Whiskey Island by Emilie Richards

Author:Emilie Richards [Richards, Emilie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2000-11-21T20:00:00+00:00

“You’re half-frozen, child, and dripping on my carpet!”

Lena shivered, her eyes lowered, her hands tucked into her arms to warm them. “It’s sorry I am, truly. But I’ve been out in the snow all morn-morning. And there was no way of avoid-avoiding it.”

The cook, a large woman who obviously tasted everything she prepared, harrumphed. Her name was Esther Bloomfield, but Lena knew from Nani that the staff simply called her Bloomy. “Stand up straight and let me take a look at you.”

Lena couldn’t seem to stop her teeth from chattering. She remembered the day just before the accident, that one perfect, golden day, when she and Terence had stayed out on the Avenue for hours and never felt the cold. But today the sun did not shine, the temperature was punishing and a cutting wind blew directly off the lake. She was lucky, she supposed, to have survived the trip without freezing off her fingers and toes.

She straightened and dropped her arms, but she spread her cloak first so that Bloomy could look her over carefully.

“Nani assures me you can cook?”

“That I can.” Lena knew better than to say too much.

“And you’ve had experience?”

In as few words as possible, Lena told her about the business she’d started. “There’s never so much as a crumb or a lick left over,” she finished with pride. “I’m known for my bread, my soups and stews.”

“Mr. Simeon does like a good stew now and then. If there’s no one here to see him eat it,” she added in a lowered voice.

Lena didn’t smile. What an odd world it was when a poor man’s greatest pleasure was a rich man’s shame.

Bloomy peered at Lena through wire-rimmed spectacles. She was gray haired and, despite her ample hips and bosom, thin faced. She moved slowly, as if her joints were glued in place. “Tell me how you would prepare a hen, if you had one to prepare?”

Only rarely had Lena been offered that opportunity, but she detailed what she would do, given the chance. They moved on to other topics. Vegetables, breads, puddings. Lena answered when she could and shamelessly admitted ignorance when necessary.

“But I can learn how to make anything,” she ended, when Bloomy seemed to be done with questions. “I know this sounds odd, truly I do, but food speaks to me. It tells me what it will go well with and what it won’t. If it smells a certain way, I know to add a sprinkling of chives. If it smells another, to add thyme. I know how to try new ideas with small portions, so as not to waste more than a bite or two. I—”

“That will do,” Bloomy said, not unkindly. “If Mrs. Simeon agrees, I’ve already decided the job is yours. But you’d do well to remember you work for me. I tell you what to do, and you obey. Do you understand?”

“I’ll depend on you for instructions, and you can depend on me to do my best following them.”

Bloomy smiled. “I think we’ll rub on well together, dear.

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