Page 30 of To Winter at Wildsyde

I am shocked and dismayed…

How dare you…

What the devil are you playing at you dreadful girl…

Do you want me to ruin you?

Oh, God, I’m doomed.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mr Inigo de Beauvoir to Miss Minerva Butler, never sent.

6th December 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth had seen little of her husband since the afternoon of their terrible row. He’d kept his distance, and she’d been glad of it, needing time to decide how best to use the information that Mr Clugston had given her. Instead, she had thrown herself once more into work at Wildsyde, despite Gordy’s words about not wanting a home still ringing in her ears. He might think he didn’t want a home, but it was perfectly obvious it was what he needed above all else. To her relief, she’d had her monthly courses towards the end of November, and was not pregnant. She still had time, though time to do what exactly she had no idea.

As if she didn’t have enough challenges, Ruth had decided it was high time to tackle Mrs MacLeod. So had begun her war of attrition. She’d started on a small scale, praising Mrs MacLeod for her magnificent cooking. The woman was a very fine cook, once she stirred herself to be bothered to produce anything more complex than stew and tatties. Apparently, it was the laird’s favourite and, if it was good enough for the laird, it was good enough for everyone else. Ruth had bitten her tongue with difficulty against the desire to remark that he might discover a new favourite food if ever he had the chance to try anything else.

Though she knew full well she could simply employ another cook—even a fancy French chef if she wanted to—Mrs MacLeod was a challenge, and Ruth intended to win her over.

So it was with subterfuge in mind that she settled herself down at the kitchen table with some large cookery books and a carelessly placed catalogue for a Rumford Stove. Her housekeeper, the redoubtable and aptly named Mrs Crust, was seated beside her in lieu of the housekeeper’s sitting room which was, as yet, unusable. Mrs Crust had taken this in good heart when Ruth explained that she would have every modern convenience and luxuries unheard of in her previous position, if only she would be patient enough to bear with them whilst the castle underwent its renovation.

Mrs Crust had been magnificent, taking the endless parade of workmen trooping through the house with dirty boots better than Ruth felt she had a right to expect. She also well understood Ruth’s need to conquer Mrs MacLeod, knowing full well that, with her capitulation, the rest of the Scottish staff would follow.

So, with her partner in crime at her elbow, Ruth sipped at her tea and sighed with regret over the recipe book.

“It’s a shame, what with Christmas coming,” she said, with a low voice that was not quite low enough for Mrs MacLeod not to hear it over the kneading of her dough.

“It is, but the truth is, you’d not be able to produce such fancy fare, not… well, not with how you are equipped at present,” Mrs Crust said, though with such a tone it was clear there was a deeper meaning to her words.

“Well, perhaps once the new stove has been installed. Not that there’s a hope of that before Christmas, but for Easter maybe….”

Mrs Crust snorted and picked up her teacup. “You’ll not see the likes of that produced in this kitchen, Mrs Anderson, that’s the long and the short of it.”

Ruth nodded, not having to pretend her dismay as she stared at a recipe for Pains à la Duchesse. The teas she’d provided for the Peculiar Ladies had been nigh on legendary, but the cook at Upper Walpole Street had been second to none. She eyed Mrs MacLeod doubtfully and sighed.

“I suppose you’re right. Still, my husband so enjoyed the food when he stayed at my family’s home in London, but she is a superior cook. Such a light hand with pastry.”

“Are ye suggesting my pastry is heavy, Mrs Anderson?”

Ruth jumped, with no need to feign surprise as Mrs MacLeod was standing at her shoulder, floury arms crossed tight and her blue eyes flashing with indignation.

“Heavy?” Ruth said, blinking at her. “Oh, n-no, Mrs MacLeod! I would never suggest such a thing. That apple pie you served the other night was divine, the pastry light and crumbly, just as it ought to be, but Pains à la Duchesse is a complex recipe and….”

Mrs MacLeod swivelled the cookery book towards her with one floury finger and glared down at it.

“Don’t look complicated,” she said with a sniff of contempt.

Ruth and Mrs Crust exchanged a glance.

“It’s the execution that is difficult, not the ingredients,” Mrs Crust said wisely. “’Tis a challenge for even a fine chef, but here… in this kitchen? Impossible,” she said, a smug look on her face precisely calculated to enrage Mrs MacLeod.

Ruth could have hugged her.

“There’s nae a recipe been invented that some fancy English cook can do that I cannae manage,” Mrs MacLeod retorted, her face flushed with outrage.

“Oh, but Mrs MacLeod, we would never doubt your abilities,” Ruth said, her voice soothing. “Only it would be unfair of us to expect you to produce anything more than your usual repertoire when the kitchens are so outmoded.”

As if she’d arranged it, a billow of smoke wafted down the chimney and, for a moment, Mrs MacLeod and Jessie were occupied with opening the door and working the bellows on the fire to encourage it to draw again.