“Nothin’ for it,” Mr. McElroy said. “We shall have to send down to the bakery in the village and hope they have some cake or biscuits that can be served. By the time we clear this up, there will not be enough time to bake another.”
“And they turned out good, too,” Jemmy sighed. He was not crying, but the disappointment was clear in his voice.
“You have the experience,” Mayson comforted him. “The next time, it will be easier. Call up to Mr. Wilson, and ask for some footmen to help clear this up. It is fortunate that there were lids on the pots and that the roasting hens are still in the ovens.”
“Oh, Lor…” Jemmy swore. “I near forgot them.” He opened the oven door, revealing two beautifully browned birds. “Where can I put them? Everything is all over dust in here.”
“The big drying table in the washroom,” Mr. McElroy said quickly. “I just cleared it. We can throw a cloth over them to keep the dust off.”
Quickly Jemmy and Mr. McElroy moved to do just that.
Evelyn came dashing down the steps. “We heard a crash upstairs. Is everything...?”
She stopped speaking as she saw the big metal rack and all the large pots, pans, and kitchen implements lying on the central table and the floor. “Oh, my! Is everyone all right? Is anyone hurt?”
“Only the cakes,” Jemmy said, with grim humor. “They turned out prime, too.”
“Oh, Jemmy!” Evelyn gave a little laugh of relief. “I am so sorry. I know it was your second try today, and that the first batch fell. But… do you still have the first go? We do not have guests tonight, and I know the Duchess will understand.”
Wilson, who had been on his way down in response to the bell, stopped aghast at the door. “Oh, my word! Is anyone hurt?”
“No, no one hurt. But, Mr. Wilson, could we get some of the footmen down here to help with clearing up?”
“Of course. I’ll summon them at once. Did you manage to salvage any part of dinner?”
“Fortunately, we had not started preparing dinner for service, so it is mostly still in the pots awaiting the dishing up,” Mayson explained. “Jemmy and Mr. McElroy put the roasting hens on the drying rack in the washing room, so they are safe enough for now.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Wilson, quickly taking charge of the situation. “Mrs. Swinton, please go tell the Duchess that everyone is safe, but that dinner might be slightly delayed. How fortunate that it is only the Duchess and the staff tonight. We can improvise without fear of embarrassing Her Grace.”
With one regretful glance at Mayson, Evelyn turned and hurried back up the stairs.
“The cakes were crushed,” Jemmy told Mr. Wilson in despairing tones.
“Oh, lad,” the butler cracked a stiff smile, “If crushed cakes are the worst that comes of this, I shall count us well off. Do you still have the ones that fell?”
“Sir?” Jemmy responded in puzzlement.
“I’ve helped rescue more than one fallen cake,” Mr. Wilson said. “We shall clear up this mess, and I’ll send the youngest footman down to the village to arrange for a workman to come repair the damages on the morrow. It is a shame about the cakes, especially if they turned out well. But I can promise you that I sampled your earlier efforts, and while not a thing of beauty, your first go was still delicious.”
“Was it, Mr. Wilson?”
“It was,” Mr. Wilson said firmly, tipping Mayson a wink.
Mayson nearly fell out of his chair. This was a side of Mr. Wilson he had never seen, not in the several months he had worked at the Dower House.
Then Mayson stopped and thought for a moment. He had not needed the kind of coaching that Jemmy was now receiving because the old cook who had sheltered him had readily taught his craft to the frightened, lonely boy that he had been.
But Mr. Wilson had never been anything but kind to the staff. Stern, yes, that he certainly was. Stiff, formal, adhering to correctness in all things, but never deliberately or needlessly unkind. Why should it be a surprise, then, that he would support the efforts of a boy who was just beginning to learn an exacting craft?
Mayson made up his mind right then that he liked Mr. Wilson. He had never disliked him, but had accepted the spare, ever-correct butler in much the same way that he accepted the ovens and the stones beneath his feet. Perhaps that is how a butler should be, he thought, a foundation and support for the rest of the staff. But it was good to know that there was something more to Mr. Wilson.
“Let us get Mr. Rudge a little farther away from the mess so the footmen can clean up,” Mr. Wilson suggested. “Jemmy, can you support him while I move the chair? The two of you are more of a size than he and I. I fear I might drop him.”
“I can stand,” Mayson protested, at the same time that Jemmy said, “Of course, Mr. Wilson. I’ll be glad to.”
Between the two of them, Mayson found himself shifted away from the disaster and was just getting settled back in his seat when Evelyn came hurrying back down the stairs, a little breathless from running up and down.
“Have a care, Mrs. Swinton,” cautioned Mr. Wilson. “It has not been that many days since you had a cast on your foot. Let us not have two invalids on our hands.”
