The chef’s hand, for who else could he be, swiped out to grab a chunk of…properbread which sat on a plate to his side, and she heard a whisper of a curse as he followed the words with his finger.
“Dia dhuit,” Aideen said loudly, narrowing her glare as she entered.
“Dia is Muire dhuit,” the chap replied, before twisting his head, eyes flaring in horror.
She recognised him from the day she’d married, as all the servants had been gathered at the hallway in welcome: deepest black curly hair tumbled over a handsome forehead, whilst pale-blue eyes flickered in worry within an extremely pale face.
If he was a French chef then she was Queen Maeve of Connacht.
“Where are you from?”
Obviously realising there was no talking his way out of this – even if he was Irish – the chef bowed his head. “Wicklow, Ya Grace.”
“Hmm.” She stalked over, eyes flicking to the gawping maids. “Let us continue this conversation outside…and bring that bread.”
The sun shone weakly as they climbed the steps to the gardens, a haze preventing its full warmth, and the not-so-exotic chef desolately followed three feet behind.
“So,” she began, pausing under an apple tree, “why the pretence?”
“I…” He peered at the heavens as though expecting divine help from the saints above.
“No yarns. The truth.”
He scrutinised the ground as though the aid of the inhabitants below might be more useful in this situation. “I trained in Dublin, in the best houses, Ya Grace. But I married an English lass, and she was so homesick for London. I tried to find work here but everyone wants a fancy French chef.”
“So you thought to be one?”
“Had to. Otherwise I was treated like dirt, told I was a thieving bogtrotter, that I’d snaffle the silver and cook their children.” He tugged at his thick hair. “A few would have taken me on but at half the wage, and we’ve four babes with another on the way.”
“The dowager duchess said you had seven children.”
His eyes shifted. “Four. Seven…hard to keep tally, Ya Grace.”
Having been prone to exaggeration herself on more than one occasion, she could hardly admonish. “And does she know you are not in any way French?”
“I dunno to be truthful. I knew a French fella once, a footman, so I’m grandfaitwith the accent. I gave it lots of zhats and zizes and it seemed to work. Even threw in a fewzut alors.”
Aideen doubted the astute Meghan had been fooled for a moment but it was obviously her soft heart which had been touched by the…seven children. “But the food? You say you’ve worked in the best houses but it’s…it’s…” She trailed off.
“I know how to cook the finest English and Irish dishes, but I was employed as a French chef, so I’ve been cooking French fare.” His gaze flickered. “I’ve a book, but it’s all in foreign so I’ve had a few problems, and I can’t afford to buy one in English. But I’ve made friends with a Frenchie in the ale-house and he gave me a few hints.”
“Such as?”
“Lots of herbs and pepper. Don’t overcook the meat. Cut everything up really small and splash around the salt.”
Aideen was sure Jacquiers at The Clarendon would be spitting bile at this summation of French cooking. “Why haven’t the servants said anything?”
“Everything was grand.” He shrugged. “I cook French fer upstairs and no one’s complained, but I cook Irish or English fer downstairs.” He handed her a piece of the bread, wrapped in a serviette.
Biting into it, she was transported home. To evenings by the fire with Seamus, slathering butter on warm bread until it ran down your fingers.
She missed home, she realised. The hills so verdant it burned the eyes, the freshness of a spring morning, the lichen-covered forests. She missed the laughing people, the cuddles from Uncle and the harsh coastal wind blowing her hair free and wild.
Not everything there was perfect, but London was all stern propriety and icy stares. Indeed, her own stern duke needing warming with some hot Irish stew and a soft caress.
Looking up, she noticed the man fiddling with a thread on his worn jacket.
“Your French dishes are awful… I’m sorry.”
