Ch#52
“Is he going through a rough patch lately?”
The Duke appeared downcast as we headed toward the dining hall.
When I inquired about his well-being, he dismissed my concern, claiming only fatigue from dealing with the diplomatic envoys.
“Has the stress been weighing on him more than I realized?”
Cecilia confirmed it with a sage nod when I posed the question.
“My father mentioned it. The Duke’s been striving to lure the Rondoris delegation here, but it’s proven far from simple.”
“Why the holdup?”
“Rondoris holds the advantage in commerce.”
I cocked my head in bewilderment.
“Isn’t Blenheim superior in arms and riches? Rondoris is just a modest kingdom.”
“Certainly, yet Blenheim lacks outlets for all that fortune. You’ve seen Goldrain for yourself—you understand.”
Cecilia’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Rondoris, by contrast, functions like an enormous holiday haven. It boasts endless trading allies, with fresh and alluring imports flowing in constantly. Even ordinary people flock there for getaways these days. They claim you can catch renowned operas daily in Rondoris—productions scarce even in the capital.”
Theater companies apparently saw no incentive to visit Blenheim, even with added payment.
Blenheim possessed wealth, districts like Goldrain, and a harbor—prime territory for merchants and guilds, one would think.
“They’ve consented to come, yet they stall with one pretext after another.”
“Is this some kind of leverage play?”
“That’s typical Rondoris behavior. They project an air of grandeur while scheming beneath the surface.”
Cecilia inflated her cheeks and continued:
“They pretend they can do without us, despite their dependence. That little nation carries itself with outsized swagger.”
It suggested the regional market suffered in comparison.
I exhaled a rueful breath, my thoughts drifting to Goldrain.
“Could I do anything to ease the Duke’s burden?”
I pondered fiercely from the carriage rumbling through Goldrain, though the dreary shopping district sparked few inspirations.
One establishment, at least, brimmed with vitality.
A grin spread across my face as I surveyed Marie’s Inn restaurant.
Past suppertime, yet patrons still filled the space.
Cecilia, Norton, Leta, Morina, and I lingered at a table, awaiting closing.
“My apologies, Your Grace. A few diners remain. If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a touch longer…”
Jacques, the server, set down pumpkin pudding before us with a sheepish expression.
“No trouble at all. I arrived early deliberately.”
I scooped a generous bite of the silky, gleaming treat.
“Complimentary sweets are never refused!”
“We have ample stock—say the word for seconds.”
“You’re incredible, Your Grace,” Cecilia murmured, eyeing Jacques as he departed with extra portions.
“You’ve transformed this spot entirely.”
“Marie poured in the effort, and Morina’s artwork made its mark too.”
Shedding decorum, I swiftly dabbed the pudding from my lips with my tongue.
“To think such striking images sprang from those delicate fingers.” Cecilia beamed at the flushing Morina.
“Why aren’t you two digging in?” I prodded Leta and Norton, their puddings untouched.
I shot them a pointed glance.
“Leta, Morina’s the worker here—you’ve no cause for jitters. And Sir Norton, no threats lurk. Sheathe the blade; wield the spoon instead.”
After a brief pause, they both tucked in.
Observing them, I recalled the unlikely assembly that brought us here today.
Cecilia had begun seeking my counsel on her cooking column soon after entering service as my maid.
I hadn’t intended deep involvement at first. But her family chef’s pie recipe left me speechless.
“This is it?”
“I jotted every word from the chef… too brief?”
“Precision in quantities is essential.”
“Quantities?”
“Vague terms like ‘a pinch’ or ‘sufficient’ won’t do. Specify a teaspoon, a cup—that lets anyone replicate it.”
“But he just scoops handfuls and tosses them.”
“Then quantify those handfuls. And for a recipe column, test the dish personally.”
“Me? In the kitchen?”
“Verify it succeeds. Readers won’t forgive failures via irate mail.”
“You’re right…”
“Besides, will you pester the chef endlessly for each one?”
At that, Cecilia timidly clutched my skirt’s hem.
“What’s this?”
“Perhaps the goddess destined me for your service. Instruct me, Your Grace, I beg!”
Thus began my guidance on Cecilia’s column.
Reliable recipes came first.
Backed by a credible source.
“Berni could provide them, but exposing the palace head chef might invite trouble.”
Only one name surfaced for me.
“As anticipated, Madame Marie.”
Cecilia discreetly enlisted Leon to gauge Marie’s interest; to our delight, she consented eagerly.
In exchange for her recipe, the piece would credit “Marie’s Inn,” include its location, and feature a brief plug at the close.
The magazine firm would compensate her with 5 Eknang besides.
A equitable arrangement, given exposure in News of the North—and prime advertising for the inn.
“And with Madame’s recipe in hand…”
Another figure emerged in my thoughts.
“We’ll require an illustrator.”
“For the recipes?”
“Precisely. They’re visual at heart; illustrations enhance appeal and elucidate tricky steps.”
Cecilia endorsed the notion instantly once I elaborated.
She’d evidently swayed the publisher masterfully.
Morina, the artist, beamed at 3 Eknang per installment.
Today marked their inaugural collaboration on a recipe at the inn, post-closing.
I’d planned a quick visit, but Leta fretted over her sister and tagged along; Norton escorted us—yielding two sisters and our own pair assembled there.
The debut dish: apple pie.
Slated for next week’s “Today’s Special” dessert menu.
As Marie fired up the oven and readied the crust, Cecilia shadowed her tenaciously, portioning flour and salt heedless of her station.
Morina arrived with the sketchbook I’d gifted, diligently capturing her visions.
During the baking wait, I offered recipe pointers.
“Begin with a full ingredients roster, followed by sequential instructions. Readers confirm supplies upfront.”
“Ingredients upfront—understood.”
“Pies like this work fine, but shared fare such as stews benefits from yield notes—for two or for five, say.”
“Wise, particularly for household meals.”
“Include prep duration and approximate cost where possible.”
“You, who’ve scarcely glimpsed a kitchen—where does this expertise hail from?”
“I’ve prepared countless meals, yet never systematized recipes thus. Had I, I might’ve shared with fellow homemakers.”
Cecilia and Marie regarded me with sincere awe; I responded with a bashful grin.
The baked pie gleamed temptingly.
We savored sample wedges to validate the recipe when raucous sounds erupted outdoors.
“Customers arriving?”
The door flew wide, admitting a gaggle of half a dozen children into the inn.
