“I’m now wondering if you worked for someone who spoke that language,” the housekeeper added.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Smythe. But it does have logic. Perhaps that is how I was able to learn it.”
The tense moment passed slowly, but soon the others had returned to their duties. Mrs. Beauchamp took over instructing Louisa after Mrs. Smythe left. The French woman appeared to be in her early forties, still quite lovely with a buoyant personality. Louisa warmed up to this lady quickly, which was good since the others seemed to shoot daggers at her. Especially Francois.
She listened closely to what Mrs. Beauchamp taught her, but nothing made sense. It was as if she couldn’t fit the pieces of the puzzle together. The names of the spices confused her even though she tried to memorize their names and what they were used for. And why was it so important to take out the eggshell pieces that fell into the bowl when cracking eggs? Another thing that didn’t make sense was why the dry ingredients had to be separate from the liquids? They would eventually go into the same bowl when they were done.
Through her hazy memory, she tried to recall everything as she helped prepare His Grace’s dinner. Time passed quickly, and soon the meal was ready. As she waited to hear the butler announce the duke’s meal, Louisa causally leaned against the table, knocking her elbow against a pan. The object fell to the floor with a roaring crash, and whatever was inside glided quickly across the floor as if in a race to reach the stove.
A kitchen helper walked by and slipped on the gooey substance. Down she went, whacking her bottom on the hard floor. By now, several others had rushed over to see what the commotion was all about. When Francois bent and touched the thick liquid, he rattled off curses in French that would make an intoxicated man high on spirits blush, and then the chef issuedcommands as if they were all in the military instead of the kitchen.
With dishcloths in hand, everyone scrambled to clean up the mess—after slipping several times on the slick floor, of course.
Mrs. Beauchamp threw Louisa an accusing glare before switching her attention back to the task. She grabbed a hand towel and moved to help, but Francois looked directly at her and shook his head. Embarrassed, Louisa stepped back to the corner of the room by the door, her heart wrenching with disappointment.
“Mademoiselle, do not come closer. Ve vill clean zis up without yur help.”
Ashamed, Louisa nodded. From out in the hall, the butler’s call announcing dinner echoed. Nervously, she nibbled on her fingernails, moving her gaze from one servant to the next. Who was going to serve?
In a flash, she knew… as if she’d always known. The footman served. So where was he? And why wasn’t he doing his duty?
She finally spotted him on the floor arguing with Francois. If she tried to interrupt, she was certain they’d both yell at her. At this point, she didn’t think she’d be able to handle such verbal abuse.
There was no other choice. She must serve His Grace. Excitement welled inside her as she picked up the tray of food. She anticipated him gazing at her with those smoldering eyes while he praised her for a job well done, as long as she didn’t tell him about the mess she’d just made in the kitchen. That would decidedly deflate her enthusiasm.
She thought about the conversation she’d overheard the other day between him and Mrs. Jacobs. Although she wasn’t one to listen to other conversations, his voice had raised so loud she couldn’t help but eavesdrop. She’d cracked the door open just enough to watch. Whatever Mrs. Jacobs had done left himin a fit of anger. After he’d walked by Louisa’s room, her heart broke for him, wishing there was something she could do to soften his mood. Since she was still new at his household, she didn’t dare ask too many questions. But the suspense nearly killed her.
Louisa wanted so badly to impress the duke. He’d done so much for her and she didn’t know how to repay him.
When she stepped into the dining room and saw him, her heart dropped. His wide, strong shoulders sagged as he stared with empty eyes at the green leaves of the centerpiece. She’d do anything to change his expression to a happy one.
She stopped by his side and he raised his gaze to her. She curtsied. “Your Grace.”
His eyes widened as she set the bowl of soup in front of him.
“Louisa? Where is my footman, Mr. Stevens?”
“Well, you see, Your Grace… there was a disturbance in the kitchen, and Mr. Stevens started arguing with Francois. I did not dare interrupt.” She shrugged. “I knew your meal needed to be served quickly and so I took on the responsibility myself. You don’t mind, do you?”
He gave her a small smile, which lightened her mood considerably.
“Louisa, I must say, you have taken well to this position. I’m impressed you acted so hastily, and I commend you for that.” He dipped his spoon in the bowl and brought the liquid to his mouth.
It surprised her that she had thought of that as well. Now she really believed she’d been a servant in a place such as this. How else would she know such things? “Thank you, sir. It is my wish to please you—as well as the others.”
“I’m quite certain you will.” He set the spoon down. “Might I inquire about the other day?” he said softer.
“About what, sir?”
“When you overheard me talking to Mrs. Jacobs in the hallway.”
Heat rose to Louisa’s cheeks and she glanced at the white tablecloth covering the table. “I fear, Your Grace, I didn’t hear much, and what I did hear I could not understand.”
“Which is how I would like it to be,” he said with a hint of sternness to his voice as he leaned closer. “Just know I am a man who does not tolerate gossip.”
“And you should not have to, sir. Gossip is a vile tool, only meant to harm people.”
He smiled and lifted the spoon to his mouth again. “Indeed.”
