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“Mrs Smythe, have you worked here long?” she asked.
“Since Master Oswald’s father lived here,” the cook stuttered.
The admission fitted with her age. She was probably about fifty.
“And might I ask, do you not feel the accomplishment of being a cook in such a fine house deserves more recognition?” She opted to sweeten the conversation first rather than assault the flustered woman.
“I would, but as you can see, miss, I’m not able to achieve such high standards.” She waved her hand at the bare shelves. “My larder is impoverished, and the pantry is equally starved of good ingredients.”
“Why ever so?”
Mrs Smythe lowered her head and poked the dough. “Master Oswald was never ’appy with fussy food. He preferred to keep meals as simple as possible. When his father died, he insisted that I cease cooking extravagant dishes. He needed the money for his travels.”
Jenny did not know much about cooking or how a kitchen should be equipped, but glancing around her, she saw only that this kitchen was basic and lacked many things. “Mrs Smythe, the Twelfth Night approaches, and I would like to serve Lieutenant Seton a cake, as is the tradition.”
The cook’s face lit up. “A cake!”
“You can bake a cake?”
“Oh, miss. I make the best cakes, if I might be so bold to say.” She rubbed her hands on her apron, then opened a drawer under the table. “I’ve a recipe ’ere for such a Twelfth Night cake. Let me find it.”
“Might I suggest from now on, Mrs Smythe, that you forget about Oswald’s meagre dietary requirements and provide the lieutenant with something more appetising. I’m sure after many months living on a frugal military diet, he will welcome the change.”
“You think so?” Mrs Smythe pursed her lips. “I assumed he would find it too rich and unnecessary.”
The nervous cook had not sought to find out Elias’s requirements, and she had probably feared Oswald and assumed Elias was of the same fearsome ilk.
“Oh, Mrs Smythe, your current master is a kind gentleman beneath his morose and indifferent appearance. He’ll more than welcome the change.”
The cook giggled. “I have noticed he is much happier now than when he arrived in October.”
Jenny helped the cook gather the ingredients of flour and dried fruits, which she had aplenty.
“Don’t forget to put a dried bean in one half and dried pea in the other.” She smiled. If Elias found the bean in his slice, he would be King of the Revels and she would be his queen and would have to do all that he commanded, not that she did not already. She would make sure that he got the bean.
By h
elping the cook, Jenny unearthed more secrets about the household and its problems. Margaret was not as dim as she appeared.
“She can’t see very well, and mean Mr Tulk refused to provide her with spectacles. She gave up asking,” Mrs Smythe explained.
“I shall speak to El—the lieutenant.” Jenny hoped that Elias could unlock the secret of the accounts and find where all the money had gone.
The groom was another misfit.
“He likes his ’orses,” Mrs Smythe told Jenny. “Mr Tulk”—she now said the name with a derisory sneer—“would not employ a valet. Said he didn’t need one. He’s not home enough to make use of one.”
“Probably true, but Risley is a not a house servant.” She would speak to Elias on that matter, too. He needed a good manservant.
Elias was taken aback when she explained the situation to him. He was delighted that the cook intended to improve the meals. “I do not have much funds to assist Margaret or to employ a manservant. However, I do think I’ve discovered where the missing money is.”
“The housekeeper?”
“She purloined some of it. But it seems Oswald hadn’t bothered to find new tenants for his farms. They lie abandoned and fallow. I shall seek out an agent for new tenants. I know little about farming.”
She leaned across the expanse of the table and kissed his cheek. Should she tell him? It was a subject she had kept quiet. Money was not something she had thought much about in her life because she had never needed to worry about having it. Next month, she would twenty-one years old and free not only to marry without consent, but also an heiress with a substantial dowry. William might have cared little about it, or so she thought, but a lowly cavalry officer might have a different outlook. As for the house, it was not Elias’s. Where would he go when Oswald returned?
He patted the back of her hand. “What else have you been doing?” he asked. “I’m afraid there is little to read.”
