Chapter 11 – An Experiment in Lace
It had been some time since Ophele had enjoyed the simple pleasure of a kitchen.
The scents of herbs and spices. The curious, almost magical transformation of batter and dough into cake and bread. Even Wen’s puffing and blowing that duchesses had no business near an oven and the sacred white line on the floor had been her idea couldn’t dent her enthusiasm.
Watching the familiar motions of Azelma’s hands as she worked a mound of dough, Ophele thought that all she needed was an old wooden stool to sit upon and she would be perfectly content.
“What are you making?” she asked, squeezing out of the way of one of the kitchen boys.
The long, narrow kitchen was delightfully warm, and she was pleased to have a few minutes to visit while Lady Verr was dropping off letters at the storehouse office.
She had been dying to see how Azelma was getting on.
“Rye bread,” Azelma replied, her hands scraping it rapidly over the counter, turning, kneading, a practiced rhythm she had been repeating for sixty years. “As if you didn’t know.”
“I was hoping for a fig roll,” Ophele confessed. “Are there figs?”
“Rye will do better for your belly than sweetbread,” Azelma replied. She had a white coif over her head and looked pleased to be lecturing Ophele about the health of her belly once more. “And there’s a whole camp to feed besides, not one spoiled princess.”
“Duchess. Duchess,” Wen barked. “A duchess standing in me kitchen, the stars only know why. Didn’t I say it would come to rye?”
The question was addressed to the pot rack over his bald head.
“Speaking of spoiled,” Azelma grumbled, and Ophele covered her mouth with her hand to hide her giggles.
“Do ye think I can’t hear ye, ye old bat?” Wen demanded.
“No indeed, when I meant you to hear me, you great blowing ox,” Azelma fired back, slapping the dough onto her counter as if it were his head. “Didn’t we agree that this was my bit of counter? I can invite who I like to stand on the other side of it, thank you.”
“I gave ye the counter, not the run of the whole bleeding—” Wen began, instantly igniting, and Ophele steeled herself and interceded.
“Please don’t argue,” she said, looking between them anxiously. “I don’t mean to make trouble. Wen, am I really in the way?”
She gave him a dose of large, hopeful eyes, a sad and slightly wistful expression that Justenin had had her practicing for weeks. Granted, mediating a quarrel between Wen and Azelma was not one of the uses he had proposed, but if she didn’t experiment, how would she know if it worked?
Gazing up at the massive Wen, Ophele believed with all her heart that she was grieved, and sad, and hearing them argue made her grieved and sad, and after a moment Wen’s eyes shifted away.
“Well, it ain’t for the likes of Wen the cook to say where a duchess goes, is it,” he growled, and sank his knife into a carcass of something.
“Please tell me if I am any trouble,” Ophele said earnestly, turning back to Azelma with her lashes lowered to hide the triumph in her eyes. “And I would like a fig roll when you have time, but I can wait…”
“Oh, get on with yourself!” The old lady laughed, and snapped her fingers under Ophele’s nose with a puff of flour. “How worried I was about you all these months, and look how they’ve ruined you! Aye, I’ll see about a fig roll.”
“I told Remin about them,” Ophele said, brightening instantly. “The one with the walnuts? He acts like he doesn’t like sweets, but I only got three of those cookies that Wen made last time.”
“And you’re hoping to get around him with sweets from me,” Azelma said knowingly. “You know I don’t mind it, child. I can hardly blame him.”
“I know.” Ophele made a little ball of rye dough with a fingertip. “It’s just, the kitchen in the house will be ready soon, and I hoped…”
“Give things time to rise,” advised Azelma, who liked to couch her wisdom in baking metaphors. “It never does any good, trying to hurry a man along, child. He’ll decide when he’s good and ready.”
Mionet frequently said much the same thing, in other circumstances.
Like Justenin, her course of study was eclectic, and half the time Ophele wasn’t sure what she was meant to be learning, or if the other woman was intentionally teaching at all.
She was waiting outside by the sledge when Ophele exited the kitchen, and they climbed together into the rough but comfortable vehicle.
It was well-padded with thick fur and drawn by Brambles, who was much happier pulling things than being sat upon.
“Who did you send letters to today?” Ophele asked as they settled in the back seat together, and Davi clicked his tongue to get Brambles moving.
“Lady Nicolet Firellion and Countess Laverey,” Mionet replied. “Both their husbands are bannermen of Duke Ereguil, I’m afraid, but they both prefer to arrive early for the season and have sharp ears.”
“Why is it bad that they belong to Duke Ereguil?” Ophele asked, tucking her hands under the fur robe. There were heated bricks at their feet, but it was still bitterly cold outside after the warm kitchen.
“There is some regionalism among the social sets in the capital,” Mionet explained.
“Most people are in their country homes over the winter, you see, for religious observances and so forth, and people know their neighbors best and then gravitate to them when they come to the city. People loyal to Duke Ereguil will be less likely to hear or repeat nasty things about you, when you are his foster son’s wife. ”
“How will you find out, then?” Ophele asked, troubled.
“It is more difficult at a distance,” Mionet admitted.
“But we can at least hope to know the lay of the land before we arrive. There is nothing more unpleasant than being caught unawares. Half the trouble can be nipped in the bud if you are prepared. And then perhaps we might even catch them out, which is a great deal more fun.”
“I wish we needn’t at all,” Ophele said glumly. She had been caught out too often to ever wish it on others. “I don’t want to embarrass anyone else.”
“Well, we certainly ought to shame them if they deserve it, but such things aren’t always bad,” Mionet replied, encouraging. “There is a reason people play such games, my lady. Why, there was one time I surprised Nicolet…”
She regaled Ophele with a number of pranks on the way into town, bending her head to whisper the more scandalous ones so Leonin would not overhear.
Ophele thought sometimes Mionet shared such shocking things just to teach Ophele not to look shocked, but they were very funny, and nothing at all like Lady Hurrell’s cruel tricks.
“Please warn me before you do such things,” she said, hiding her smile as they went into Master Tiffen’s shop. It had grown substantially since their first visit, and the nook by the hearth now contained two seamstresses, one of whom was Celande, who embroidered such lovely flowers. Ophele beamed.
“It is a matter of matching affinities, my lady,” Mionet was saying. “Such pranks are no fun if your victim doesn’t enjoy it. Sometimes they might even thank you for it,” she added, suddenly filled with mischief. "I have just had the most marvelous idea. Shall I prove it to you?"
"Prove it how?" Ophele had learned to be wary when Mionet got that look in her eyes.
“A surprise,” the other woman said cheerfully, turning to the counter to inspect a neatly folded stack of clothing from Master Tiffen. “I assure you, your victim will thank you for it, and perhaps you might get something that you want in the bargain.”
“My…victim?” Ophele echoed. She had a sudden, dreadful suspicion.
“Well, who else?” Mionet asked wickedly. “He will thank you for it, see if he doesn’t. Perhaps he will even be pleased enough to reconsider that other matter.”
There was only one thing Ophele had asked that Remin had refused, and been disappointed enough to confide it to Mionet. Ophele hesitated.
“It does no harm to ask,” Mionet reassured. “Now, listen, and do just as I say…”
Bending her head, she whispered her suggestion as Master Tiffen was gathering the remainder of their order, her red lips curving in a devilish smile. The bit of lace in her fingers stretched over the back of her hand in an explanatory sort of way.
Master Nore Ffloce, passing just outside the tailor shop, was very startled by the sudden squawk of alarm from within.
* * *
If anyone had asked Mionet’s opinion, she would have said the chief trouble with the Duchess of Andelin’s education was that too many people had their hands in it.
It was bad enough to have Leonin and Davi hanging about every moment of every day, privy to every discussion, no matter how sensitive the topic.
But now that Sir Justenin had injured his shoulder, he was permanently occupying one end of the long table in the solar, leaving very few moments in the day for Mionet to impart the secret and perilous knowledge meant only for the ears of women.
She tried to make the best of it. The duchess changed her clothing at least three times a day, sometimes four if her dance lesson had been particularly vigorous, and today she had finally consented to allow Mionet to oversee her bath.
With Leonin and Davi—and everything else—stripped away, it was the most opportune possible moment for sensitive conversation.
“My, we could spend days shopping for these things,” she said, examining the toiletries near the tub.
Not so bad as she expected, but certainly nothing like the luxuries of the Silver Avenue Market.
On her own, Mionet wouldn’t be let through the doors of those exclusive shops, but with Duchess Andelin…
She hummed.
“There is an alchemist I know that makes these lovely, scented crystals,” she began, but when she glanced back at the tub, it was clear that the duchess wasn’t listening. As a matter of fact, the lady was curled up so tightly, Emi and Peri were having difficulty finding anything to scrub.