Once a Duchess (12 page)

“You cannot imagine what he’s done!” Naomi’s voice wailed.

Isabelle and Lily turned at the same time Aunt Janine’s book thumped closed. Naomi stopped in front of them, her carefully scribed menu crumpled in one fist, and her bloodless face streaked with tears.

Isabelle rushed to the girl’s side. “What’s happened?”

“Grant,” Naomi said, panic creeping into her voice, “has sent the entire kitchen staff away! I found only one maid in the scullery, washing the breakfast dishes.” Her breaths started coming in rapid, shallow gasps. Isabelle guided her to a chair, afraid she would faint.

“Slow down,” she instructed. Lady Janine crossed to the sideboard and poured a small measure of sherry into a glass.

Naomi took the drink and choked a little down. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “Oh, Isabelle, I’m so sorry.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Two identical tears leaked from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She lowered her hand, revealing pink, swollen lips. “She said Grant told the kitchen staff they’d not cook for the likes of you. They could either take a free day today or leave for good. They’re all gone.”

Janine hissed and cursed. Her features twisted into a mask of dismay and anger.

This news washed over Isabelle like acid. Grant’s hatred had no bounds, and now Naomi was being punished for the crime of being kind to her. Lily turned to her with sympathetic eyes.

Isabelle didn’t want her sympathy. She was tired of being pitied. But the old self-hatred started to tug at her, threatening to pull her under. She knew she didn’t belong here. A divorcée was wanted nowhere.

Just then, the butler stepped into the library to announce: “A party of your guests has arrived, Lady Naomi. Seven ladies and gentlemen await you in the garden.”

A rock settled into Isabelle’s middle as Naomi grabbed her hands and wailed, “Whatever will I do? It’s all ruined! I shall have to send everyone home. I’ll be a laughingstock.”

Naomi’s desperation was the lifeline Isabelle needed. She grabbed onto it, just as she grasped Naomi’s hands in her own firm fingers.

An idea sprang to life — one that would save Naomi’s name and show Grant how little his poor opinion of Isabelle mattered. Naomi would have her party. And if Grant didn’t like it, he could jolly well take himself to the devil.

“No, you won’t,” she said, calm and determined. Lily regarded her with a questioning look. Isabelle met her expression with a conspiratorial smile. She turned back to Naomi. “Your party shall be a rousing success,” she assured the younger woman. “You’ll see.”

Isabelle left an overwrought Naomi in Lily’s capable care, while Lady Janine greeted the party guests beginning to trickle in. She made her way to the abandoned kitchen to survey her new domain. Grant could rail against her all he wanted, but Isabelle would be damned if she’d let his prejudice against her ruin his sister’s Season. Isabelle knew only too well how one foible could set all the tongues a-wagging. The beau monde loved nothing more than news of a public mishap to devour alongside the canapés.

Down the cramped servant stairs to the basement level she went, passing the china pantry, the laundry, and the door to the wine cellar along her way. In the scullery, she found the same maid who had delivered the news of the kitchen staff’s absence. She pulled the girl from dish-washing duty and brought her along to the spacious kitchen.

The kitchen contained all that she would expect to find: a large cast-iron oven and range, butcher block, pots, pans, and ample cutlery. In the pantry, she found a veritable catalog’s worth of tinned spices. The meat larder contained a few hams, poultry, and cuts of beef, but nothing like what would be required for a proper supper for thirty.

Isabelle found an apron to tie around her waist, then set about making a list for the scullery maid to take back to town.

By all that was holy, she could cook. And if her cooking could save Naomi from humiliation, then Isabelle would cook like her life depended on it.

While she waited for the maid to return with a dogcart full of meats and cheeses, she set about creating some desserts. Pastries had never been her strong suit, but Isabelle could do justice by a tart. For the under-the-stars evening Naomi envisioned, tarts filled with sweet summer fruits would be just the thing.

Two hours later, the tarts stood cooling on the counter. The scullery maid had returned, and Isabelle recruited a lad from the stables to help in the kitchen. The servants busied themselves cleaning up from Isabelle’s baking, while she planned out how to prepare the fifteen dishes she would need to do Naomi’s supper justice. She would make a large batch of Béchamel sauce, she decided, and divide it in thirds, adapting it into a crème, a Mornay, and a Soubise. Each of these could feature with a vegetable course, cutting down the time she’d have to put into each one. She silently thanked her mother for bringing French cookbooks with her to England, and the cook at Fairfax Hall for teaching Isabelle to use them.

• • •

Her friends appeared at about four o’clock and found Isabelle with her face over a steaming saucepan.

Naomi gasped, clasping her hands to her chest. “Look at these marvelous tarts!” Her eyes swept over the rows of strawberry, blueberry, and plum-filled desserts. “Did you really make them?”

“I did,” Isabelle affirmed. Both Lily and Naomi had changed into stylish afternoon dresses. Their hair was neatly coiffed, and they smelled of lavender and powder.

For her own part, Isabelle still wore her white muslin, long since ruined with berry juice stains. Her hair was tied in a knot, but sweat- and steam-dampened strands had begun working their way loose. Isabelle’s face flushed from leaning into the oven and over the stove, and she hadn’t yet begun the soups or roasts. No, she would be much worse for wear before it was all over.

“I cannot believe this is true.” Naomi pressed her hands to her cheeks. “You are an absolute wonder,” she declared. “Grant is mad as fire at me for continuing with the party, but I don’t care.” Her eyes sparkled with devilment. “We’re going to show him, aren’t we?”

Isabelle gave her a crooked smile as she stirred her sweating onions. “Yes, we are.”

Naomi’s eyes crinkled with her answering smile. “When will you be up to join us?”

Isabelle looked at Naomi askance. Was the girl funning her? She had fifteen courses to prepare for thirty guests with only her own hands and those of two inexperienced servants at her disposal. “I won’t be up. I’ll be working all the way through supper, and by the time it’s over, I shall be revolting to look at. I shan’t even begin to comment upon how I will likely smell.”

“But you must!” Naomi protested. “If you don’t come, then it’s all been for nothing.”

Isabelle shook her head. “No, it hasn’t been for nothing.” It was true. Even though Isabelle would miss the supper herself, she could do this thing to repay Naomi’s kindness. Besides, it felt good to be busy again. Her hands had been too idle since coming down for the Season.

“Do you need help?” Lily asked, already setting aside her shawl.

“Stay with Naomi. I’ll be fine.” Isabelle dipped a wooden spoon into one of her pots and ran a finger across the back of it. The creamy, white liquid stayed separated.

Lily shot her a questioning glance. “Are you sure? I’m only acquainted with a few of the guests in passing, so it would be no great thing for me to pitch in.”

“I’ll be fine,” Isabelle insisted. She bundled her two friends out of the kitchen, scolding them for being in her way when she had so much to do.

With everything running smoothly for the time being, Isabelle selected two large baskets from a pile of them in the corner and went out to collect vegetables and herbs from the kitchen garden. One thing to be said for working in a botanist’s kitchen, she thought when she found the expansive piece of land, there was no danger of running short on edible vegetation.

• • •

Marshall ran Grant to ground in the billiards room where his brother had ensconced himself with his foul mood and a bottle of whiskey. At this hour, Naomi’s gentleman guests would be mingling with the ladies in the garden. Grant was woefully neglecting his duties as host.

“What’s this about?” Marshall held up Grant’s hastily scrawled note.

Grant ignored Marshall for a long moment as he lined up a shot and sent a ball careening to a corner pocket.

“Grant,” Marshall said testily, “You’ve pulled me away from business in Parliament, and I had to cancel this afternoon’s ride with Lady Lucy. Tell me what this nonsense is about!”

“It’s about,” Grant said, looking up with bleary eyes, “our dear sister making a disgrace of herself by bringing that doxy here. To yer house, Marsh.” He jabbed Marshall’s chest with the tip of his stick.

Marshall swatted the stick away. Grant’s note had begged him to come to Bensbury without delay to save them all from disaster. He’d expected to find the house on fire, or to discover Naomi had eloped with an enlisted man. Instead, his drunken sibling was playing billiards and rambling about doxies and disgraces.

“And by ‘that doxy,’ you mean who?” He gestured with the hand holding the letter, inviting Grant to fill in the rest.

“Isabelle,” Grant sighed and slouched over, clinging to his queue like an old man to his walking stick. “She’s here.”

Marshall’s senses heightened to full alert. His eyes darted to the sides, as though his former wife might pop out from behind a chair. How the devil had Isabelle come to be at Naomi’s party?

Grant’s eyes took on a glassy, faraway look. “Taken over th’whole house, Marsh,” he slurred. “I tol’ N’omi to make her go, but she din’ do it.” He shook his head sadly and rested his cheek on his hand.

Marshall’s lips drew into a thin line. “I’ll see about it.” He shoved Grant’s letter into his coat pocket.

“It was the wors’ thing I ever heard, you know. Wha’ she did.” Sighing, Grant made a desolate swipe at the balls on the table and missed them entirely.

There was something both poignant and humorous about Grant’s woeful state. “Me, too,” Marshall said, leaving his brother to his whiskey.

He made his way to the garden, where the late afternoon sun brought richness to the green foliage and bright flowers. The young ladies and gentlemen wore light attire suitable for the occasion. Marshall, dressed in a dark suit for the meetings he’d left behind in London, stood out like an inkblot on white linen.

He spotted his sister a distance away, surrounded by a group of friends. Four young girls with their heads together, probably giggling over some poor devil’s legs, or some such nonsense.

A complete innocent, surrounded by other innocents.
Isabelle had no place among this bevy of naïve virgins. Though not much older than the other ladies present, Isabelle’s divorced status made her a wildly inappropriate companion for his sister and her friends.

He wondered where she was if not with Naomi. Perhaps she was providing one of Naomi’s male guests with an afternoon diversion. Best not to look too closely behind the hedges, he thought grimly.

Suddenly, a female hand on his arm brought him to a halt, pulling him from his morose reverie.

“Monthwaite, a word.” Lily Bachman stood before him, wearing a fetching marigold gown and bonnet.

“Miss Bachman,” he said, inclining his head. “A pleasure to see you again. Just now, however, I must speak with Lady Naomi.”

“About Isabelle?” she asked archly.

He was taken aback by her blunt manner. It was then he noticed the cross expression she wore.

“I’m not surprised to see you here,” she continued. “I wondered how long it would be before that ogre you call a brother summoned reinforcements.”

She had spirit, he had to hand it to her, as well as refreshing honesty in her approach. He would return the favor, he decided, with equal frankness.

“Miss Bachman, you exhibit admirable loyalty to your friend. Indeed, I wish Isabelle only happiness.”

She smirked disbelievingly.

“But you must understand,” he continued, “it is not acceptable for her to be here. You’re welcome to stay and enjoy the party, of course, but arrangements will have to be made for your companion.” As he spoke, her expression darkened. Best to be on his way. “I shall speak to my sister, and if you can point me in Isabelle’s direction … ”

Lily straightened. Her hands clenched into balls at her side. She was not a fashionably petite lady, and Marshall weighed the odds of her decking him. “Her direction?” Lily sneered. “Isabelle is in the
direction
of your bloody kitchen,” she said through a clenched jaw, “cooking for this sodding lot, thanks to your misbegotten sibling.”

Marshall drew back, thunderstruck. “She’s cooking?” He stared at the seething woman in disbelief. “In
my
kitchen?”

Lily exhaled loudly through her nostrils. “I fail to comprehend why Isabelle continues to give this family the time of day. You’ve brought her nothing but misery. If she’d had any kind of normal family growing up, she would see in an instant how insane,” Lily’s eyes went wide with the word, “this one is.”

She turned on her heel and left Marshall standing there to stare blankly into a flowerbed, considering her words.

“Those are lovely, Your Grace,” said a young lady who’d happened by. “What are they?”

Marshall stared at her stupidly for a moment before he realized she was asking about the flowers.

“
Digitalis …
foxgloves,” he said, the Latin escaping him for the first time in recent memory. “Excuse me.” As he turned to go, he noticed Naomi glancing worriedly in his direction. No doubt she realized she’d been found out, and fretted about what he’d say or do to her. Somehow, though, Marshall thought as he traipsed back into the house, he was just as worried about what recriminating darts she might throw at him.

Isabelle. In his kitchen! He recalled her in that inn, wearing common servant’s garb, toiling with her own hands to make supper for him, Hornsby, and dozens of villagers. He couldn’t stand the thought of her laboring like that in his own house. What on earth had Grant done to bring this about? Marshall may well deserve Miss Bachman’s derision when he found out.