“Mrs. Twitchel, Miss Bentley cannot be expected to run a kitchen of this size without adequate help. Who do we have on staff?”
“Jones had a heavy hand with the under servants, My Lord. Currently, we have a scullery boy, the spit boy, and the drudge that does the cleaning.”
“Designate two maids to help her. I expect complete cooperation from all of you, without exception. I have guests coming within the hour and I expect refreshments to be available to them. Miss Bentley, are there any more of those delectable biscuits?”
“Indeed, My Lord, there are. But those are best served fresh. I’ve used the last of the good flour to set the sponge for the bread.”
“Lucas, you have the household budget. I charge you with obtaining anything Miss Bentley needs. Miss Bentley, in light of recent developments, you have until the end of the week to prove yourself.”
With that, Percival exited the room, leaving behind him a crowd of gaping servants.
Chapter 5
Tiffany stared after the Marquess. "God blind me,” she breathed.
“One hopes not,” Mrs. Twitchel snapped. “You now have the entire household’s reputation resting on your shoulders.”
Tiffany shook herself out of her daze. “How many guests is the Marquess expecting?”
“Twenty, I believe, Bentley. It is the monthly stockholders meeting for the charitable fund. They are currently planning to fund an orphanage for the Protection of abandoned or deserted children.”
“Is there someone who can help the scullery lad? I had a look in the back, and it is a right mess. I’ll need clean pots and pans, and the Marquess will want to serve his guests on clean dishes, I am sure.”
McClellan spoke up. “Quite so. I had remarked on it myself, but Jones did not seem interested in getting more done than was immediately necessary. I believe that the stableman has a lad who is interested in moving into House Service.”
“Well!” commented Mrs. Twitchel, “A cook with some sense. I’ll get two maids and perhaps a man of all work besides the stable lad who wants to be a scullery.”
Tiffany immediately turned her attention to preparing more of the delicate little biscuits. She had someone go wake Michaels, since he was the only one likely to have even an inkling of what was intended for dinner.
The maids who had been asked to help came in shortly. Grace Lytton was a spritely young woman, who greeted Tiffany with a smile and a quick curtsey. Springy blonde curls tried to escape her cap. Sophie Turner was buxom, seemed a trifle older than Grace. Her dark hair was confined to a net at the nape of her neck, and nary a wisp escaped her cap. Her brows were heavy and dark, and the faintest hint of a mustache graced her upper lip. Both maids were attractive in their own way, and, more importantly, seemed to be glad to help.
Tiffany put them to work immediately, asking them to arrange the trays to take up to Lord Northbury and his guests. Once she had the biscuits and crepes prepared, she sat down with Mrs. Twitchel and Mr. McClellan to plan out the menu for the week. She found that the other stores in the kitchen and pantry were depleted or neglected in a manner similar to the flour.
Rancid bacon, moldy cheese . . . What had Jones been serving to the Marquess? When Lucas stuck his head in the door of the pantry to tell her he had brought the fresh supplies, she asked him.
“Oh, as to that, he had Michaels do all the real cooking and sent out for things to serve the Marquess.”
“What about the rest of the household?”
“We’ve been a bit on short commons since the late Marquess passed on and the old cook took a different posting. Some folk left, the rest of us hung on for the young lord’s sake.”
“Who are the old guard?”
“McClellan, Twitchel, an’ Grace. The rest are all new.”
“Jones?”
“Hired about two years ago on recommendation of Lord Northbury’s uncle. I think that is why he’s been kept on as long as he has. The Marquess sets quite a store by what his uncle says.”
“I can understand that,” Tiffany said. “But to keep a man who is slowly poisoning the household. Very strange.”
“Isn’t it just?” Lucas said. “But grief makes folks do strange things. With both his parents gone, His Lordship’s uncle is all he has. Where should I put the new supplies?”
Tiffany stood up from where she was going through root vegetables to see if there was anything edible in the bins and went out to the kitchen proper.
Evan, the scullery and Jack, the stable boy-turned-scullery, had just finished scrubbing down a table, but had not moved anything onto it. “Put them there,” she directed.
“Evan, Jack, come over here. I want you to pull everything out of the pantry and stack it on that table over there.” She indicated another long table, which had not yet been scrubbed down. “When Grace and Sophie return from buying spices, they can sort through this stuff, wash anything that is salvageable. Meanwhile, I want this pantry scrubbed out with lye, then rinsed down with clean water that has been boiled long enough to sing three verses of “Lady Greensleeves.”
