Chapter 8 #2
Sampson went first, explaining that his odd hours as a doctor made it easier to have his own place.
He hated disturbing the family when he was summoned in the middle of the night.
Then Clayton decided he needed his own place.
Eli had moved out to help support his grandmother shortly after that.
Ben now lived above his office; Harry and Mattie would live near St. James’s Park when they returned from their honeymoon.
It was only Gus and Nora still at the O’Briens.
To accommodate everyone’s busy lives, Maggie decided that once a month they would all gather for a Sunday dinner.
She continued cooking every Sunday for any of her children able to stop by, but monthly gatherings, when they were all together around the table, would be the time for celebrations and announcements.
“Smelling of April and May,” mumbled his grandmother as she followed him to the door. “Don’t forget tomorrow is your first day as an artist.”
“I’m ready as a fox in the henhouse.” He gave her a wink and pulled his collar up against the biting wind.
Last week, Elijah called upon other jewelers in Hatton Garden.
He’d counted seven in the district, visiting one every day.
Though they hadn’t reported any crime, he asked each owner to check their inventory.
Eli explained his reason for the request, promising to return later this week, though urging them to make an immediate report to Bow Street if any pieces were found missing. He would visit the final two today.
***
Clara wiped her brow with her sleeve. She was exhausted. The Comte du Aveculót would entertain four guests tonight. It was her dinner party debut with the ton. Checking her list once again, she checked off the tea delivered from Twinings and the paté from West & Wyatt.
Tomorrow morning, scotch eggs were on the menu, and her ladyship preferred chocolate in the morning.
Not from the nib, but fresh from the bean, she’d told Mrs. Johnson.
Clara had only made the sweet drink twice before, under the guidance of Henri, but found her skill increasing with each making.
It was a longer process than making tea or coffee and more complicated.
First, the beans were roasted, then crushed.
Water was added to make a paste. When that hardened, the cocoa was grated, mixed with liquid, and boiled.
The drink was frothed by using a molinet.
Clara rolled the wooden, ridged stick between her hands until the chocolate was mixed well.
Henri often added an egg yolk, the hot chocolate somewhat cooking it, turning it into a breakfast in itself.
Her mistress had not asked for the addition, so Clara didn’t include it.
Now that she had gained confidence, this last batch was large enough to last a few days if kept in the larder to stay cool.
She often consulted one of her two cookbooks to ensure her memory wasn’t faulty or to see if there was a way to improve her own—and Henri’s—recipes.
Always room to improve and heighten one’s reputation, he’d told her before she’d left.
Her first cookbook, The Prudent Housewife, sat on the shelf next to New System of Domestic Cookery for Private Families by Maria Rundell and Apicius Redivivus, or The Cook’s Oracle by William Kitchiner.
Tonight, the guests would be served white soup, Casserole of Rice au Chasseur made with partridge, a salad of vegetables with broth, cheese soufflé, and roasted goose. Dessert included a creamy custard and madeleines, a sponge cake requested by the comte.
Mary brought her the bowl of chopped vegetables for the salad. “I’ve measured the rice and grated the cheese for the soufflé.”
“What would I do without you?” Clara asked, taking the medley from her assistant. “I hope the casserole turns out.”
“The first one was delicious. I’m sure it will be even better this time,” said the housekeeper from the door. “Is the tea ready?”
“Almost, Mrs. Johnson,” called Sally from the scullery. She appeared, wiping her hands on a cloth and pointing to a side table where a tray sat. “It’s been steeping just over five minutes.” She picked up the tray and handed it to the footman, who had entered behind the housekeeper.
The silver pot, two porcelain teacups and saucers, spoons, a strainer, a small boat of milk, and chunks of sugar in a small bowl filled the tray. Mary hurried over with a plate of almond biscuits.
“What sort of temperament are they in this afternoon?” asked Clara, knowing the answer could easily change the next hour.
“He’s excited for the dinner tonight,” answered Mrs. Johnson, smoothing out her gray wool skirts. “It’s hard to tell with his sister, but if she isn’t complaining all must be well.”
Later that night after dinner was served, Clara and “her girls,” as she’d begun to call them, were just finishing in the kitchen. The staff were trickling in for supper.
Mr. Smalley entered the kitchen. “You have been summoned to the dining room, Mrs. Alberts.”
Clara’s heart almost stopped. Would her reception be positive? Were cooks summoned to be admonished as well as praised?
“The viscountess mentioned the soufflé was superb,” said the butler with a smile. “Do not worry, and hold your hands behind your back if they begin to shake.”
On the way up the stairs, he explained the procedure for being received by the guests. “Remember, they are people like we are. Only much, much wealthier,” he added with a smirk.
Clara welcomed the praise if her jellied legs didn’t give out.
This might boost her confidence and set her mind at ease.
The butler entered the dining room, and she stood just inside the entrance.
The large fire in the hearth put out a good bit of light, complemented by several candelabras on the table.
Crystal wine glasses sparkled, the silver shone from heavy polish, and the six guests all laughed and talked.
“Ah, this must be our chef,” said the Comte du Aveculót, his dark eyes glazed and smile lopsided.
Clara wondered if he had drunk too much wine.
His snowy cravat, one of the most intricate she’d ever seen, made his swarthy coloring seem darker.
“I was just telling Lady Agatha how you were trained by a French chef.” His accent was thick, his voice thin and reedy.
It surprised her since she had only seen the pair through the window.
Panic threatened when Clara realized that Lady Agatha, according to her title, was probably a spinster and of high rank. She swallowed, giving her best curtsy, and wondered if her legs gave out if that would be grounds for dismissal.
His sister, dressed in a coquelicot gown of silk, matching red ribbons under her bust and threaded into her cascade of dark-brown curls. The change in hairstyle and dress softened her appearance from Clara’s first view, who now thought her quite pretty and more… human.
Her tone was huskier and less accented than her brother when she addressed Clara, “Mrs. Alberts, Lady Moorsy would like your recipe for the soufflé.”
“Oh, it was monstrous good,” said the woman, a feather on her turban quivering in unison with her chin as she spoke. Her cheeks were plump and pink, and her smile was infectious. “My cook refuses to make another because it never turns out.”
“Yes, my lady, I’d be happy to.” She must be the viscountess, thought Clara.
“Wonderful, I shall send a messenger around in the morning.” She turned to her hostess. “How did you manage to find such a gem when you arrived late for the Season?”
“The butler and housekeeper arranged everything. We only had to show up,” answered the comte.
“And we’re so glad you did,” chimed in Lady Agatha. She beamed affectionately at the comte.
Mr. Smalley caught her eye and gave the slightest nod toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberts,” he said quietly.
She curtsied again, the guests all chatting once more, her presence forgotten. As she descended the servants’ stairs, Clara couldn’t wait to tell Mr. Norton about her adventure with the nobility.