, his pastry nearly weightless, and his touch with a joint unexcelled, awed employers had always been desperate to grant him whatever he desired. As Master Jonathan had said in astonishment the night before, even hisvegetableswere good!
On this night, the Monsieur wished to speak with his newly arrived countrywoman. Morrison himself gravely informed Christa of the audience, though it was possible that a twinkle lurked in his old eyes. As she entered the cook’s sitting room, Christa thought irrepressibly that there had been less sense of ceremony in meeting poor Louis XVI in the days before the revolution. Admittedly, the king had had more courtiers, but the Monsieur had much more presence!
Since the door to the cook’s sitting room was ajar, the servants perched around the hearth listened with unabashed interest. Regrettably, the conversation was entirely in French, but the flavor was unmistakable. It began with the Monsieur gracious but haughty, progressed through a lively dialogue of apparent equals, and ended when he escorted Christa back to the servants’ sitting room, reverently kissing her hand before closing the door behind her.
Christa choked back a giggle at the sight of all the curious eyes regarding her. “Is there any more of the coffee, Mrs. Morrison?”
After Mrs. Morrison poured her a cup, Christa joined the circle before the hearth. The housekeeper asked, “What on earth did you say to him, Christa?” Even downstairs, where protocol was more rigid than among the Quality, “Christa” she was and would remain.
Christa sipped her coffee and gave a sigh of pleasure; French standards had prevailed in the brew. “We merely talked. The Monsieur told me of some of the houses he has cooked in. Really, a most impressive list. How did you manage to persuade him to come here?”
Mr. Morrison’s eye definitely twinkled. “He informed us that the Prince of Wales wanted him, but that the House of Hanover is too new for his taste.”
Christa choked on her coffee while the chief footman, Albert, helpfully patted her on the back.
“He’s a rare bedlamite, the Monsieur,” Morrison said as she succumbed to a fit of giggles. “But so long as he cooks like an angel and doesn’t put one of those great knives of his through anyone, we’re happy to have him.”
Still chuckling, Christa looked around the ring of faces. Not one of them watched her with jealousy, anger, or resentment. She had come a long, long way today. Finishing her coffee, she gave them all a good night smile and bade them sleep well.
* * *
The footman, Albert, might not have been as tall as some of his more expensive Mayfair colleagues, but he was not lacking in temerity. The next morning he asked the Monsieur aboutmademoiselle’sbackground and almost lost an ear to one of the chef’s dramatic gestures.
“It is a privilege to have that one in this house!” the Monsieur intoned, with a flourish of his onion chopper.
“Yes, it is,” Albert agreed. “But where did she come from?”
Another sweep of the knife, this time cutting loose two bulbs of a garlic rope that hung from the ceiling. “I know what I know,” the Monsieur said mysteriously. “But my lips, they are sealed. Begone!”
Being no fool, Albert went.
Chapter 7
The Honorable Jonathan Kingsley felt a slight unease as he presented himself in Lord Kingsley’s study. In his experience, a chat with the authorities was apt to prove uncomfortable. Alex seemed like a great gun and his young brother had hero-worshipped him all his life. Nonetheless, Alex’s casual invitation to stop by after breakfast was still a summons.
Alex looked up, with an expression of relief, from an account book he was studying. “Good timing, Jon. The family lawyers are generating documents for my inspection faster than I can read them. Much more of this and I’ll feel that I’m still shipboard.”
Jonathan blinked in surprise. “A captain does accounts?”
His brother laughed. “It’s not all standing on the quarterdeck and waving a cutlass, if that’s what you mean. An officer has to do navigational mathematics, write reports, maintain the log, keep accounts of supplies and pay, and half a hundred other things. For every half hour of action, there are months of routine work.”
Jonathan’s face reflected his surprise at this novel thought as he sat down opposite his brother. Alex leaned back in his chair, the quill pen bridged between his fingers. Now that the first flush of enthusiastic reunion was behind them, it was time to start building a real relationship with his brother. It was odd to see someone who looked so much like himself at the same age, but who had a stranger’s mind behind the familiar face. But while Alex’s experience with brothers was limited, he had commanded a good few midshipmen in the same age group.
