“I really did go to a military school and do a tour of duty in France,” Mayson said, gazing earnestly into her eyes. “That school had a nasty reputation for deaths by hazing or by mistreatment. I was supposed to end my days there. I got out of it by volunteering to go to France.”
“But did you not know that there would be fighting there?”
“Absolutely I knew. But as a ‘graduate’ of that prestigious school, I went as an officer, not a conscript. Which, if I claimed my rank, would have been true anyway.”
“So you had a batman because...”
“Because I am an Earl, and because I was an officer.”
“But the cooking part?”
“Also true. You need to understand, Evelyn, that we went with minimal provisions and were expected to ‘requisition’ food from available supplies. The school was famous for turning out soldiers who could ‘live off the land’ for weeks.”
“But it was not like that, was it?” Evelyn watched his face. Usually so expressive, he held it studiously blank.
“No, it was not like that. Living off the land meant stealing from farms and peasant folk who had little enough to live on as it was, especially after two armies had rolled back and forth across their farms. My men were starving, many of them had dysentery. It was beyond bearing. So I set some rabbit traps, happened to find a scrawny hen that had escaped from somewhere, and I boiled grain, added the pitiful meat scraps, some herbs I found in a hedgerow, and my fellows and I, all twelve of us, had a decent meal.”
“But it didn’t stop there, did it?” Evelyn asked, her eyes shining with comprehension.
“No, it did not. When our tent neighbors got a whiff of good food cooking, and learned how we did it, they brought their meager supplies to combine with ours. After that, it was not too long before I was made quartermaster and head cook, with a reputation for turning a handful of grain and a bone into edible food. From then on, I saw absolutely no part of the fighting unless the scent of cooking brought the enemy to raid our camp.”
“Did that happen often?” Evelyn asked, fascinated by his story in spite of her better judgement
“Once or twice,” Mayson replied. “But less often as my reputation as a cook grew. You’d be amazed how interested men can become in protecting their source of good food.”
Evelyn laughed at that, as he had meant for her to do. There was no point in telling her about the days when boiled grain was all he had to offer his men, or the days when the relentless rain put out the fires or when it was not safe to have a fire, and their grain was soaked instead of boiled.
But then her face sobered. “But how did you learn to cook? I always pictured you as a starving waif that some kindly cook took under his wing.”
“You would not be too far from wrong there. My father was obsessed with the idea of turning Hillsworth into a place of classical beauty where his neighbors could congregate day or night for revels and frolics. My mother grew ill of a fever not long before I was born, so I had a wet-nurse and was essentially raised by the servants.”
“I’ve heard of that happening in great houses,” Evelyn nodded.
“Father had a temper that knew no bounds. When things did not go his way, he took it out on his younger brother and on me. Oddly enough, Uncle Leroy worshipped the ground he walked on, often remarking that he should have been my father’s heir instead of me.”
“Why not you?”
“I was not an easy child, I fear. I was often sickly, hated hunting, and grew pale at the sight of blood. Our cook, who had several nieces and nephews, probably saved my life. He let me hide in the kitchen when Father was in one of his moods. This went on long enough, that when I asked if I could help like the kitchen boys were doing, he would give me small chores, such as rolling and cutting dough. When he found that I had a genuine interest in cooking and a knack for it, he taught me. All on the sly, of course. Father would have had a hysterical fit if he had realized.”
“What happened to your father?”
“He became ill. The physicians could not seem to discover why. They bled him nearly dry, dosed him with all sorts of concoctions, yet he slowly grew weaker. Toward the end, he lost his appetite, and I would go to the kitchen and cook special foods to tempt him into eating. But it was all for nothing. I was four-and-ten then.”
“So it was your uncle who sent you away to school?”
“Yes. He declared that he had no idea how to care for a youth, and sent me off to the military boarding school. It was quite famous, after all, and had a reputation for turning out successful officers.”
“But also a different sort of reputation, I would guess,” Evelyn put in.
“Yes. Averydifferent reputation. It was where the peerage sent their failures, unwanted younger sons, and children born on the wrong side of the blanket who were too well-placed to be ignored. A right lot of young hellions, for the most part.”
“How did you survive there?”
Mayson laughed. “The kitchen again. This time, it was Zhao Bai Li who was my refuge and teacher. He was the school’s cook, and he ruled the kitchen with an iron fist. It was after I saw him calmly send one of my nastier classmates on his way that I asked if he would teach me.”
“And he taught you about golden milk.”
“Yes, that and many other healing recipes. There were several of us who found Mr. Zhao’s kitchen to be a refuge.”