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It didn’t seem to occur to either of them to speak quietly, or better yet, shut up altogether.
John pinched the corners of his eyes, took a deep breath, and let out a controlled sigh. He was beginning to realize the job ahead of him was more than a question of efficient management. Not only would he have to teach them the work of servants, but he also had to make them understand what being in service was. Not servitude but taking care of others with respect and efficiency. It was the understanding that there was satisfaction to be found in a task well done, even when it seemed unimportant.
For the time being, this was what he had to do. And it would cost him his self-respect if he didn’t at least try to make a go of it.
Chapter Ten
Dinner for Eight
John went down to the kitchen in a grim mood.
As he reached the threshold, however, he was thrown off his guard by the billow of warm air from the doorway, infused with the scent of beef that had been roasted or stewed into something dark and intensely flavorful. The appetizing smell reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which had been nothing more than a few spoonfuls of porridge out of a tin bowl.
At John’s request, Ethan Ransom had arranged for him to spend a day and a night in a cell at Millbank Prison so he could have at least some small understanding of what it was like. The cell hadn’t been that bad, compared to the vermin-ridden torture chamber he’d imagined. But all three meals had consisted of gray porridge, sometimes with a few scraps of something extra on the side, served in battle-scarred tins. Now he was hungry. Not late-for-dinner hungry, but ravenous.
The other servants were already seated with the exception of Belinda, who moved around the table to fill the water goblets.
June, who was preparing plates at the counter beside the oven, noticed his arrival and said, “Good evening, Mr. Pembroke.”
Like a Greek chorus, the rest of them chimed in dutifully. “Good evening, Mr. Pembroke.”
“Good evening,” John replied, and went to June. “Is there a dinner tray for Miss Martin?”
The cook seemed pleased that he’d asked. “She eats at seven. I’ll do up a tray for you to take to her after we’ve finished.”
John turned to discover Mad Dog sitting at the head of the table. It was traditionally the butler’s place, but he doubted the man was even aware of it. And John was too damn tired and hungry to take issue. Later, he thought.
Before he could take one of two empty chairs that stood side by side, he heard June say, “Mad, you’re sitting in the butler’s chair.”
Mad Dog scowled, not budging. “I ain’t moving.”
“Fine, then,” June snapped, “if you don’t want to sit by me, I’m bloody sure I don’t mind.”
Mad Dog’s face went blank as he realized he was turning down a chance to sit next to her. In the next moment, he stood and pushed his chair back. “Here you are, Mr. Pembroke.”
John took his place, while June and Belinda brought plates of stew to the table. It was a beautiful dish of braised beef, shallots, and root vegetables, served in hollowed-out loaves of bread. As soon as he took the first bite, all his senses began humming in pleasure.
Everyone at the table made appreciative sounds, their spoons busy in pursuit of every fragrant morsel. The food settled them all into a relaxed good mood. Mad Dog practically glowed with contentment as he sat next to June, his elbows clamped tightly to his sides to allow her enough space.
When the main course was done, June enlisted Belinda’s help to bring out little dishes of lemon posset, a mouth-puckering emulsion of lemon, sugar, and cream, chilled into a custard. The tartness of the posset was a perfect ending to the rich dinner.
As soon as they were finished, John decided they were as receptive now as they were ever going to be. “Before we make a fresh start tomorrow,” he said, looking around the table, “I want to say a few words. I’ve never been in the position of managing anyone before. But I’ve been managed, and I know what makes someone bad at it.”
“We don’t need no managing,” Belinda said.
John sent her a level glance. “In light of what I’ve seen so far,” he said acidly, “improvements could be made.”
“We’ve been doing our best,” Norman protested. “There’s only five of us.”
“Six, now,” John said. “I’ll be helping with your tasks whenever I’m not doing my own. Tomorrow I’ll review your duties with Tuppence to decide whether you’re overburdened. But if you’re having problems finishing your work, it’s probably because you’re starting the day too late.”
The clinking of spoons in dishes stopped abruptly.
“From now on,” John continued, “every morning at the sound of the rising bell, I want all of you popping out of bed like champagne corks.”
“What time?” Enid asked with a frown.
Before John could reply, Tuppence said in weary annoyance, “The same time it’s always been—five o’clock. I’ve reminded you all nearly every day.”
