Page 19 of The Chef and the Countess

“No. We’re closed on Sunday.”

Celia was surprised by that. “I would have thought it to be busy, at least in the afternoon.”

“Not during the winter. Besides, the staff is tired. It has been a hectic six months. A day of rest is warranted.”

“For yourself, too, I imagine,” Celia murmured.

“I’ll reassess Sunday openings in the spring.”

“What are my duties to be?”

Liam crossed his arms, and the muscles bulged. Celia swallowed deeply.

“I discussed it with Fiona, and we plan to expand our afternoon tea offerings. You will look after making sandwiches. It must be done swiftly—on the spot—as you can’t make up sandwiches beforehand. The bread dries out, or the fillings make the bread soggy if left a while.”

Celia’s mouth dropped open; then she swiftly closed it. “I remember my mother making sandwiches for a picnic, wrapping them in parchment paper, and laying damp tea towels over them.”

Liam shook his head. “That may be suitable for a family picnic, but not a restaurant. They still wouldn’t be as fresh and may become too moist. No, they must be made when the order is placed.”

“That is a lot of responsibility for someone you hardly know. I’m not familiar with kitchen work. Well, I can make a sandwich and a cup of tea, but that is the extent of my knowledge.”

“Then you’re perfect for the job. Weren’t you married?”

“My husband employed a cook-housekeeper, so there was no need for me to learn domestic skills. I wish now that I had.”

“What did you do, sit in the parlor eating chocolates while reading a book?” The question had a barely discernible mocking tone, but it was there nonetheless.

“No, I was too busy being a nursemaid to my dying husband. It took him close to six years to die, but I was there to clean up after him, wipe his fevered brow, feed him when needed, and sit by his bed, keeping him company. I had no time for leisure activities. The past two days are the first time in ages I have been able to read.” Celia held up the large cookery volume.

“Who brought you that?”

“Fiona.”

His mouth pulled into a taut line. “I had no business saying what I did.”

“We should cease making assumptions about each other. There is always more than meets the eye.”

“True enough. I’m sorry.”

Celia smiled. “You have done so much, yet I acted petulant, which I assure you is not like me—at all. These past weeks have been a trial. Quite traumatic.”

Liam nodded, stood, and then grabbed her letter from the table. “I have to get my supper. Rest.”

“First, can you please bring me the ‘S’ volume? I want to read up on sandwiches. Please, if it is not too much trouble.”

“Right-o.”

Celia heard his heavy footsteps down the hall to his room. Moments later, he returned and handed her the volume. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night, Liam.” She smiled warmly.

After he closed the door, Celia flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for.

It is said that during the last century, the Earl of Sandwich invented the convenient preparations that were afterwards known by his name. The proverbial stale sandwich of the railway refreshment-room, and the slovenly manner in which others are prepared, have brought down upon these convenient modes of taking a snack a torrent of ridicule and abuse. When well and carefully made, sandwiches are very commendable.

Celia grinned. Regardless of her reduced circumstances and questionable future, she would ensure she became the best sandwich producer ever seen.

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