Christmas at Whitefriars: A Novella by Elizabeth Camden

Author:Elizabeth Camden [Camden, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2019-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Everett recognized the fighting spirit in Mary as she donned the apron, but he wouldn’t let that dim his afternoon. For the first time in weeks he’d have a chance to revel in the production of a grand, pull-out-the-stops culinary masterpiece. If Whitefriars was to offer rooms for lease, they would need to live up to the name on every jar of gourmet jam, sauce, and seasoned vinegar he sold.

Besides, he liked cooking and it had been weeks since he’d been able to indulge his secret vice.

“Can you pluck a chicken?” he asked Mary.

She blanched, swiveling her elegant head to stare in trepidation at the mound of dead chickens on the worktable. It was a struggle to keep the laughter from his face, but Mrs. Galloway interrupted the fun by rushing to the rescue.

“I can pluck the chickens,” she said, dropping the whisk and stepping away from the stove.

“Keep stirring,” he urged. “If the cream rises above eighty-five degrees it can curdle.”

Mrs. Galloway looked torn but obeyed. With no salvation on the horizon, Mary took a step toward the chickens, reaching a hand out to pinch a leathery claw and drag the first bird a little closer. She was going to do it! His admiration soared, but he needed those chickens plucked in short order, and it would take a beginner forever. And Mary was clearly a beginner. Her face was frozen in mortification and she was holding her breath, but she grasped a few feathers and tugged.

“Stop,” he said. “You’ve got three healthy young men living the life of Riley in the gatehouse. They don’t need to speak English to pluck chickens.” Even though he was convinced they did speak English. Mary was too kind-hearted and willing to see the best in people. Maybe he was the opposite. He and his father hadn’t risen to the top of the packaged food industry by letting people live rent free or make pottery when they’d been hired to mill wheat.

Nick could run the chickens down to the Papadakis brothers, for unlike Mary, the burly former plumber would have no problem reading the riot act to the brothers. The look of relief on her face when he suggested Nick take the chickens down to the brothers was comical and she dashed out of the kitchen to fetch him.

Ten minutes later Nick had taken the chickens away and Mary’s expression looked brighter. “What can I do to help?”

It was impressive how she could still sound so elegant and refined, her head held high on that swan-like neck as she waited for instructions.

“I could use the carrots and potatoes washed and chopped,” he said. “The menu tonight is roasted chicken with vegetables and a crème fraiche dressing, mushroom risotto with wine sauce. I’m not sure about dessert yet.”

By heaven, he loved cooking. Aside from business, it was the only thing he was truly good at. And since he didn’t particularly enjoy the business side of his life, these rare moments in the kitchen were too few and precious to squander.

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