Chapter 2
Thursday, February
Mayfair, London
Clara Alberts hurried down the steps, pushed back her hood, and quickly hung her cloak on a hook. She grabbed an apron hanging nearby and tossed it over her head, tying the strings in the back. “Sorry I’m late, Henri. There was an accident near St. James’s Park, and the crowd was terrible.”
“Not to worry, mademoiselle. You are free help, non?” The tall, handsome bald chef smiled at her over his shoulder. “I need the vegetables pared and diced, s'il te pla?t.”
Clara glanced over the knives in Chef Henri’s open satchel and chose the small paring knife. She began with the carrots, then the turnips. She loved coming here, learning the basic skills and French techniques needed to acquire a position with a prominent household.
“Your sauce for the duck yesterday was exquisite.” Henri put his fingers to his mouth and kissed them, tossing his hand into the air. “I am so proud of you. I’ve never known someone to absorb information so quickly. I believe you have great promise, Ruby.”
She blushed at his praise. “I’m so thankful you took me under your wing.”
They had met at the market, and Clara had commented on the fact that he did his own shopping.
The weekly meetings had turned into a friendship of sorts, discussing the best vegetables to pair with certain meats, what fruits were tastiest for particular desserts, and how no one ever appreciated the time it took to prepare a fine dish.
Five months ago, Henri was lamenting about losing his kitchen assistant. Lady Gosset had left for the Continent for six months, and Lord Gosset refused to hire anyone without her consent. Clara had offered to help in exchange for lessons to improve her own skills. A grateful Henri had accepted.
Her first day would always be etched in her mind.
The Gosset kitchen was equipped with the best of cooking utensils, including a large cast-iron closed range dominating one wall.
A metal hot-plate covered the fire box, and it had rings for pans and kettles to rest upon.
There were movable panels on the front of the grate, so a roast could be cooked in front of the fire.
Two ovens, one on each side of the fire-box, allowed multiple meats to be roasted at once.
It had taken her a month to manage the flues and dampers that controlled the heat. Clara had been in awe of the modern equipment and well-stocked pantry. It was her dream to one day manage a kitchen like her friend Henri.
“There is an inquiry for a cook in Hatton Garden. You came to mind when I read it,” he said mildly, not looking up from the sauce he was stirring on the stove. “I think you should apply.”
Clara stopped mid chop. “Are you sure? Do you think I’m ready?”
Henri laughed, a deep warm sound that filled the room. “I am your instructor, no? It is a temporary position, the Season only, for a French count. You will make him feel like he is at home in France.”
“I will speak to my father,” she said, trying not to jump up and down with excitement. This would be her first position to put her on the path to her dream. “You will provide me with a reference?”
“Of course, Ruby. It will be my way of saying thank you. What would I have done without your help these past months? The master does not want to hire an assistant, yet he expects the same quality meals while his wife is gone.” He picked the pot off the stove and turned, still stirring.
Approaching Clara, he held out the wooden spoon and waited for her to taste it.
“It needs a tiny bit of salt, I think,” she said, licking her lips.
“Exactly. How many assistants would know that?” He set the pot on a back burner, then bent to check the meat inside the oven. “How is your papa?”
She scraped the onions, carrots, and turnips into a bowl. “He seems fine, but something is bothering him. I can’t put my finger on it. Of course, he says there is nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps it is only growing old, knowing you will leave the nest one day soon.” Henri shrugged his shoulders, his brown eyes twinkling. “Many men do not like to show their emotions, especially when they feel it is selfish. He knows his time with you is short.”
“How do you mean? I’m not going anywhere.” But Clara understood. She was nineteen. Most girls she knew were married or at least courting someone.
“You are in love with food,” said Henri with a laugh, “but a man will come along who will be more tempting than the perfect soufflé.”
“Never!” Clara admonished but grinned. She loved this place, with its whitewashed walls and glazed bricks by the sink and stove for easy cleaning.
Shelves lined another wall with copper pots and pans, and platters, bowls, and baskets needed to serve the dishes.
The actual dining service was kept in the butler’s pantry along with the wine chosen daily.
Dried herbs hung in a corner, the scent of rosemary, thyme, sage, and mint mixed with the yeast from rising dough.
“I’ll check the custard in the larder and see if it’s setting properly,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and setting the bowl of vegetables to the side on the large oak table.
Satisfied the custard was coming along well, she grabbed some butter to make crust for the mince pie.
Then she stepped into the pantry for flour and sugar.
The morning flew by, and soon she was swapping her apron for her mantle. “I shall see you tomorrow, then?” she asked Henri, who was rubbing his bald pate as he studied his journal.
Clara had also started writing down her recipes and the changes she occasionally made.
Her grandfather had been a clerk for an insurance company, and he’d taught his daughter to read and write.
In turn, Clara had been instructed. When Henri had asked if she had any education, she’d sent a silent prayer up to her mother.
“Ah, oui,” he mumbled, waving at her absentmindedly.
She had one foot on the stairs when he called to her. “Ruby, you are forgetting the stew for your papa.”
“Oh,” she cried, turning about and heading out of the kitchen to the larder. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have had time to make something else.”
“Take one of the breads too. It will only go stale and be used for something else.” He gave her a quick smile and returned to his ledger.
***
“Ye’re a prize, my girl. A prize to be sure,” said her father, rubbing his belly with a smile.
“Best stew I ever ‘ad, and the bread never softer.” His light-brown hair was as dark as his eyes in the shadow of their small parlor.
The coals were down to embers, and Clara hesitated adding more since it was so late.
Mr. Alberts kept an odd schedule, sometimes gone all day, other times disappearing in the evening and not returning until dawn. Clara was sure to have a meal prepared so he could always have a full belly when he came through the door. The poor man worked so hard and such long hours.
His dark wool coat hung next to her mantle on wooden pegs by the door.
The kitchen and parlor were one room, with two smaller rooms off that for sleeping.
Rugs scattered the wood floor planks, and curtains, sewn from old skirts hung on the two short windows.
There was a garden in the back where she grew fresh produce and herbs in the spring.
Anything which needed drying was hung from the rafters in the kitchen.
Since working with Henri, she brought home whatever they had cooked that day for the servants. Usually leftovers or something made from the leftovers. The chef had insisted it was the least he could do for her free labor.
“I have your favorite, Pa,” she said, setting a plate of warm shortbread next to him with a crock of butter and orange marmalade. “You look tired.”
“I am,” he agreed, rubbing his eyes. “But I’m a lucky one, with a beautiful daughter and a hot meal waitin’ fer me every day.”
Clara stepped behind him and rubbed his tight shoulders. “What is on your agenda this week, Pa?”
“I ‘ave to make some deliveries. More long hours, I’m afraid.” He groaned when she began rubbing his shoulders. “Ah, Ruby, don’t stop that any time soon.”
She laughed. “Would you like me to read the newspaper to you by the fire?”
Another benefit of working for Henri. He and the butler split the cost of The London Chronicle, the butler reading it aloud after dinner, then passing it on for a penny or two.
It was printed every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
The chef would let Clara borrow the Monday edition on Tuesday and sell it on Wednesday. The same went for the two later issues.
“How is that French dandy of yers?” asked her father as they sat by the small hearth. He held a bumper of ale, and Clara mended while she rocked.
“Funny you should ask, though he’s not mine,” Clara began, her heart pounding. If Pa said no, she would be devastated. “He believes I am ready to have my own kitchen.”
“Of course ye are. Ye’ve been workin’ this one for the last five years.” Her father paused, his brown eyes narrowed. “But that’s not what ye mean, is it?”
She shook her head, took a deep breath, and blurted, “There’s a position available in Hatton Garden, just for the Season, and Henri will provide me with a reference. It’s such a wonderful opportunity and could set me up for work in a grand house. I promise to still take care of you and our home.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said, staring into the glowing coals. “I assume ye want this?”
“Oh, Pa. I can barely breathe just thinking about it.” Clara set down the sock she’d been darning and knelt before him, taking one of his rough hands in her own. “I could help you then, bring home real wages, so you don’t have to work so hard.”
He brushed back her hair and tipped her chin. “A man must work, child, till the day he dies. I’d rather be in my grave than ‘ave to take anything from ye. But”—his eyes grew misty as he studied her face—“if something ‘appens to me, it would be comfortin’ to know ye were able to fend fer yerself.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “What are you saying, Pa? Nothing will happen to you.”
“We never know what fate ‘as in store fer us, Ruby.”
Clara ignored his melancholy tone. “You’ll let me apply for the position, then?”
“If that’s what ye want, I won’t stand in yer way. Hatton Garden, eh? It’s a step up from Cheapside.” He pinched her cheek. “But I’ll ‘old ye to yer word to keep up this place. I’ll starve on my own.”
Clara threw her arms around him, kissing his stubbled cheek. “This is the path I was meant to take, Pa. I just know it. You’ll see.” How would she possibly sleep tonight?