Chapter 4
Chapter Four
BY THE TOES OF SAINT ANDREW, THERE’S NAE worse task in the world than gutting a stinkin’ slippery fish,” complained Oliver, wrinkling his nose with distaste.
“If ye’d gripe less and gut more, the job would be nigh done by now,” chided Eunice. She scooped a slippery pile of glassy-eyed fish heads into a bucket of cold water, then plunged her arms in up to her elbows and briskly began to rinse the bobbing faces clean.
“Ye can scarce expect a man to nae complain when he’s been forced into doin’ a woman’s work,” Oliver retorted, sawing fiercely at a hapless haddock’s head. “I’m sure ye’d have somethin’ to say if I told ye to go out back and chop a pile of wood, or lay the fires, or clean the silver.”
“Ye’ve not chopped a piece of wood in three days—not since ye discovered ’twas the only chore Jack would do without twisting his face into a black knot,” Doreen pointed out, as she vigorously scraped the skin off a carrot.
“Ye’ve got Jamie and Simon fightin’ over which of them can have the fun of layin’ the fire next, and just yesterday ye convinced the lassies that if they set to work polishin’ the few silver pieces Miss Genevieve has left, they would no doubt conjure up one of them magic genies Annabelle was reading about in one of her fairy tales.
I’ve never seen the silver gleam so bright.
” She gave him a look of mock disapproval.
“I was just tryin’ to let the wee ones have a little fun,” Oliver protested innocently.
“Ye were tryin’ to get them to do your work,” Eunice countered.
“Now, I’ve nae objection to ye teaching the children to do chores, but seeing as there’s little for ye to do today and I’m up to my ears in fish heads and sheep’s pluck, I see no reason why ye canna help Doreen and me put three meals on the table and take some food up to his lordship besides.
Sweet Saint Columba, I’ve never known a man to eat as much as he does,” she marveled, tossing the shimmering fish heads into an enormous pot on the stove.
“Been here just three days and already he’s finished off two pots of broth, four loaves of bread, a dozen bannocks, three pans of tatties with onions, and an entire boiled haggis.
” She doused the heads with a jug of fresh water.
“’Tis a good sign that he’s hungry,” Doreen remarked, attacking another carrot. “It means that he’s farin’ better.”
“If he eats like this when he’s feelin’ poorly, I scarce want to think about what he’ll eat when he’s well.
” Eunice dropped a few sprigs of parsley into the soup pot and covered it, then checked the pot in which a sheep’s lungs, heart, liver, and windpipe were simmering.
Satisfied that everything was faring well, she went to the table and continued rolling out the oatcakes she planned to cook on the flat, cast-iron griddle heating over the fire.
“Between his lordship and Jack, there will be nothing left in the larder by week’s end. ”
“Now, Eunice, ye know ’tis just because they’re newly released from prison,” said Oliver.
“We’ve all felt what it is to have hunger gnawing at our bellies in that foul place.
I can still remember when Miss Genevieve first brought me here.
” His mouth curved in an affectionate smile.
“She sat me down at this very table and served me a dish of your fine rabbit stew with dumplings. Upon my soul, I thought I had died and entered the gates of heaven.” He scooped the purple-and-gray guts out of another fish.
“And so ye had,” said Eunice, banging her rolling pin against a mound of dough.
“There’s few who could ever resist one of my stews.
Lord Dunbar always used to say ’twas my cooking that made the dinner parties he and his wife were so fond of giving among the most sought after invitation in all of Inveraray. ”
“Aye, I’m sure it was.” Doreen’s voice was edged with anger. “A pity he couldn’t see his way to payin’ ye a decent wage for all yer years of hard work.”
“Well, he’s the one sufferin’ for it now,” remarked Eunice, pummeling her dough into a thin sheet.
“Miss Genevieve told me she’d heard that Lord Dunbar had dismissed yet another cook, apparently for serving a tainted chicken that made every one of his fancy guests violently ill.
Poor Lady Barclay didn’t even make it out the door before spewin’ up the rotten meal all over Lord Dunbar’s shiny new shoes. ”
The three burst into laughter.
“Forgive me for interrupting.”
Startled, they looked up to see Haydon standing in the doorway, naked except for the plaid from his bed.
It was a combination of restlessness and boredom that had finally roused him.
His fever gone and his body healing, he had started to find the confines of Genevieve’s pleasant, tidily arranged chamber almost as stifling as his prison cell.
It was with some effort that he managed to hoist himself off the soft mattress and onto his aching legs, but once his initial dizziness had waned, he found that he did not feel so weak after all.
Encouraged, he went to the wardrobe in search of his clothes.
Upon discovering nothing beyond a few modest gowns and some carefully folded mounds of feminine undergarments, he decided that the plaid from the bed would have to suffice.
He draped it clumsily around his waist and then, not quite knowing what to do with the extra fabric, tossed it carelessly over his shoulder, thinking it would serve until something better could be found.
“Your pardon, ladies,” he said, seeing by their wide-eyed stare that he had shocked them with his state of undress. “I’m afraid I was unable to find my clothes.”
“That’s because we burned them, laddie,” Oliver informed him cheerfully. “Miss Genevieve didna want to risk having anyone find a prison uniform lyin’ about.”
Haydon vaguely remembered Genevieve making some mention of this.
His senses were suddenly overwhelmed by the spicy sweet fragrances wafting through the kitchen air.
He looked longingly at the pots simmering on the stove.
It had been over two hours since he finished the bread and broth Genevieve had brought up to him, and he was extremely hungry. “Is that meat cooking?”
“It’s sheep’s pluck,” Eunice replied, “but it’s not cooked yet. I’ll be mincing it fine and making haggis from it once it’s boiled and cooled. It’ll be ready by dinnertime.”
“What about the other pot?” Haggis was fine and well, but Haydon was looking for something a little more substantial.
“Steer far from that one, laddie,” warned Oliver, chuckling, “unless ye can stomach the sight of a lot o’ beady little eyes starin’ up at ye.”
Haydon’s stomach lurched. Just what the hell had been in all the soup he had consumed since coming here? “You’re cooking eyes?”
“It’s fish heads,” Eunice said, casting Oliver a disgruntled look. “I’m making ye a lovely fish soup. I thought ’twould make a nice change.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Haydon was almost certain that if he faced one more bowl of broth he would retch. “Do you happen to have some roasted beef, or perhaps some glazed chicken?” His mouth began to water in anticipation.
“I’m afraid not,” Eunice said, shaking her head. “It’s Thursday.”
Haydon was perplexed. “Thursday?”
“No meat left on Thursday,” explained Doreen. “Except, of course, the pluck.”
“I see,” said Haydon, although in fact he did not.
“Tonight we’ll be havin’ fried haddock and haggis with tatties and peas,” Eunice elaborated, sensing his confusion.
“Then tomorrow night it’ll be my fish soup.
On Saturday I’ll be seein’ if I can’t find a nice piece of cheap beef to cook in the pot with parsnips, cabbage, and potatoes.
Sunday I’ll have made stew and dumplings with whatever is left, and on Monday I’ll have turned that stew into a rich soup.
By Tuesday I’ll be shopping for a piece of meat again, and maybe I’ll find some neck cutlets of lamb or perhaps an oxtail that the butcher is willing to part with for a fair price.
Whatever it is, it’ll have to be made to feed ten people—eleven, includin’ yourself—over three days.
And that’s why there’s no meat left on Thursday night—we always finish whatever I started cooking on Tuesday by today’s luncheon. ”
Haydon was utterly unfamiliar with the workings of his own staff and kitchen, and quite accustomed to being served a selection of freshly prepared fish and meat dishes three times a day.
The idea of having to buy cheap cuts of meat and then stretch one meal into another was completely foreign to him.
Eunice took pity as she saw disappointment clouding his handsome face. “But that doesn’t mean ye’ll be going hungry, milord—there’ll be fresh oatcakes in just a few minutes, and I’ve some sweet butter and sharp cheese to go with it. That should tide ye over nicely ’til dinnertime.”
“Why don’t ye sit down on that chair while ye’re waitin’, lad,” suggested Oliver, who had just finished decapitating his last victim. “Ye look like ye’re nigh ready to fall down anyway.”
Haydon adjusted his plaid as he seated himself. Cheese and oatcakes would have to do, he supposed, until the haggis and haddock were ready. “Where is Miss MacPhail?”
“Taken the children to see the paintings,” said Doreen. “She likes to take them to an art gallery once a week.”
“The lass thinks it’s good for them to see art.” Oliver furrowed his white brows in bafflement as he rinsed his fish corpses in a tub. “Says it helps them to see the world around them, or some such blather.”
“I don’t know why they need to look at paintings for that,” said Eunice, greasing the surface of the griddle with a piece of suet wrapped in muslin.
She slapped her oatcakes onto the griddle’s glossy surface.
“All they need do is open their eyes. They’d be better off here, learnin’ how to make a decent clootie dumpling, or helping me to wash the linens. ”