“I think I would rather hear more about you, my dear. What was life like for you as a child?”
“Ordinary,” Evelyn said. “My father was a carpenter, my mother took in sewing. There were twelve of us, so they had to step lively to keep us all fed. As soon as each of us was old enough, we found work so that we could help.”
“Twelve! Oh, my heavens,” the Duchess declared. “What a brood! Your mother must have been driven to distraction, for I am sure from what you are saying that there was not a nanny.”
“Goodness, no,” Evelyn laughed. “As soon as we older ones could manage, we had chores and we helped look after the little ones. Mostly, we were happy, I think.”
“Were you? What happened later?”
“We all grew up. Mama and Papa both came down with a virulent fever. No one knew for sure what it was, but they were both gone before most of us could make it home for more than the funeral.”
“I am so sorry,” the Duchess said, “I seem to be mostly raking up old memories tonight.”
“Not entirely,” Evelyn said. “There were good times. I try to think about those.”
They sat silent for a minute or two, then the Duchess said, “I think I would like to play a rubber or two. Do you remember where we put the cards?”
“Of course I do,” Evelyn said.
They played for a little while, then the dowager said, “I’m feeling a bit peckish, my dear. Could you go down to the kitchen and fetch me a little something?”
“Of course,” Evelyn said. “Is there anything in particular that you would like?”
“Perhaps some milk tea. Oh, and something sweet. I wonder if there might be bubbly pies?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Evelyn replied. “But I will ask. Mr. Rudge usually has a little something put by for you.”
“Whatever he has, I am sure it will be lovely,” the dowager said. “Such a sweet boy, a little younger than is usual for the head of a kitchen, but one could not ask for better.”
“He does make delicious food,” Evelyn agreed. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
Evelyn quickly slipped out the door and down the servants’ stair. After her experience in the afternoon, she was careful to check around each corner before hurrying on. She thought it unlikely that the Duke would be about, but she wanted to be certain that she did not run into him again.
When she reached the kitchen, she found Mr. Rudge leafing through a tattered copy ofThe Frugal Housewife, and making notes on a piece of foolscap paper, using a stubby pencil.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “But Her Grace would like a little something.”
“I have just the thing for her,” he replied. “A nice blancmange that turned out beautifully.”
“Could I get a little milk tea, as well?” Evelyn asked. “She has had a trying afternoon. I think it would help her sleep.”
“Of course,” Mr. Rudge smiled. “I will add a little turmeric. There was... an old Indian fellow who lived in my neighborhood who swore by the stuff.”
Evelyn watched as he heated the milk and stirred in the spice, turning the hot liquid a golden yellow. Mr. Rudge’s movements were deft and sure, almost like a dancer as he went from hearth to the spice cabinet and back again. Although it was hard to tell beneath the thick, white cloth that was his cook’s uniform, he seemed to be well muscled, like an athlete. A tight-fitting cap, not like the baker’s hat he wore to accept thanks for meal preparation, kept his dark hair out of his face.
Evelyn imagined for a moment what it might be like to dance with him. He would, no doubt, be graceful and in time with the music. She knew he could sing for she had surprised him once or twice humming over the pots. He said that he could more easily time the cooking of sauces and the like by how many verses it took for them to thicken. She gave herself a mental shake. It was only the Duchess’ instruction of her son, she thought severely to herself. John was her one true love, and she was fortunate to have had him. Now, she had their bills to pay and no time for romantic nonsense.
Mr. Rudge carefully spooned just a little sugar to the mix, then turned to face her. “That should do it,” he said. “Now just a little care with arranging the tray...” He covered the top of the cup with a linen cap, then a tea cozy. He then set the blancmange in its dish onto the tray, and arranged a few candied mint leaves around it, then a spoon that was neatly rolled into a napkin.
“Lovely!” Evelyn exclaimed. “It looks too beautiful to eat.”
“I assure you that it is completely edible,” Mr. Rudge smiled at her. “If you do not mind, I will carry it up for you. The stairs are a little tricky at night.”
“Not at all. That would be wonderful,” Evelyn said. She had been dreading trying to get that tray up the stairs without spilling something.
“How did you learn to cook so well?” Evelyn asked.
“Kitchens have always been my favorite place,” he replied. “There was one particular cook who would let me hang about, and even sent me on errands. Soon I learned the difference between a carrot and a parsnip, so to speak.”
