The Marriage Test by Betina Krahn Page B

kitchens since I was ten years old, and have been head cook since I was seventeen. I am now twenty years.”
    “In charge of an entire kitchen at seventeen?”
    “The abbess saw that I was capable and diligent, and handed over the spoon to me,” she said defiantly. “She has had no cause to regret it.”
    “Of course not. How badly could you ruin a pot of porridge?”
    She bristled at the implication that her repertoire of dishes extended no further than sops and gruel. “You ate my food. You know my worth.”
    “Do I?” He raked her with a look, taking in unblemished skin the color of fresh peaches, eyes the shade of new leaves in spring, and hair the colors of ginger and cinnamon. “How do I know you were the one responsible for the feast last night?”
    “If you truly don’t believe it was my work”—she folded her arms and tightened into an irascible knot—“why did you take me with you?”
    Caught without a response to the very question he’d been asking himself, he glanced at the sister muttering and fingering a chaplet of prayer beads on the other side of the cart.
Pray for me, too, Sister.
    “The bishop left last night with my coin. When I saw you, it was too late to cancel the bargain. It appears I am forced to trust the abbess.”
    “Trust the reverend mother?” She gave a taunting laugh. “Oh, Your Lordship, you are in trouble.”
    Julia watched her new lord and master turn crimson, spur his mount, and head not only for the front of the column but past it, motioning to Sir Axel and Sir Greeve to stay with the cart. When she looked around, she found Sister Regine staring at her in horror.
    “It’s probably not my place to say,” the round-faced sister said, “but I think you might have handled that a bit better.”
    “His Lordship is clearly used to having his way,” she declared. “I must make him respect me and my work or I’ll be finished before I’ve begun.”
    Sister Regine’s wince expressed her opinion of Julia’s chance of success. Then she looked toward the count’s diminishing figure and frowned.
    “Why do you suppose he wears that bit of metal pinching his nose?”
    “I was wondering about that, too.” Julia frowned and pursed one corner of her mouth. “Last night I heard them say he was afflicted in some way.”
    She followed the sister’s gaze, but ran straight into the eager faces of the two knights who had accompanied the count to the convent.
    The pair, Sir Axel and Sir Greeve as they introduced themselves, came rushing back to the cart, drew up alongside, and proved to be eager sources of information … including exactly where they were bound.
    “Grandaise … east and a bit south of Bordeaux,” Sir Greeve said proudly. “Wine country. Cold ocean-borne winds in winter, sizzling hot breezes in summer … a fine mix for grapes.”
    “And what about His Lordship’s home?” Julia asked. “And his family? Who oversees his household? And what are the kitchens like?”
    “Good, sound walls … fine windows … real glass,” Sir Greeve answered.
    “Hearths in all the main chambers. His Lordship loves a good warm fire,” Sir Axel added, grinning in approval of his lord’s extravagance.
    “And a cup of mulled wine after a hard day of riding and training.” Greeve added. “But you won’t have to worry about that. He has a cellar master to oversee the household wines and brew up his mulled drinks.”
    “He has?” Julia glanced at Regine with widened eyes, then back. “What other staff is there for the kitchens?”
    “A larder, an oven man …” Sir Greeve’s eyes flicked upward, as if a roster were written in the clouds. “A fire tender, a fueler, half a dozen turnspits …”
    “What other
cooks?”
she persisted.
    “Well, there used to be a woman who saw to the cold cellar and buttery,” Axel said, looking uneasily at Greeve, who took it up.
    “And there was that poulterer. Took care of all the seizing, chopping, singeing, and plucking. Haven’t