“Of course. Any good kitchen must have them.”

  “What is this one?” I pointed.

  “Saffron. Essential for bouillabaisse.”

  “And this?”

  “Garlic, madame. Can you believe there was not a single clove of garlic in the house? Nor shallots. Only big coarse onions. And herbs…”

  “Have you checked the kitchen garden?” I asked. “I am sure the gardener can find you herbs and will be happy to plant anything you need and grow garlic and shallots for you.”

  That at least pacified him. “Ah. So I can expect fresh vegetables from the estate?”

  “Of course. Tell the gardener what you would like him to plant if they are not already there.”

  “Very well, madame. I shall only need to buy the spices, then. And some kitchen tools. And more bowls. And a bain-marie…”

  Heavens. I had no idea what a bain-marie was. It was Mary’s bath. And I didn’t know who Mary was. I hoped Sir Hubert knew that a chef might be expensive. Darcy and I certainly couldn’t afford him. But I gave him the house checkbook and off he went to London. I reported the encounter to Darcy that evening.

  “Are you sure he’s not taking advantage of an inexperienced employer?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. If a chef tells me he needs certain items, I suppose we have to believe him.”

  Darcy sighed. “Being a homeowner is complicated, isn’t it?”

  “Horribly. I think I’d rather live in a cottage in Ireland with no staff.”

  “There’s always the lodge on my father’s estate.” He smiled at me.

  “Don’t tempt me.” I looked up as Mrs. Holbrook came into the room.

  “Telegram, my lady,” she said and held out a silver salver.

  “Oh golly.” I associated telegrams with bad news. Granddad was right here. It had to be Mummy…. I tore it open.

  SAILING TOMORROW ON THE HMS CARINTHIA. ARRIVING JULY 12. HUBERT

  Chapter 6

  July 3

  Eynsleigh

  Now we’re expecting another imminent arrival! Sir Hubert is coming home. We received a telegram. I’m just praying that the new chef works out and that Sir Hubert finds the house in order. I don’t know why I’m worrying. He’s the kindest man. But I don’t want him to be disappointed.

  As far as we could tell, Pierre did not attempt to cook until his uniform arrived. He had come back from the city with two large carrier bags from Harrods and explained that various larger items would be delivered. When I saw the check he had written I decided it would be less expensive to dine out. And we still hadn’t seen whether he could cook! I worried that the uniform would not arrive before Sir Hubert and I’d have to explain that I was paying a French chef who wouldn’t actually do any culinary work.

  Queenie came to me complaining that it wasn’t fair that she had to cook breakfast. “He gets to have a lie-in in the mornings!”

  “He is the head chef, Queenie,” I said. “And besides, I thought you’d like to be in charge of one meal. Pierre doesn’t know about English breakfasts. He can’t cook kidneys or kippers. So that’s why it’s up to you.”

  I saw the change of expression come over her face. “Bob’s yer uncle, then, missus,” she said. I gave a little smile as she left. At least it was easy to pacify her.

  Miraculously the uniform arrived before Sir Hubert. Pierre modeled it for me. He certainly looked dashing—a double-breasted white jacket and the traditional tall chef’s hat. And that evening a delicate green pea soup was served to us.

  “Potage San-Germain, my lady,” Phipps said. “That’s what chef told me to call it.”

  And after it some kind of fowl in a rich, sticky sauce. Delicious. Then to follow it, light meringue with berries. When we were seated with our coffee I summoned Pierre.

  “What was the meat that we were eating?” I asked.

  A worried look crossed his face. “You do not like?”

  “I like very much. I just couldn’t identify it.”

  “It is friend, my lady. Breast of friend à l’orange. With the orange sauce.”

  “Friend?” The thought of my cook roasting one of my friends and covering them in orange sauce was an uneasy one.

  He grinned. “Yes. Is canard. You call this friend, yes?”

  “Oh. Duck.” I started to laugh. Darcy looked confused.

  “You tell me ducks is same as friend, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Not exactly.” I was trying to control my laughter. “In the dialect that Queenie speaks, from the East End of London, they call people ducks as a term of endearment.”

  “This is very strange.” He shook his head. “I would not insult anyone by calling them a duck.”

  “So the dinner was duck à l’orange?” Darcy asked. “It was very good.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Pierre said.

  “Unfortunately I’m not my lord,” Darcy explained. “Not until my father dies. You can just call me ‘sir.’ ”

  Pierre looked confused now. “But she is ‘my lady’? Madame Holbrook told me I must call her this.”

  “Yes. She’s more important than me.” Darcy shot me a grin. “She’s related to the king. So you must behave well or she’ll have your head chopped off.”

  Pierre frowned then understood what Darcy was saying and laughed. “Me, I do not believe in kings,” he said. “One day there will be the revolution.”

  “But until that day, please go on cooking for us,” Darcy said, “because the food was really good tonight.”

  I went to bed feeling relieved and satisfied. Sir Hubert would not be disappointed in my choice. Unfortunately the rich meal did not agree with my current condition and I suffered from heartburn all night. A small price to pay for eating well, and it wouldn’t be long now before I’d be back to my normal shape.

  * * *

  After this the house was in a flurry of activity. Sir Hubert’s rooms were aired and cleaned. Menus were discussed for his first night home. Phipps went to the station to meet him and we stood as a welcoming committee in the front hall. He bounded up the steps looking tanned and fit.

  “Well, what a lovely welcome,” he said, opening his arms to me. “And look at you, my dear. Positively blooming. How long to the big day?”

  “Three weeks. But you are looking marvelous.”

  “I’m feeling fine now,” he said. “I’m pretty much recovered from that fall on Aconcagua. I dislocated my shoulder holding on to the rope but I was able to pop it back in and climb down using the other arm.” He shook hands with Darcy and even kissed Mrs. Holbrook on the cheek. She went very pink as she escorted him to his suite. I was holding my breath as we went in to dine that evening. I was just praying that Pierre would continue to produce small miracles and that Queenie would not somehow sabotage them.

  We were in the salon, having our sherry before dinner, when Mrs. Holbrook approached me. “My lady. The chef would like a word,” she whispered.

  Full of foreboding, I followed her. Pierre was waiting by the kitchen door.

  “I am sorry, but this is too much, my lady.” He looked as if he was about to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It is that girl,” he went on, the words tumbling out in French. “I have tried to be patient with her. I was patient when she threw away the chopped dill because she thought it was carrot tops. I was patient when she fed the duck fat I was saving for larding to those brutes of dogs. But this is too much.” He waved his arms expressively. “She opened the oven door to see if the soufflés were ready!”

  “And?”

  “They were not ready. They have sunk. They are ruined. What am I going to serve as a dessert?”

  “I’m sorry, Pierre,” I said. “How annoying for you. Perhaps some simple strawberries and cream would suffice.”

  “Perhaps.” He sounded doubtful. “And another thing, my lady. I do not wish to complain, but this girl, she is attracted to me.”

  “You’re an attractive man, Pierre.”

  “I know this. I know the women they like me. But she throws herself at me. Always beside me. She stands in the way when I have to pass her so that I have to brush against her. It is not right.”

  “No,” I agreed. “It is not right. I will speak to her.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I cannot cook with such distractions. And another thing—those dogs! It is not sanitary to have dogs in the kitchen. Such naughty dogs too. They are big. They jump up to the table and steal the meat I am preparing.”

  “Oh no. Of course that’s not right. We must make sure they are shut out of the kitchen. We’ll have them upstairs with us. It’s time they were better trained anyway.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” He gave a little bow. “Now I must get back to my kitchen. I hope this girl has not interfered with any other part of my dinner.”

  In spite of Pierre’s worries, the dinner exceeded expectations: cream of leek soup followed by scallops in their shells and then beef bourguignon. The strawberries and cream were actually perfect, followed by some good Stilton cheese. Sir Hubert put down his fork. “My goodness. What a meal. That was a feast fit for a king. After several months of living on corned beef cooked in a bully tin, it was almost too much for me. Where on earth did you find someone who can cook like that?”

  “In Paris. Where else?” I tried to toss off the remark but then added, “I was lucky to meet him when I was there earlier this year.”

  “My dear girl, you are to be complimented,” he said. “Absolutely superb.” His face lit up. “I know. We must have a dinner party. The neighbors will descend on us anyway when they know I’m back. We’ll invite everyone. I’ll draw up a list and you discuss menus with the chef. We’ll knock their socks off, won’t we?”

  “How many people were you thinking of?” I asked cautiously.

  “The table seats thirty, I believe. Let’s come up with names and we’ll go from there.”

  I swallowed back the word “golly.” I didn’t want to admit I was terrified at playing hostess for thirty people. For four people, actually. And with Queenie in the kitchen, there was always the chance of disaster. I did speak to her the next morning. I scolded her for ruining the soufflés.

  “I was only trying to be helpful. I thought he’d forgotten them,” she said defiantly.

  “In future let Chef give you his instructions,” I said. “And don’t throw anything away without asking him.” As she went to stomp off indignantly, muttering, “It was my kitchen first, who does he think he is, the ruddy king of England?” I called after her. “Oh, and Queenie, one more thing. I believe you are attempting to flirt with the chef. Please don’t do this. It takes his mind off the cooking.”

  “What that man wants is a good woman,” she said. “It’s not right he should be all alone in England.”

  “I don’t think you’re his type, Queenie.”

  “He’ll come around. When he sees what I’ve got to offer.”

  I couldn’t think what else to say. She was smirking now as she walked away.

  That morning I sat down with Sir Hubert to discuss the guest list.

  “We must invite all the neighbors or they’ll be put out,” he said. “Lord and Lady Mountjoy. You know them, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “I was presented at court with their daughter.”

  “And Colonel and Mrs. Bancroft. You must have met her. She runs the Girl Guides and the Women’s Institute and everything else. Poisonous woman, but we’d never hear the last of it if we didn’t invite her. And the vicar and his wife, of course. He’s a good man. And the Turnbulls—he farms the land adjoining ours.”

  He listed several more people, some of whom I had met. “And a couple of friends of mine whom I’d love to catch up with. “Freddie Robson-Clough. Must have him. Do you know him, by any chance?”

  I shook my head.

  “Famous explorer. Been to the most remote of places. He and I did an expedition together to Nuristan. Fascinating. I climbed a mountain and he mingled with the inhabitants. Nearly got both of us killed, but a wonderful time.”

  I didn’t think this would be my definition of a wonderful time.

  Sir Hubert pondered for a while. “How many does that make? We need one more.” Then he waved a hand excitedly. “And you know who else we’ll invite? Sir Mordred Mortimer. He counts as a neighbor, doesn’t he?”

  When I looked puzzled he went on. “Surely you know who he is?”

  “The name’s familiar but…isn’t he a writer? He writes those frightening books about murders and hauntings and things. I tried to read one once. It gave me nightmares.”

  Sir Hubert chuckled. “They sell awfully well, I gather. People love to be scared. Well, he lives not too far from here. He’d make a fascinating dinner guest.”

  “If you think so,” I said. Vicars and farmers were alarming enough for me without adding a celebrity.

  “And, of course, feel free to invite your friends too,” he went on.

  And so the invitations went out. Most people accepted. Sir Hubert was the sort of man people wanted to meet. I invited Zou Zou and suggested she might want to stay for a few days. She said she’d be delighted. The only one who turned me down was Granddad.

  “Oh no, my love,” he said. “I’m not sitting at a table with all the posh folk. Not for all the tea in China. I’ll take my meal with Mrs. Holbrook.”

  I did understand his point. I discussed menus with Pierre. “Let’s keep it simple, just in case,” I said. “Things that can be prepared in advance?”

  He suggested a consommé with spring vegetables and herbed croutons followed by dover sole volute followed by a crispy roast chicken served with potatoes au gratin and asparagus and to finish a tarte tatin. That did not sound exactly simple to me. He commented that not all the neighbors might be used to food that was unfamiliar to them. Knowing the British suspicion of anything foreign, I agreed with this. I also suggested that he give Queenie something specific to do that would keep her out of trouble. He agreed with that immediately! “I will assign her to consommé. I have shown her how it should be prepared, so I think I can trust her with it.” He ended this statement almost as a question.

  Zou Zou arrived, armed with presents, of course. Various items for the nursery this time as well as champagne to celebrate the arrival. “I can’t wait to meet the little darling,” she said.

  “Me too. I’m anxious to get it over with now. It’s not very convenient walking around with a barrel sticking out in front.”

  “Don’t worry. Your figure will return immediately,” she said. “I have a little man who can give you exercises.” She looked around, then added in a soft voice, “Between us girls, your godfather is rather gorgeous. I think I might want to know him better.”

  Oh gosh. Somehow I didn’t think that would go down well with Mummy. In spite of not wanting him herself, I didn’t think she’d want anyone else to have him either. I was glad she wasn’t here.

  The silver was polished, the table was laid. Everything looked splendid. I could not fit into any of my normal evening clothes so I had to improvise a little with a large fringed silk shawl, but the result was not too bad. As Darcy said, I looked pregnant and there was no hiding it. The hour arrived and we went down to meet the guests. Colonel and Mrs. Bancroft were the first to arrive. She entered the room complaining that the lack of rain was ruining their tomatoes. The other neighbors appeared soon after and immediately started exchanging local scandal. Sir Hubert’s fellow explorer, Mr. Robson-Clough, arrived, clearly out of place among us normal people, and hardly said a word. Zou Zou looked stunning, as always, in a slinky black evening gown, and was turning the full force of her charm on Sir Hubert. He looked rather like a deer caught in the headlights. Poor Darcy’s father, I thought. We had hoped those two would make a match of it, but his stupid pride had held him back from proposing to a rich woman.

  “Are we all met?” Sir Hubert asked.

  “Only your famous Sir Mordred isn’t here yet,” I replied.

  “Good God, you haven’t invited that awful man, have you?” Mrs. Bancroft exclaimed.

  “But he’s fascinating,” Lady Mountjoy replied. “And I adore his books. So absolutely creepy.”

  “The man is no good Christian,” Mrs. Bancroft snapped. “You wait. He’s probably brought a whole host of demons or evil spirits with him.”

  “I do hope not,” the vicar replied. “I doubt there will be room for them at the table.” He looked across at me and winked.

  “The man has a damned fine garden, so I’ve heard,” Colonel Bancroft said. “Of course, he can still afford the gardeners. You should have seen our garden when we were out in India. We employed a whole team of women on their hands and knees with little sheers to cut the lawns. Didn’t have lawn mowers in those days. Of course, they were glad to be employed rather than starving. Untouchables, you know.”

  Darcy shot me a horrified look. “Should we perhaps go in to dinner?” he asked.

  At that moment Phipps ushered in another guest.

  “Sir Mordred Mortimer,” he said.

  And a tall, thin man with long silver hair swept into the room.

  Chapter 7

  July 15

  Eynsleigh

  Golly! What a strange and terrifying person. Darcy thinks it’s all for show. I jolly well hope so.

  Sir Mordred Mortimer clearly wanted to live up to his name and reputation. He was dressed entirely in black except for the white handkerchief in his dinner jacket, and a black velvet cape hung from his shoulders. It flew out as he strode forward. If he’d tried to hang upside down from the rafters or repose in a coffin I don’t think I would have been surprised.