Prelude to Heaven (6 page)

As she thought of him, she remembered the apprehension she’d felt as he’d carried her upstairs to her room the night before, and her relief when her fears had proved groundless. After setting her on her feet, he hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t even tried, strengthening her conclusion that staying here was the perfect solution. If only she could give Dumond a reason to see it the same way.

Tess's gaze wandered around the kitchen, and she couldn’t help noticing the dust balls that rested around the bottom of the stove. There were soiled plates, bowls, and cups piled on the wooden tables against the wall. There were bottles of linseed and used paintbrushes scattered carelessly about. She sat up straight in her chair, suddenly considering her plan and Dumond's refusal in a new light.

Suppose she just quietly began working, assuming the duties of housekeeper as if he’d already given her the post? If she wanted to convince Dumond that he needed a housekeeper, wouldn't it be best to show him how nice it was to have one and how much more comfortable his life would be?

Tess stood up and went in search of a broom, rags, and a bucket. Room by room, she would clean this château and turn it into a home again. She would demonstrate that she was hardworking and useful. Her knowledge of domestic affairs was in the supervising of servants than doing the work herself, but she wasn’t going to allow that to stand in her way. After all, how hard could it be to clean, cook, and keep house for one man?

***

It was late afternoon when Alexandre returned to the château. He walked past the garden and into the kitchen. Setting his sketchbook and a pail full of spider crabs and sea-water on the worktable, he moved toward the wood bin to get kindling for a fire, but halfway across the room, he suddenly realized something was different. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the change, however, and he paused, frowning as he studied his surroundings.

Sunshine spilled through the high windows, reflecting off the gleaming, whitewashed table. The wooden floor glowed with a subtle patina he hadn’t seen in years. All the dishes piled on the table against the way had been washed and put away. Paintbrushes, rags, and bottles of linseed were nowhere to be seen. His mud-encrusted painting had been placed neatly in one corner. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere.

It was clear his guest had not paid any attention to his refusal of her offer. He wondered where she'd put his paintbrushes. He muttered a curse under his breath.

After he’d spent the past week making sure the woman didn't die, here she was, barely out of the sickroom, cleaning house.
His
house. Hadn't he told her clearly that he didn't need or want a housekeeper? He didn't want her messing about with his things, putting them in all the wrong places.

He knew exactly what she trying to do.
Mais oui
. She was trying to show him how much more comfortable his life would be if she remained and kept house for him, but he had no intention of allowing it. If she was well enough to clean his house, she was well enough to leave.

He found her in the dining room, sweeping the floor, further confirmation of his theory. She had tied her overly long skirt up several inches off the ground, and beneath it, the hem of her petticoat brushed the floor. On the table nearby was a pail of water and a pile of rags. She was still humming, her body swaying back and forth as she swept dust into a pile.

Alexandre frowned at her back, and when he spoke, he couldn’t keep his frustration out of his voice. “What do you think you're doing?”

She jumped and whirled around, her eyes wide as they met his, the broom clutched to her breast.

“
Sacr
é
tonnerre
!” he went on, exasperated. “Have I not spent the past week trying to keep you alive? Your second day out of bed, you start working like a scullery maid!
Mon Dieu
!”

Her lips parted, but she did not reply.

“Did I not make myself clear yesterday, mademoiselle? Did I not say that, no, you could not be my housekeeper?” He came toward her with long strides, and she backed away as he advanced, her eyes growing wider with every step he took.

When her back hit the wall and she could retreat no further, she lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, refusing to look at him.

Her humble response surprised him. He hadn't expected this sort of reaction. He would have thought she'd try to persuade, coax, or plead her cause and play on his sympathy. He looked down at the slender hands holding the broom and saw that they were clutching the wooden handle so tightly her knuckles were white, reaffirming his thoughts of the night before. She was afraid of him. He folded his arms across his chest and frowned down at her, dismay mingling with frustration.

After a long moment, she raised her head slightly to look at him. He saw the fear in her eyes. And something more. He saw resignation, and sadness. A deep well of sadness. Alexandre blinked, startled, uncertain what to do.

After a moment, he reached out to grab the broom from her. She flinched, releasing her hold on the handle and pressing back against the wall, and before he could stop the words, he found himself saying, “If you are to be my cook as well as my housekeeper, you'd best start dinner, mademoiselle.” He paused, then added, “If you feel well enough?”

Her relief was palpable. He watched her shoulders relax, and the fear melted from her eyes. When she nodded, he let out his breath in a sigh. Like it or not, he had acquired a housekeeper.

***

Tess followed Dumond to the kitchen. She wanted to thank him for his kindness, she wanted to tell him how grateful she was, but she stared at his broad, rigid back and decided to say nothing. Her plan had obviously worked, though she wasn’t sure quite how.

When she had seen his anger, she’d been sure he would hit her, or toss her out, or both. She thought of what Nigel would have done. She shuddered, and reminded herself that life was behind her. Nigel could not hurt her ever again. He could not hurt her baby.

When they reached the kitchen, Dumond halted and pointed to a pail that stood on the table. “Dinner, mademoiselle.”

Tess walked over to the table and peered into the pail. Four crabs lay inside, covered with water. She stared down at them, appreciating for the first time that while the cleaning part of her new position was simply a matter of common sense, the cooking was going to be more difficult. She glanced up to find him watching her thoughtfully.

She looked down again at the crabs and saw one of them twitch sluggishly in the water. Startled, she looked up. “They're alive!”

“Of course. I just caught them.”

Tess resisted the temptation to squirm beneath that intense black gaze, and instead tried to recall the many ways she had seen crab served. In salad, of course. Stuffed. Covered with sauce. None of that was much help, however, in determining how to cook it.

She worried her lower lip between her teeth, knowing she had to pretend she knew exactly what she was doing. “Have you a cookery book?” she asked, feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

He lifted one dark eyebrow. “I don’t believe so. It’s fortunate you already know how to cook,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“Yes...umm...very fortunate,” Tess uttered without a blush. “But I'm not familiar with your Provençal cooking. Have you any recipes?”

He shrugged. “It doesn't matter how you cook them. Your English way will be fine. You'll find potatoes and carrots in the garden.” Gesturing toward the wood bin beside the cast iron stove, he asked, “Shall I light a fire for you?”

“Yes, thank you.” Tess studied the stove as he built a fire inside its black iron cavity, hoping she could figure out how to cook something on it. When he had finished and closed the hinged door, he stepped aside. Leaning his back against the wall, he again folded his arms across his chest and waited.

Did he intend to stand there and watch her the whole time? Tess stepped forward. “Well,” she said, hoping her voice sounded brisk and efficient, “I'm sure you have many things to do. Painting or sketching or something. I'll fetch you when the meal is ready.” She waved him toward the door.

“Very well.” His lips curved with the hint of a smile as he took the hint and moved to the door leading into the hall. “I shall be in the library,” he told her. Stepping through the doorway, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Mademoiselle? You might try boiling them.” And with that small piece of advice, he was gone.

Tess lost no time. Hastily, she began searching the kitchen, looking for a recipe box or book. She knew there were such things. As a vicar, her father had been generously supported in his living by Lady Deverill, and had been able to afford several servants, including a cook. Tess had seen old Mrs. Moorehouse pouring over various recipes in the vicarage kitchen’s cookery book many times. Surely French cooks kept such books, too.

Opening one cupboard after another, she familiarized herself with what they contained as she searched. Pots, pans, utensils, but no recipes. With a sigh, she placed her hands on her hips and glanced around. How on earth was she to manage this without any sort of instruction?

She glanced toward the stairs, remembering she had noticed two doors at the bottom. One door went outside, but did the other perhaps lead to a cellar? She lit a lamp and went down the stairs, finding herself in what seemed to be the storerooms of the original castle keep. She found no cookbook or recipes, but she did find a bin of apples beside the stairs. Dessert, she decided, in a flash of inspiration.

Behind the bin was a wine rack filled with dusty bottles. Tess held the oil lamp high and pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. Blowing off the dust, she studied the label. “Dumond Red,” she read aloud. “1814.”

Wine from the now-deserted vineyards. She tucked the bottle under one arm, gathered some of the apples in her apron, and returned upstairs.

Locating potatoes and carrots was not an easy task. As a child, she'd spent many hours helping old Herbert in the vicarage garden, so she was as at home in a garden as any real cook could be. She knew perfectly well what potato vines and carrot tops looked like, but finding the vegetables amid all the weeds was difficult. Soon, she vowed, she’d take care of that.

Back in the kitchen, she located a kettle large enough to the crabs, filled it from the water pump in the courtyard, and put it on the stove to boil, then she peeled the potatoes and carrots, cutting her finger in the process. By the time she had finished that task, the water in the huge kettle was boiling, and she hauled the bucket of crabs over to the stove.

“Cooking isn't so hard,” she murmured as she reached into the bucket, but the words were barely out of her mouth before she appreciated the task that now lay before her. One of the shellfish nearly clamped a claw around her finger, and she barely snatched her hand back in time. ‘Boil them,’ Dumond had said, but did he really expect her to toss the poor creatures into boiling water while they were still alive?

Tess knew she couldn’t afford to be squeamish. She drew a deep breath and reached for a pair of long-handled tongs that hung beside the stove, but when she lifted one crab out of the pail and it waved a claw sluggishly in her direction, she nearly lost her resolve. With a heartfelt apology, she used the tongs to send the poor creature and his brethren to their death, and she could only hope she didn’t have to wring the neck of a chicken or butcher a lamb any time soon.

An hour later, exhausted and nursing a few cuts and burns, Tess arranged the cooked crabs on a large platter, still feeling somewhat sick at how they had met their fate at her hands. Trying not to think about it, she carried the platter into the dining room where she had set two places at opposite ends of the long dining table. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry about that. A cook didn’t customarily dine with her employer, but the idea of each of them eating alone in separate rooms according to custom seemed so absurd when they were the only two people in the house.

An unpleasant smell greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, and with a groan of dismay, she raced to the stove. The potatoes had boiled dry, and their scorched smell permeated the room. With a sigh, she pried them from the pan with a fork, cut off the browned edges, and piled them into a bowl. She tossed butter over them, hoping for the best, and turned her attention to the carrots, putting them in a separate bowl and sprinkling some thyme from the garden over them for artistic effect.

She opened the oven door to check on the apples baking in a juice of sugar, brandy, butter and cinnamon, a recipe she'd invented out of necessity because she'd had no idea what else to do with them. To her relief, they seemed all right. They smelled heavenly and were turning a nice, delicate shade of brown. Pleased, she closed the oven door and carried the bowls of vegetables to the dining room.

The meal might be a simple one, but as she studied the food on the table, she felt rather proud of herself. For the first time in over two years, she had done something truly worthwhile. As Nigel's wife, she had been an ornament whose only accomplishments were looking attractive and being obedient. Cooking, she decided, was much more satisfying. After flicking a speck of dust off the table with the edge of her skirt and taking another moment to admire her achievement, she went in search of Monsieur Dumond.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the dining room behind her was the wine. He picked up the bottle on the table and looked at it, then glanced at her. “You found this in the cellars?”

She nodded.

“Four years,” he muttered as if to himself. “It seems a lifetime ago.” He fell silent, staring at the bottle, but after a moment, he roused himself from his own thoughts, and added a bit ruefully, “Let's hope it hasn't turned to vinegar.”

He uncorked the wine with the corkscrew she had laid beside the bottle, then poured a bit of the wine into a glass. He lifted the glass, staring at the liquid, which was a surprising shade of apricot-yellow. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Just a hint of blush.”