Mrs. Kent was a deal puzzled by the bearing and accoutrements of her
substitute cook. Eliza Thick appeared on the premises about seven
o'clock, and with the aid of the housemaid breakfast went through fairly
smoothly. It was Kathleen's query about the coffee that elicited the
truth. Mary, with nervous gigglings, announced to her mistress
that Ethel was ill and had sent a substitute. The coincidence that
Josephine's nominee should turn out to be a friend of Ethel struck
Mrs. Kent as strange, and presently she went down to interview the new
kitcheneer.
Eliza Thick, a medium-sized but rather powerfully fashioned female,
generously busted and well furnished with rich brown hair, was washing
the dishes. She curtseyed respectfully as Mrs. Kent entered the kitchen.
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Kent. “You are Eliza Thick?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You brought a note from Ethel?”
“Yes, ma'am;” and fumbling in an opulent bosom, Eliza drew forth a
crumpled scrap of paper.
“I had a telegram from my niece in Oxford recommending you. How did she
know of you?”
“I worked at Lady Marg'ret 'All, ma'am, where the young lady is
studyin'.”
“Why did you leave your place there?”
“If you please, ma'am, my dishes was so tasty that it made the young
ladies discontented when they got 'ome. Their parents complained that
it gave 'em too 'igh ideas about wittles. The principal said I was
pamperin' 'em too much, an' offered to release me.”
Mary, who was listening, gave a loud snort of laughter, which she tried
to conceal by rattling some plates.
“Well, Eliza,” said Mrs. Kent, “that will do. You must get on with the
work as best you can. Judging by the coffee this morning, I don't think
your cooking will have the same effect on us that it did on the students
at Lady Margaret Hall. We were expecting a guest for lunch but I will
have to put him off until supper. I have written out the menu for the
day. Mary will give you any help she can.”
“If you please, ma'am?” said Eliza.
“Yes?”
“Cook gave me a message for Miss Kathleen, ma'am, which she asked me to
deliver in person.”
“A message for Miss Kathleen?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen.”
“Cook said I was to give it to her personally,” said the persistent
Eliza.
“How very extraordinary,” said Mrs. Kent. “What did you say was the
matter with Ethel--is it anything contagious?”
“Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of--of nervous debility,
ma'am--too many white corpuscles, ma'am.”
“Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; we have
just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics of
Kitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of pots and
pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard she took out
mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers, egg-beaters, and
other utensils, gazing at them in total ignorance of their functions.
Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hare and mashed potatoes for lunch, and
after some scrutiny of the problem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet
with which she began to belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have
suggested boiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs.
By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchen to
investigate.
“Good morning, Eliza.”
“Good morning, Miss,” said the delighted cook. “Oh, I _am_ so happy to
see you, Miss!”
“Thank you, Eliza. Did you have a message for me from Ethel?”
“Yes, Miss. Er--Ethel said she hoped you'd give me all the help you can,
Miss, because--er, you see, Miss, cooking for a private family is very
different from working in a college where there are so many, Miss.”
“I see. Well--what on earth are you doing to those potatoes, Eliza?”
“Mashing 'em, Miss.”
“What, with a _hammer_!”
“I washed the 'ammer, Miss.”
“Surely you didn't mash them that way at Maggie Hall, Eliza?”
“Yes, miss. The young ladies got so they couldn't abide them done any
other way.”
Kathleen looked more closely, and examined the badly bruised tubers.
“Good gracious,” she exclaimed, with a ripple of laughter. “They haven't
been cooked yet!”
Eliza was rather taken aback.
“Well, you see, Miss,” she said, “at the college we used nothing but
fireless cookers, and I don't understand these old-fashioned stoves very
well. I wanted to get you to explain it to me.”
“It's perfectly simple,” said Kathleen. “This is the oven, and when you
want to bake anything--_Phew_!” she cried, opening the oven door, “what
_have_ you got in here?”
She took a cloth, and lifted out of the oven a tall china pitcher with a
strange-looking object protruding from it.
Eliza was panic stricken, and for an instant forgot her role.
“My God! I put the hare in there and forgot all about it. What a bally
sell!”
Kathleen removed the hideous thing, hardly knowing whether to laugh or
cry.
“Look here, Eliza,” she said. “They may jug hares that way at Maggie
Hall, but I doubt it. Now, what _can_ you cook? We've got guests coming
to-night. A gentleman from America is going to be here and we must put
our best foot forward.”
Eliza's face was a study in painful emotion.
“Excuse me, Miss,” she said, “but is that American gentleman called Mr.
Blair?”
“Yes,” said Kathleen. “Really, Eliza, you are most extraordinary. How
did you know?”
“I've heard of him,” said Eliza. “I think I ought to warn you against
him, miss. He's--he's a counterfeiter.”
“Nonsense, Eliza. What notions you do have! He's an antiquarian, and
he's coming to see my father about archaeology. He's a friend of Miss
Josephine, from Oxford. Now I think you'd better get on with your
cooking and not worry about counterfeiters.”
“Miss Kathleen,” said Eliza, “I think I'd better be frank with you. I
want to tell you--”
Here Mary came into the kitchen, and although Eliza Thick made frantic
gestures to her to keep away, the housemaid was too dense to understand.
The opportunity for confession was lost.
“Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “Mary will help you in anything you're not
certain about. I'll come down again later to see how you're getting on.”
By supper time that night Eliza Thick began to think that perhaps she
had made a tactical error by interning herself in the kitchen where
there was but small opportunity for a tete-a-tete with the bewitching
Kathleen. The news that Blair was coming to the evening meal was highly
disconcerting, and the worried cook even contemplated the possibility
of doctoring the American's plate of soup with ratsbane or hemlock. Once
during the afternoon she ventured a sally upstairs (carrying a scuttle
of coal as a pretext) in the vague hope of finding Kathleen somewhere
about the house. Unfortunately she met Mrs. Kent on the stairs, who
promptly ordered her back to her proper domain. Here Eliza found a
disreputable-looking person trying to cozen Mary into admitting him to
the house. He claimed to be an agent of the gas company, in search of
a rumoured leak. Eliza immediately spotted Priapus, and indignantly
ejected him by force of arms. In the scuffle a dish pan and several
chairs were overturned. Mary, whose nerves were rather unstrung by the
sustained comedy she was witnessing, uttered an obbligato of piercing
yelps which soon brought Kathleen to the scene. Eliza received a severe
rating, and so admired the angry sparkle in Kathleen's eyes that she
could hardly retort.
“One other thing, Eliza,” said Kathleen, in conclusion. “There are to be
two guests at supper. Mr. Carter, a curate from Oxford, is coming, too.
Please allow for him in your preparations.”
“If you please, Miss,” cried the much-goaded cook, “is that Mr. Stephen
Carter?”
“I believe it is,” said Kathleen, “but what of it? Is he a
counterfeiter, too?”
“Miss Kathleen, I know you think it strange, but I must warn you against
that curate. Dear Miss Kathleen, he is dangerous. He is not what he
seems.”
“Eliza, you forget yourself,” said Kathleen, severely. “Mr. Carter
comes with an introduction from the Bishop of Oxford. I hope that is
satisfactory to you! In any case, we do not need your approval for our
list of guests. Mrs. Kent wants you to take great care with the stuffed
eggs. Those mashed potatoes made her quite ill.”
“Please, Miss, I'm dreadful worried about those eggs. The book says
to make a nest for 'em, and truly I don't know how to go about it. The
young ladies at college never ate their eggs in nests, miss. And when I
gets nervous I can't do myself justice, Miss. I never can remember which
is the yolks and which is the whites, miss.”
“Now, that will do, Eliza,” said Kathleen. “You are a very eccentric
creature, but I don't think you are as stupid as all that. What do
you want? Do you expect me to come down here and oversee all your
preparations?”
“Oh, if you only would, Miss, it would be _so_ gratifying!”
Kathleen laughed, a girlish bubbling of pure mirth, which was dreadful
torment to the jealous masquerader. She departed, leaving the cook a
prey to savage resolve. “Well,” thought Eliza, “if the supper is bad
enough I guess she'll just _have_ to come down and help me. Thank
goodness Blair and Carter are _both_ coming; they'll cut each other's
throats, and perhaps the stuffed eggs will win after all. As for that
gas-man, he won't get into this house unless it's over my dead body!”