The cook turned to Mia, wide-eyed. She handed over some scribbled notes that Mia managed to figure out with a bit of diplomacy. “Do you have everything you need, Mrs. Demming?” Mia asked.
“Need?” the cook asked.
“Supplies, help, tools…”
Mrs. Demming sat back with a sigh. “I’ve been trying to explain to Marshall and that dried-up old raisin Mrs. Morrit why I need an undercook. All they allow me is Peg, the one kitchen maid and a lazy one at that.”
“You manage those dinners with just Peg for help—and that excellent tea you served when my uncle visited as well? My dear Mrs. Demming, you are a wonder-worker!”
Mrs. Demming glowed under the praise. “It dint matter so much last year with His Grace gone and no visitors—and no Tavernash to keep us running. Then the mother came with her snooping and demanding. I’m run off my feet.”
“Now Mr. Kendrick and I have added children to your burdens,” Mia murmured.
“Young ones aren’t burdens. They are a joy. It’s the housemaids complaining about fetching meals up to the nursery,” the cook replied.
“It is too much for one person. I can tell you that from my own experience! I’ll speak with Mr. Marshall about hiring an undercook and second kitchen maid, at least as long as we’re here,” Mia told her. She wondered how Marshall had been so shortsighted, but then, men had no idea what it took to work miracles in the kitchen.
“And the Tavernashes?”
“Especially as long as they are here,” Mia answered. “Now tell me how you’ve been managing all this.”
Mrs. Demming started describing her methods and struggles, but the conversation quickly devolved into a cozy chat about recipes, favorite dishes, men who liked their food, and shared anecdotes about kitchen disasters. The cook asked Mia if she wouldn’t like to begin approving menus.
“I’d be honored to. Two heads are always better than one,” Mia replied.
“Millbrook will be glad to see you sitting behind that desk, madam, I can tell you. I know I am.” Mrs. Demming rose to leave looking happier than when she’d dragged in but paused as she reached the door. She clutched her skirts and frowned as if groping for words.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Demming?”
“No, ma’am. I just—I want to say that husband of yours is nothing like what they say. He’s a good man.” With that, she scurried away.
“He is that, Mrs. Demming. He is that,” Mia whispered at the woman’s retreating form.
*
Helen reared backwhen Hector came loping through the stables to greet Gideon. “He’s a monster!”
“Hector, sit.” The dog obeyed Gideon instantly and earned an ear scratch. “Hector is Mia’s dog. He’s a sweetheart, actually. And more obedient than some children I know.”
Daniel had no fear whatsoever, even though the beast topped him by over an inch. “May I pet him?”
“Of course!” Gideon showed him some of Hector’s favorite spots for scratching. “He’ll love you forever for that. Why don’t you three take him for a walk out behind the stable while I have a chat with Bert?” He taught them a few simple commands. Helen remained skeptical, but Jessica was delighted to command such a magnificent canine.
Left in private, he approached the groom. “What is eating you, Bert? Something aggravated you mightily back there.”
“It was Vincent,” Bert said.
“One of the field workers?” Gideon tried to picture the young man. The son of Alger Collins, Woodglen tenant, he thought. They had stopped by to watch the workers putting in winter wheat and turnips. He’d kept his distance while Gideon chatted with the others.
“He was keen to call me vermin for…” Bert stuttered to a stop.
“Spit it out, Bert. I’ve probably heard worse,” Gideon sighed.
“Yer none of the things they said when you came, sir. I know that. Yer no cripple and smart as they come. The maids have no complaints. So I figure the rest of it is all lies, too.”
“What is the rest of it?” Gideon prodded.
“That you’re after Woodglen for yourself. That you did something to the duke to get him out of the way, and then came with papers saying you could run the place.”
