Royal 02 - Royal Passion (12 page)

She made a swift mental count of their number, then glanced down at her account book once more. Looking up, she asked, “Where is the woman who is acting as cook?"

They shifted, exchanging looks from the corners of their eyes. Finally a footman spoke up. “Madame Cook says that she is no ordinary servant, but an artist. She refuses to answer a summons from a—from one who is not the lady of the house. She says that anyone wishing to speak to her may come to the kitchens."

"I see,” Mara said, her voice quiet and even. “You will go to Madame and say to her that I require her presence here, for a private interview, within the half hour. If she does not come, she may consider herself discharged. Now, is there anyone else who is uncomfortable taking their orders from me?"

Quiet descended. No one spoke or moved. Mara waited a few seconds more, then nodded her dismissal to the footman who was to deliver her message to the kitchens. He bowed and went away.

"From this moment, there will be a number of changes made in the operation of Ruthenia House. The first of these will be in the matter of dress. New livery, aprons, and caps have been ordered for you and will be delivered within the week. These garments will be worn when you are on duty, without exception, as is fitting in a house that is the official residence of the Ruthenian government. It is important that you present a neat and correct appearance and that you can be recognized as a member of the household staff by guests. Is this understood?"

Seeing one or two nods of assent, Mara consulted the list she held in her hand, then went on. She indicated various other changes that must be made in the manner of service, level of cleanliness, and degree of responsibility, then began to outline the tasks that each man and woman would begin on the following morning. She was just finishing when the door was flung open, crashing against the wall.

A stout, square-faced woman with a saucepan in her hand marched into the room. She looked around and, sighting Mara, bore down on her as if she would strike her. Behind Mara, Luca took a step forward. The woman looked at his dark, impassive face and stopped, though when she spoke her voice was shrill with rage.

"By what right do you send me such a message? Never have I been so insulted! Men plead with me, yes, the most exalted of gentlemen, to come into their houses to prepare their food. I am without peer, a great artist! My salary is far in excess of what such a one as you could hope to earn on your back in years!"

Mara rose to her feet. “Indeed. Then you are vastly overpaid."

The cool comment brought the spate of words to a sudden halt. The cook's face turned purple. “I have a mind to walk out of this house! It would serve you right if I did. The prince would very likely throw you out when he discovered you were the cause of losing me!"

"You may do as you wish. I assure you, it is unlikely that your absence will be noted."

"Do you dare to insult my skill?"

"Do you dare to suggest that the meals sent up from the kitchens in this house are fair examples of it?"

The woman opened her mouth, then shut it again. The saucepan that she had been brandishing was lowered to her side. “I was engaged by the majordomo of the prince. No one else can or shall discharge me."

The words were valiant, but the tone was subdued. Mara knew she had won. “There will be no question of discharge so long as the food sent to the table of the prince represents your best effort. I am sure that for the sake of your own reputation, you would not have it otherwise."

"Of course not."

There was no other answer the woman could have given, but she sounded sincere. “Good. I will depend on you to use your talents to create menus that will make having a meal here at Ruthenia House something to remember. If you will write them out and bring them to me each morning, we will discuss them"

"This household is impossible! People come, people go. How can I do my best when each day I am told only at the last instant whether I will be required to have food ready for four or four dozen?"

"I will undertake to see that you are given notice in good time. You must learn to be generous with your portions, however, to allow room for expansion as the hospitality of the house demands."

The cook pursed her lips, then gave a slow nod. “About the ordering of food—"

"I will leave that in your hands, for the most part,” Mara said at once, then added, “though I will sometimes shop for the ingredients that must be bought fresh each day. And we will, naturally, go over the bills together before they are paid."

"Naturally,” the woman agreed, and though her tone was hard, it also held a grudging respect.

It was the prerogative of the cook in a great house to receive remuneration from suppliers for placing orders with them. The practice was ignored so long as it did not result in inferior food being served up to the master at elevated prices. The cook was aware that Mara meant to watch over this aspect of the housekeeping. The quality of the meat and produce, milk, butter, and eggs would undoubtedly improve.

"The contents of the wine cellar seem adequate. The prince's majordomo has been seeing to this, I believe. He will continue. It should not be necessary for anyone to count the bottles every day, but an inventory will be taken and checked periodically."

The cook threw a look toward the footmen. They avoided her gaze, studying their hands or else staring fixedly ahead. One of the housemaids stifled a nervous giggle, then turned it into a dry cough.

Mara waited a long moment, then went smoothly on to the next item on her list. It seemed they understood one another.

The two days that followed were filled with upheaval. The servants were divided into crews of three or four persons. They set to work early and did not stop until late. Everywhere one went, there were pails and cloths, brushes and ladders, cleansers and polishes. It was impossible to go up or down any staircase, or along any corridor, without passing a man or a woman carrying either clean hot water or dirty, soap-scummed water. The heavy draperies at the windows and around the beds were shaken and brushed and beaten until clouds of dust billowed in the rooms. The upholstery of chairs and settees was brushed and wiped, and a careful list drawn up of pieces that needed refurbishing.

They cleaned the stone stairs with carbonate of lime, sprinkled tea leaves on the carpets to help remove the dirt as they were swept, and used a bellows to blow the dust off the painted and frescoed ceilings before gently brushing them down. They washed woodwork with a combination of soft lye soap, sand, and table beer; polished the furniture with vinegar, linseed oil, and spirits of wine; and rubbed brass andirons and other metal pieces with neat's-foot oil and spirits of turpentine. They scrubbed the grime and stains of ages from the parquet and marble floors, and polished them to gleaming with bee's-wax.

The windows were washed and polished until they shone, as well as the looking glasses, clock faces, vases, marble busts; also the sixteen hundred crystal glasses and the thirty-six hundred pieces of the china service. The silver was polished, from the tiniest of demitasse spoons to the large, hollow-handled serving knives, from the knife rests to the great samovar for the serving of tea.

In the rear courtyard, huge kettles were set to boil for the washing of the linens that had grown yellowed and mildewed from long storage: sheets, napkins, tablecloths, toweling, and various other pieces whose use could not be determined. The boiling-hot soapy water was then used to scrub the cobblestones of the courtyards until they steamed, after which the dirty water was sluiced away along with the refuse of decades. The orderly lines and curves of shrubbery were pruned and clipped, and every blade of grass beneath them removed, after which they were carefully manured, then mulched with chopped hay straw.

The work had begun in the public rooms, but soon spread to the apartments of the prince and the nearby bedchambers of the cadre. Roderic and his men were routed, leaving at the first light of dawn and returning only when night, and quiet, descended. They took to carefully testing every chair for dampness before they sat down on it and wiping a quick, furtive finger over tabletops to test for polish residue before putting an arm or uniformed elbow on them. They were inclined to tiptoe gingerly over newly waxed floors, and were seen to polish fingerprints off shining brass and silver with a rub of a sleeve. But despite such initial discomfort, they were loud in their praise of the improvements in progress.

Mara delegated the tasks and checked the different groups now and then, making regular rounds throughout the area where work was in progress. The bulk of her time was spent, however, in sewing. She had commandeered the services of one of the under-housemaids, a girl named Lila, who had admitted to having once been a seamstress. Between the two of them, they had designed a quartet of gowns that were rather medieval in appearance. The garnet red had a square neckline, a pointed basque, and full sleeves that were gathered in three places: at the wrist, just above the elbow, and on the shoulder. Silk braiding banded the neckline and each section of the gathered sleeves. The dark blue gown was similar, with sleeves that were slashed to reveal insets made from the garnet-red cloth and a band of the same material just above the hem of the skirt. The gray and green gowns followed the same general pattern. Because of the simplicity, the work went fast; still, Mara and the maid Lila plied their needles far into the night. In addition to the gowns, Mara had cut out from the cambric four sets of camisoles and pantalettes, and from the lawn a nightgown very much like the day gowns except that around the square neckline was an edging of lace that rose to a standing collar to frame her throat and neck.

Finally, the house was clean, at least the more important rooms were; the meals had become more hearty and delicious, with a vastly improved list of courses. The gowns and undergarments were finished, pressed, and hanging in the armoire. The seduction could begin.

A comfortable man was a receptive man. At least that was the theory on which Mara was depending. She thought she had heard Grandmère Helene say much the same before, but could not be certain. Still, it made sense that if Roderic was relaxed in the atmosphere of freshness that she had provided, that if he was filled with the good food that she had arranged, he would be more likely to respond.

It was also likely that the vivid color of her new gowns, their snug fit through the bodice, and the lowness of the décolletage that exposed the tops of her breasts would be beneficial. She had, with the household funds, purchased a small vial of Guerlain perfume that she intended to apply with a liberal touch. She had ordered for that very evening a deep hip bath filled with hot water and had instructed Lila in the way she wanted her hair dressed. All these things should help.

A part of her was aghast at her careful and cynical planning. It seemed too calculating, too much like the machinations of one of the ladies of the night with which Paris abounded. But what else was she to do? Her grandmother's safety was hanging in the balance. She had to act. Now.

She could tell herself that the two days just gone by had been necessary, that they had helped her to lay her plans. It was just possible that they had been wasted in useless procrastination. She was afraid. She would have liked to race down the stairs and through the courtyard out into the streets, never to return. She would give anything to be able to go to the prince and say, “My name is Mara, Marie Angeline Delacroix. I am deeply sorry for the subterfuge that brought me here and ask that you forgive it, but I want to go home."

What would Roderic say? Would he be angry? Disgusted? Contemptuous? Would he be happy to be rid of her, or would he regret her departure? It did not matter, of course, but she wished she knew.

The early-winter darkness came much too quickly. Mara paid a final visit to the kitchens to check on the progress of the special meal she and Madame Cook had planned together. The skins of the small roasted chickens were golden brown; the veal simmered delicately in its wine sauce; the lobsters in their rich, creamy dressing perfumed the air. Cakes and custards sat in their crystal servers, and a caramel sauce bubbled on the back burner of the huge iron stove that held pride of place in these nether regions. Madame Cook, dressed in a gray gown covered by a crisp white apron and with a tall white hat over her hair, displayed the fare with pride. Mara was profuse in her compliments, but so tight was the knot in her stomach that the dishes might as well have been made of coals and ashes for all they tempted her appetite.

Finally, everything was ready. Her bath was done, her hair dressed, the new undergarments and garnet-red gown donned. Lila had laid her new nightgown out on the bed. The air was scented with flowers from the perfume she had touched to her throat, her breasts, the inside of her elbows and wrists. She gave herself a last glance in the looking glass. The gown hung well, draping in graceful folds over her petticoats, and the color reflected a hint of pink up into her face. Even so, she was pale.

"
Mademoiselle est trés belle."

"Thank you, Lila. You did a marvelous job with your sewing."

Mara swung from the looking glass, then stopped, standing irresolute in the middle of the room. She looked around her, at the canopied bed with its soft rose silk hangings that sat on a platform at one end, at the armoire with its bonnet top and carved scrolls, at the white marble fireplace with gilt-touched classical figures, at the tapestries and the Aubusson rug with its design of flowers underfoot. She felt as if she had never seen it before, as if she were a stranger to it as well as to herself. Perhaps she really did have some form of memory loss. It was almost as if Marie Angeline, the girl who had flirted with Dennis Mulholland and grieved over his death, was another person.

"Is something wrong, mademoiselle?"

Mara started and discovered that she had clasped her hands, squeezing them so tightly that the fingers were waxen. She released them with difficulty and summoned a smile. “No, nothing. What could be wrong?"