Page 32 of The Chef and the Countess

He held the door for her, and she entered the kitchen, already a whirlwind of activity. Celia admonished herself for revealing those private and harrowing memories. Perhaps she’d only wanted to prove to him how dangerous her cousin could be. Or maybe, some hidden and dark part of her wished Liam would give Shinwell the pounding he deserved.

Celia glanced at the clock on the wall—two hours had passed. She couldn’t believe it. The restaurant opened in an hour, and she was not nearly finished making the fillings. The stew had been served, the cleanup completed, and everyone was busily preparing the luncheon menu. Today’s choices were cream of mushroom and potato soup, already simmering on the stove. Liam had put together a mustard sauce for the baked herring, served with mashed potatoes, boiled carrots, and fried onions. The pork loin was cut into chops and ready for frying. Watching Liam work was like watching a master paint a portrait.

He came over to her station. “You must work faster. Don’t chop the shrimp. Use this.” He placed a large mortar and pestle in front of her. “Mash everything together in this. Transfer the paste to a bowl, then do it again. This glass bowl should be three-quarters filled. What we don’t use today is good for tomorrow.” Liam took a handful of shrimp and tossed them in the mortar. Then he took her hand, placed the pestle in it, and guided her. With his hand covering hers, he showed her how to do it. “Like that,” he said, whispering in her ear.

“Yes, Chef,” Celia whispered so only he could hear. Her insides turned to mush as he hovered near, his hand covering hers. It was challenging to remember to take a breath.

“I like it when you call me that,” he whispered huskily in her ear. “Are the pickles prepared?”

“Yes. Tommy’s mixing the boiled eggs with salad cream.”

Liam took his hand away. “You have to prepare the cakes.” He pointed to two large trays sitting on a preparation table. “You have to test those by taking a bite. Are they fresh enough to serve? If a cake frosting is too hard and cracked, scrape it off. But don’t toss it. We can freshen it up later. Understand?”

“Yes, Chef,” she murmured.

He gave her a brief, dazzling smile before returning to the stoves, and the sight of it caused her heart to skip a beat. The smile made him all the more handsome and shook her resolve to stay detached.

Holy crow, it’s hot in the kitchen. Three overlarge gas stoves roiled at full tilt. Celia felt sweat trickling down her back. Everyone rushed about, shouting directions. The waitresses were assisting in the kitchen as well. Hannah lined up ten three-tiered trays for her on one of the prep tables, then ran to the stove to stir the mustard sauce. The frantic activity didn’t deter Celia; she soaked it in.

She remained thoroughly engrossed in her tasks for the next hour. Liam came by to check on her progress more than once, and with the fillings prepared, she moved over to the trays of small cakes, biscuits, and loaves. She hurriedly stuffed a piece of currant cake in her mouth. It was still fresh. She cut the pieces smaller, then moved on to the ginger biscuits. They were a little stale. Celia set them aside. Liam mentioned that anything that was not as fresh but still edible was given to the poor.

“Fire time!” Liam yelled. Whatever that meant. The servers hurried out front to open the door. The lads had left for school, so Celia would be on her own with preparation. She opened the swinging door partway to see a crowd pour in as the waitresses showed them to the tables and booths.

“Get ready! Service!” Liam yelled. Fiona had joined them in the kitchen ten minutes ago and was preparing plates and bowls. Kettles of water boiled for tea and coffee percolated in a device Celia had never seen before.

Hannah burst through the door. “Pork chop, table two. Tea tray, table four, soup, table one.” She swiftly gathered a teapot and cups and disappeared again. With a pencil in hand, Liam scribbled on a piece of paper, his focus unwavering.

Celia sprang into action. She hastily made three sandwiches with the fillings, remembering how the cookbook said to first spread the thinnest layer of warmed butter on the bread. She cut the sandwiches into finger lengths with a large sharp knife, removed the crusts, and placed them on the bottom tier. Next, she arranged the tea biscuits and currant cake on the second tier and the frosted cakes and tarts on the top tier. What did Liam say to do next—right. “Tea tray, table two!” she yelled, perhaps too loudly, as everyone turned to look at her.

Celia started prepping more sandwiches as Enya came into the kitchen next. “Herring, table five! Tea tray tables one and three!”

Pork chops and onions sizzled in iron skillets as Liam pulled a large roaster pan of baked herring from the oven, and new pans were placed inside to replace them. Celia’s mouth watered.

“Pick up the pace, Celia!” Liam called out.

How could she go any faster?

It went on like that for the next three hours, with Celia hardly having time to breathe. At last, around four-thirty, things finally settled down. They had used up all the sliced bread. Most of the fillings and the second-hand food was gone. Celia looked down. The front of her apron was covered in egg salad, shrimp, and butter.

Never had she felt more alive.

* * *

At half past five and with the main dish orders all but over, Liam headed toward Celia’s station. “You did it,” he said.

She gave him a wide smile. “I did, didn’t I? Is this what it’s like every day?”

“More so because the rest of the week we open at twelve, which means our breakfast and the prep work start at seven in the morning.”

“What does fire time mean?”

“It means start cooking—the restaurant is open.” The three boys entered through the rear doors. “Lads, start the dishes. I’ll make your supper.” Liam turned to her. “What would you like, the herring or the pork?”

“The pork, if you please.”

Enya stuck her head in the door. “Late customer. Tea tray, table two. I’ll fetch the tea. And Liam, it’s her again. She wants to talk to you.”

Liam slammed the skillet on the counter. “Fecking hell.” He tore off his apron and tossed it on the table. He strode through the swinging door into the dining area.