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It must have been closer to ten minutes before she sailed out of her rooms and into the kitchen, fortified by the hastily downed coffee and sweet rolls. Everyone was busy in the early morning light, but each person she passed smiled at her and said, “Good morning, miss,” in such a friendly way that by the time she reached the long table, she was feeling a bit bemused. They’d been polite enough yesterday, but wary. For some reason this morning they were on her side.
The two footmen leapt to their feet as she approached. “Good morning, miss,” they parroted, and she wondered if she ought to correct them, remind them that she was “madame.” No, it was easier this way, and she was used to being called “miss.” That one bit of familiarity would make this masquerade a little easier.
“Good morning, staff,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us. I need to learn your schedule and you need to learn mine. Has everyone had breakfast already?”
“No, miss,” replied one of the maids by the stove. “Gracie and me usually wait till after the trays go up.”
“And you are?”
“Maude, miss. The trays are ready—once they ring for them, Gracie makes the tea while I take care of the toast and fruit. If someone wants something more filling they come down to breakfast.” She colored. “But you know that, miss.”
For a moment Sophie felt uneasy. Why would they think she’d know such a thing if she’d never been a guest? But then, a cook should be aware of details like that, shouldn’t she?
“Then the two of you sit and eat something. I overslept and I’ve already had my breakfast, and I can handle things if anyone rings.”
“Oh, but miss . . . !” Gracie squeaked a protest.
“Don’t worry. It hasn’t been that long since I was the one doing trays first thing in the morning,” she said cheerfully, pouring herself another cup of coffee from the pot on the massive range. In fact, it hadn’t been that long since she herself had received breakfast trays. She just had to start thinking of things backwards-to. Arsey-versey, her father would have said, though never when he was out in public.
She could do it. She would do it. Failure simply wasn’t a possibility.
No one rang for a tray for a full hour, while Sophie thought bitterly of the sleep she could have had. The girl who had made the dough for the day’s bread had done a good job—it was silky and elastic to the touch, even after the second rising. The morning toast was best made from yesterday’s bread, so there was no need to panic if the loaves weren’t formed yet.
She set Maude to work once she’d finished eating her meal of porridge and milk. While the footmen scattered with the trays and the scullery maids began the washing, Sophie surveyed her army of three: Prunella, head kitchen maid, who had tried to fill in, Gracie, a sturdy young girl most likely shy of twenty, and her friend Maude. They were city girls, all of them, imported by the Griffithses to run the kitchens of Renwick. There’d been a bit of umbrage in the village over it, but her father had also brought his own servants when he came to stay, and the people of the prosperous little village had no need of jobs.
“I should check the larder,” she said, when they were at last alone. “I need to come up with menus for his lordship, and quickly, and I need to know what we have and what we’ll need. And how we’ll get it,” she added. Such details were totally foreign to her—Bryony knew how to organize a household, but Sophie had never bothered learning such mundane details. She’d always expected she’d marry and have a housekeeper to handle such chores.
“I’m sorry, miss,” Prunella said. “It’s my job to keep the inventory up to date, but what with having to take over the cooking I’ve been that busy . . . Normally you wouldn’t have to bother with looking into the larder and the pantries.”
Good to know, Sophie thought. The cook doesn’t take inventory. She covered herself. “In a new house I always like to inspect the food storage anyway. To make sure the grains are properly preserved from mice, that the meats and dairy are kept cool.” She had a sudden, horrifying thought. “Do they have their main meal in the evening when there are no guests, or in the middle of the day?” If she had to come up with a full seven- or eight-course meal in the next four hours, she was going to be frantic.
“Oh, things will be much simpler when the Forresters are gone,” Prunella said. “Mrs. Griffiths has been taking a tray in her room for the last few weeks, ever since word came about Mr. Griffiths.”
Sophie remembered the gossip in the village. “That would be the viscount’s brother who recently died?”
“His half brother, miss. He was lost at sea, or so we’ve heard, and Mrs. Griffiths is that upset. She doesn’t like her stepson one tiny bit, so I think she’s using the excuse to avoid him, but it makes things simpler for us all. Though she does like a heavy tray.”
A real cook would stop her staff from gossiping, but Sophie had no intention of doing so. She needed to find out everything she could about the Dark Viscount. So his stepmother hated him, and his half brother had died. Could Alexander Griffiths have anything to do with his own brother’s death? If he was the murderous criminal they had suspected, then it wouldn’t be beyond him. First his wife, then her father, then his brother? It seemed inconceivable,
but evil could come in beautiful packages. She pushed the thought away for the moment.
“And the viscount?” she asked. “He must dine in the hall.”
“No, miss. The new viscount ain’t much for ceremony. He’ll have us bring a tray in the library, but half the time he doesn’t touch it but goes off riding instead, at all hours of the day and night. As for luncheon, it’s trays again. Mrs. Griffiths is the one we’ve got to please, and sooner or later she’ll start coming back downstairs to eat.”
“And does her stepson join her then?” It was an innocent enough question.
“If he has to. He don’t like her much; that’s for sure.”
It was impossible to tell from Prunella’s voice which side of the battle she preferred. Despite Sophie’s very real misgivings about the Dark Viscount, the memory of his stepmother was disconcerting. There’d been too much arguing for her to get more than a quick glimpse at the older woman, but Sophie’s impression had been full of misgivings.
“Well, then, we’d better get to work.” At the last minute she remembered something Bryony had said, and she offered it with an air of triumph. “A good servant needs to be prepared for everything.”
Prunella looked at her for a moment, her eyebrow raised, and Sophie felt another trickle of unease. “Indeed, yes, miss,” Prunella said eventually. “I’ll just get my inventory and then we can update it while you look things over.”
The pantry wasn’t bad, though Sophie rearranged things to her liking. The bins of flour and sugar were well filled and shielded in tin to keep vermin out; there were dried apples and pears, aging cheeses and bottles of oil and vinegar, jars and jars of preserves and honey, and several dozen eggs.
“Lamb with rosemary for luncheon, starting with a crisp chestnut soup, followed by smoked trout and finished off with a round of roasted asparagus and an apple charlotte,” she said decisively. “Where’s the larder?”
