Patrick looked at Jane. “May we keep it between those of us in this room?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “For now, at least.”
“There isn’t enough. Not to pay wages and our most pressing bills.”
Thora frowned. “How can that be? We have never reneged on wages before. Certainly our income is not down that much.”
“It is.”
Thora shook her head. “Then we cannot spend money on frivolous things like paint and curtains and special horses. We pay our employees first. Bankers and brewers have their fingers in many pies and can wait with no inconvenience to themselves. But our modestly paid staff . . . ?”
Patrick suggested, “We could make an effort to build up our reserves and pay both quarters next time.”
“Pay our maids, ostlers, and postboys nothing for another three months? What are they to live on?”
“They have their room and board provided, don’t they?” Patrick said. “No one will go hungry. And if anyone had an urgent need, we could cover those on a case-by-case basis.”
Thora sent him a challenging look. “I would like to be there when you tell Bertha Rooke that she will not be paid.”
“Oh. I never dreamed of not paying ol’ Rooke. I prefer to live, thank you. But I won’t draw a salary myself this quarter, of course.”
“Thank you. But we must still go forward with improvements,” Jane insisted.
Patrick threw up his hands. “It makes no sense to throw good money after bad.”
Mr. Locke said quietly, “Sometimes you have to spend money to make money.”
Thora’s eyes flashed. “And you always have to spend money to land in debt!”
Patrick argued, “Why invest money in improvements a potential buyer may not like or want to change anyway? If we fail, the next owner might even gut the place and start over.”
“Gut the place!” Thora echoed. “It is like a knife to my heart to hear you say that, Patrick.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Mamma. You left, remember? That cord has already been cut.”
“But I am back now. Let’s have no more talk of gutting, do you hear me?”
He sighed. “Very well.”
“Next owner?” Jane repeated. “Have you discounted our chances already, Patrick? I am disappointed to hear it. We have not even tried yet. It is too soon to give up.”
“I agree,” Talbot said. “We must make improvements and give them time to take effect. We have less than three months, remember. Go on, Jane,” he urged.
Jane felt self-conscious and vulnerable to share her other ideas. Surely they would be rejected as foolhardy, especially given the financial straits they were in. Even so, she went on, “Replace our old mattresses with feather beds. At least in our best rooms.”
Thora raised a brow at that, but Jane continued, “Have new towels and bedclothes made to replace our threadbare ones. . . .”
“Where is all this money coming from?” Patrick asked.
“Good question. That leads to the next category—ways to earn more money. My initial ideas include offering a better selection of meals at a premium price, as I mentioned earlier. Also, Mr. Drake says our room rates are low and we could increase them. We could also begin charging for things like fires, towels, and soap.”
“That seems wrong,” Talbot murmured—his first words of dissent.
“I know,” Jane said. “But we could compromise. Perhaps we might offer plain lye soap for free, or for a small charge, sweet-smelling floral soap, made locally.”
She turned the page and went on. “I have ideas to save money as well. Though I am not certain they are all feasible.”
Thora spoke up. “One thing I’ve noticed since my return is that we now buy quite a bit of our bread and pastries from Craddock’s—to free up Mrs. Rooke for housekeeper responsibilities along with cooking while I was gone, no doubt. But now that I am back and can resume my former duties, Mrs. Rooke and Dotty might fire up the bake oven again.”
Jane remembered Gabriel’s words about how they were all dependent on one another. She briefly glanced at him across the table, then said gently, “Or, we might continue to buy from the bakery, but negotiate a better price. I thought we might even display some of the bakery’s easy-to-take-away items for a share of proceeds.”
Gabriel held her gaze, dark eyes glimmering with . . . something. Did he approve, or think she’d taken his comment too far?
Patrick made his disapproval clear. “Sell Craddock’s goods on our front counter? Shall we invite Mr. Prater to bring in his wares next? And perhaps Mrs. Shabner would like to place her dressmaking form just there.”
Mr. Talbot spoke up. “I like the idea of taking our fair share of Craddock’s profits. Many travelers dart to the bakery as it is, racing to get there and back with some treat before the guard blows his horn again. I think that notion deserves further consideration.”
Jane sent him a grateful glance. “Thank you, Mr. Talbot.”
He added, “This would also be a good time to renegotiate with all suppliers and see if you might come to better terms.”
“Excellent point. And Mrs. O’Brien is a wax-and-tallow chandler on the outskirts of Ivy Hill. We could buy our candles from her instead of Foster’s in Wishford.”
“Are we still buying them from Wishford?” Thora asked. “I had not realized. I am all in favor of sending as little Ivy Hill money there as possible.”
Gabriel Locke spoke up. “If you can spare me for a few days next month, Mrs. Bell, I shall visit my associate. See what horses he has available.”
“There is to be an auction in Salisbury in July,” Talbot said. “That would be closer.”
“Yes, but I haven’t contacts in Salisbury. Besides, I have other business that takes me north and can kill two birds with one stone. Perhaps even three . . .”
“But what if a horse needs attention?”
“I thought I would travel on a Saturday and Sunday, when our traffic is lightest. Mr. Fuller will cover for me.”
“What other business takes you north?” Jane asked.
“I have a friend who manages the Marquis of Granby—a coaching inn in Epsom. The ostlers there can change a team in two minutes flat. I thought I might spend a little time with him, and see what I can learn to improve our speed in the yard.”
“And why would this man share his methods with you?” Jane asked.
“He is . . . very gracious that way.”
Jane felt a prickle of suspicion worm up her spine. “May I say, Mr. Locke, you seem awfully eager to leave us.”
Patrick nudged her under the table, and she glanced over at him. He gave a small but vigorous shake of his head. A warning. Why? She noticed him exchange a look with Thora, then smile at their farrier.
“If Locke wants a little time off, we are happy to oblige him, are we not? He has worked very hard these many months and has some time coming to him, no doubt.”
“Oh . . . ?” Jane replied, perplexed by Patrick’s positive response. “Well then. Of course.”
For another quarter of an hour, they debated various ideas, and then estimated the costs and benefits of each, just as the horn blew in the distance, announcing the arrival of the next coach.
Thora caught up with Jane after the meeting. “And where will you begin on that long list of yours?”
“The beds, I think. Mr. Drake mentioned they need attention.”
“How bad can they be? Before I left, Alwena and I filled the mattresses with new hay and lady’s straw to keep them sweet smelling and bug free.”
“And I appreciate that. But we have only old horsehair and flock mattresses over them. Apparently, the better inns have feather beds made of white goose feathers or even down.”
“Feathers are expensive.”
“Do we not save them from all the birds we pluck here?”
“We do. But we serve far more chicken than duck or goose, and Mrs. Rooke has long been allowed to sell the feathers herself.”
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p; Jane said, “Then we shall buy what we need from the poulterer and make the feather beds ourselves.”
“Our small staff is stretched thin as it is.”
“Then I shall do it on my own.”
Thora looked at her askance. “Have you ever done so? I imagine the Fairmont housekeeper paid someone to supply new ticks and mattresses for your family.”
“I suppose.”
“You have no idea how much work it will be.”
“No. But something tells me you’re about to enlighten me.”
Colin, at the desk, spoke up. “Excuse me, but did you say we need new ticks?”
Jane nodded.
“My mother is a needlewoman,” he said. “I’m sure sewing ticks would be easy for her, given the materials.”
“Really?” Jane saw the protest forming on Thora’s lips but replied before she could. “Very well, Colin. How soon could she make, say, four to start?”
He brightened. “A few days, I imagine. I’ll talk to her and let you know.”
“Wait.” Jane stepped to the desk. “Let me write down the dimensions so you can purchase materials for her.” She picked up a scrap of paper and wrote quickly. “Here are the length, width, and depth I’d like for each tick.” She handed him the note. “You can calculate the yards needed from that.”
He stared at her note as though it were Sanskrit. “I don’t know how to figure . . . fabric. I’m out of my depth there. But my mother will take care of it without wasting an inch, knowing her. She’s frugal that way.”
“Very well; I shall leave it to her. But let me know if she has any questions. And as far as payment, shall we say . . . four shillings a tick?”
“Sounds fair.” Colin thanked her and hurried out the back door with the note, eager to share the news.
Thora watched him go, lips pursed in disapproval. “You know any money you give the McFarlands will end up down Liam’s gullet in the form of blue ruin.”
“Thora, that isn’t kind.” Jane said. She hoped it wasn’t true.
Her mother-in-law changed the subject. “So, will you tell Mrs. Rooke your plans for her kitchen, or shall I?”
“Thora, I overheard what you said earlier, about the planning meeting being a waste of time, so I’m afraid I have little confidence in how enthusiastically you would present the plans.”
“I was trying to placate her. As I have done for years.”
“Well, I suppose it’s my turn now.”
Ten minutes later, however, Jane was regretting her decision to face Mrs. Rooke herself.
She had asked the woman to join her in the office and explained the plans as positively as she could.
But the woman rose and planted doughy hands on her hips. “Are you saying my meals aren’t good enough? Now I am to devise all new menus? You haven’t enough money to pay the butcher or poulterer as it is, but I am to order better cuts of meat? Mr. Cottle doesn’t give away joints for free, you know. And who’s going to make double the amount of soup? I haven’t the time. My cooking was good enough for the first Mrs. Bell, and it ought to be good enough for you. What has Thora to say to all this? She has always agreed old ways are the best.”
“That may be. But Thora is no longer the landlady. I am.”
“And more’s the pity.”
“Mrs. Rooke!” Thora sharply interrupted from the doorway.
Jane and Mrs. Rooke looked over in surprise, not realizing Thora was there.
Mrs. Rooke pointed a finger at Jane. “Well, have you heard what she’s asking me to do? Telling me, more like! And with what budget, I’d like to know. Bricks without straw—that’s what she wants. Her, what never lifted a finger in her life, except to ring a bell.”
“Mrs. Rooke, that is quite enough,” Thora remonstrated.
The cook threw up her hands. “You can’t tell me you agree with all this fustian nonsense! Next we’ll be serving pigeon tongue and eye of newt tarts. La! Never heard such foolishness. Not in my kitchen.”
Thora’s lips tightened. “While I appreciate your loyalty to me, you work for Jane now. My father would never have allowed any member of staff to show such disrespect to her mistress.”
“Oh, I see how it is. You’re taking her part now. You’ve seen which side your bread is buttered on—is that it? Well, I call a spade a spade.”
“You forget your place, Bertha,” Thora said. “And your manners.”
Mrs. Rooke reached behind, untied her bib apron, and yanked it off. “Then perhaps this isn’t my place any longer. I shall go and work for Mr. Drake.” She balled up the apron and tossed it on the desk.
Jane began, “Mrs. Rooke, there is no call for—”
But Mrs. Rooke stalked out of the office. A few moments later, a door down the passage slammed shut.
Thora sighed. “That went well.” She looked at Jane grimly. “I hope you know how to cook.”
Chapter
Eighteen
Shortly after her ill-fated conversation with Mrs. Rooke, Jane entered the kitchen almost timidly, reminding herself that she did indeed own the place—including the kitchen. But these workrooms, adjacent scullery, and larder had always seemed off limits before—Mrs. Rooke’s domain.
The kitchen was larger than the stillroom Jane had sometimes ventured into growing up, to help with jams, cordials, and cosmetics, or drying herbs and flowers. And it was massive compared to the tiny kitchen in the lodge—a small stove, cabinet, and sink tucked into an alcove on one end of the sitting room where Jane made tea, boiled eggs, toasted bread, and reheated Sunday suppers.
From the first days of their marriage, most of their meals had come from the inn kitchen. John had liked retreating from the inn and having quiet meals with her, but he’d seen no need for a second full kitchen in the lodge. No reason to duplicate the work. He used words like economical and efficient. Jane, however, had felt like a constant guest in her own home, having all those meals delivered, from menus she herself had not selected. Now and again, she enjoyed making simple suppers of toasted cheese, which she melted with an iron salamander, heated over the fire. But that was about the extent of her cooking experience.
Mrs. Rooke generally prepared plain dishes, like roasted beef and mutton, broiled fish, hearty stews and soups. Sometimes Jane missed the finer cooking from the Fairmont House kitchen. Ragout veal, fricassee chickens, ox cheek and dumplings, vegetables with delicate sauces, fruits and salads, followed by puddings, ices, or cheesecakes. Jane’s stomach grumbled at the thought.
Her hunger quickly faded, however, as she looked around the inn’s kitchen.
On the large worktable that dominated the room lay four rabbits ready to be skinned, three chickens ready for plucking, and a dozen whole fish, staring at her with glassy eyes.
Jane looked away first.
One wall held a roasting range—a large open fire with meat spits and toast racks. A wheeled warming cupboard waited nearby. Against another wall stood a black iron stove with kettles, pots, and pans for stewing sauces and side dishes. In the corner sat a covered copper steamer for puddings, and urns with spickets to keep coffee and tea hot and ready to dispense. A side table held a pair of scales for measuring ingredients in large quantities, as well as mortars and pestles in several sizes.
Everything was oversized and overwhelming. No wonder Mrs. Rooke had felt a queen of her domain.
In the adjacent scullery, Jane found the kitchen maid, Dotty, staring at the menu posted on the wall. When Jane entered, she turned, face stricken. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I can’t do it all. Not on my own.”
Jane sighed. “I know.”
“That’s why we’re here, Dotty,” Thora said, marching in. She snatched two aprons from pegs on the wall, tossed one to Jane, and tied the other over her dark dress as she crossed the room. She stood beside the maid and squinted up at the menu.
Jane asked, “What do we do first—the soup?”
“Yes. We’ve got to get those chickens boiling for stock. The rabbits skinned and in th
e hot box. The turnips and potatoes peeled, and the carrot pudding in the steamer.”
Her mother-in-law turned to her. “Which would you like to do? You choose.”
Jane glanced at the furry rabbits and quickly away. She met the gaze of the trout and swallowed. “I’ll peel the turnips and potatoes.”
Jane started in, the mountain of each root vegetable daunting.
After a few minutes, Dotty glanced over and huffed. “We’ll be here ’til midnight at that rate. Why don’t you gut the trout instead, ma’am. There are only twelve of them.”
“Very well. If one of you will show me what to do.” Jane stepped onto the wooden pallet beneath the table to keep her shoes out of the worst of the muck.
Thora handed her a knife. “Incise beneath the gills. Press in. That’s it. From that fin to about there.”
Jane winced as the knife pierced the skin and blood oozed out.
“Now pull out its innards with your fingers. Cut off the entrails there. . . . Yes, that’s all there is to it.”
Disgusting, Jane thought. But certainly not as gruesome as skinning rabbits, which Thora did without flinching and with impressive efficiency—at least as far as Jane could gauge from the queasy glances she darted toward that end of the table.
When she finished her task, Jane made haste to the scullery sink and washed the blood from her hands. She decided to save a few fish remnants for the grey-and-black cat that regularly visited the lodge now.
The potboy, Ned, happened in, looking for a bite of something, and Thora ordered him to pluck the hens. Taking pity on him, Dotty offered him a thick crust of bread with butter. He wolfed it down, then sat on the back porch and began plucking—clearly a task he’d done before.
Dotty turned back to Jane. “Ma’am, why don’t you peel and chop those onions for the soup? That would help. And spinach, parsley, and sweet herbs there?”
“Very well. How fine?”
Following the verbal instructions sent her way from both Thora and Dotty as they bustled around her, Jane set about making the soup. She added the vegetables, removed the bones from the stewed chicken when it was tender, and skimmed the fat from the surface. It was time-consuming but quite simple, Jane realized. Eventually the time came for the final step—adding the thickening.