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Mrs. Hart put half a cinnamon stick in the mortar. “If you’d like to pound this out to a powder, miss,” she said to Penelope. “Though I can easily do it.”
She never quite believed that Penelope wanted to learn to cook with her own hands. Eventually, she’d convince her. Penelope took up the pestle and began to pulverize the cinnamon. Sweet scents wafted through the room.
“Ow!” cried Kitty. “This dratted thing bit me.” She held up a bleeding finger.
Penelope watched Mrs. Hart restrain her impatience. Kitty was clumsy in the kitchen, from lack of ability or lack of experience, Penelope wasn’t sure which. She knew Mrs. Hart often snatched an assigned task away from the girl and did it herself. Not when Penelope was present, since she knew Penelope wanted Kitty to learn. But she’d heard other exchanges. Their cook was a much better practitioner than teacher and struggled to endure mistakes, her professional pride warring with her natural kindness.
There was a delay while Kitty’s finger was bound up, and then a muttered argument when the girl insisted she would keep on grating the nutmeg. Mrs. Hart very much wanted to take over, but at last she gave in. Kitty went back to it with exaggerated care.
Some minutes later, Mrs. Hart poured the prepared spices into a sieve with a pound of sugar. “Now we sift these together, miss.” She held the sieve over the worktable and tapped the edge. “They should be well mixed, so the flavors are spread through the dough.”
Sugar and spices rained down in an aromatic mélange.
“You can fetch three eggs and break them into that little bowl,” Mrs. Hart said to Kitty. The cook kept sifting as Kitty obeyed. “Watch for bits of shell,” she added.
On several occasions, Kitty had left a few when she cracked eggs. She peered into the bowl and fished some out. Penelope was glad to see that she didn’t use her bandaged finger.
“Do you have that rosewater, miss?” asked Mrs. Hart.
“Yes, it’s here.” Penelope held up the bottle she’d procured at the farm where she bought milk and eggs. The farmer’s wife had a notable stillroom as well.
Mrs. Hart nodded approval. “Pour a bit in with the eggs, and beat them.”
“How much?” Penelope asked.
“Just a dollop.”
Penelope hesitated, added a splash, then a bit more, before starting to beat the mixture.
The back door opened. Foyle looked in, then retreated with a disappointed expression. Penelope had noticed that her manservant hung about the kitchen when Mrs. Hart was here alone, but never when Penelope was having a lesson. She suppressed a smile and kept beating.
Mrs. Hart added her sifted ingredients to a large mixing bowl of fine flour and stirred it all together. She gestured with her wooden spoon, indicating that Penelope should put in the eggs, which she did. They were stirred in.
“Bring over our melted butter, Kitty,” said the cook. “Carefully now.”
The young maid used a corner of her apron to grasp a saucepan on the hob, carrying it as if the liquid butter might leap out and burn her at any moment. She set it on the worktable with visible relief.
“Perhaps you could pour some in the bowl, miss,” said Mrs. Hart with a sigh in her voice.
Penelope wrapped a cloth around the hot handle and picked up the pan. “All of it?”
“No, miss. We want just as much as will make it a good thickness to roll out. Perhaps half at first.” Penelope poured. The cook stirred. “A bit more,” she said. “There, that’s it.”
“How can you tell?” asked Penelope. The dough looked the same to her.
“By the feel.”
“May I try?”
Mrs. Hart handed over the spoon. Penelope stirred, trying to memorize the texture. She wasn’t certain she succeeded.
The cook molded the dough into a loaf shape. “We’ll let it sit for a little while before we roll it thin. Then your Shrewsbury cakes can be cut it into whatever shapes you like.”
Kitty’s eyes brightened. “Goats?” she asked. “Or lions?” She clapped her hands. “We could make them like Jip and Jum.”
“The dogs maynotcome in as models,” said Penelope, earning a grateful glance from Mrs. Hart. They were of one mind on the dogs’ place in the household—outside, charming as they were. Kitty held to the other side of the issue and couldn’t be trusted to heed the rules.
“You can cut them,” said Mrs. Hart, forestalling disappointment. “Whatever shapes you like.”
