The Bourbon Kings
Page 44
When she finally got up to the house, she went through the side entrance of the garden and cut across to the rear kitchen door just so she could check that everything for the party was where she’d left it the night before.
Which was silly. Like a bunch of elves had come in and f’ed everything up under the moonlight?
Putting the staff entrance to use, she walked into the vast kitchen that was, for the moment, clean and cold and empty, just waiting for the arrivals of the chefs who were slated to work from eight to eight. The place wasn’t completely deserted, however. Miss Aurora was in front of the industrial stove, an iron pan full of bacon crackling to her left, a second one to the right full of bright yellow scrambled eggs. Four plates were set out on the main island’s stainless-steel countertop, along with bowls of fresh raspberries and blueberries, a silver service of sugar, cream, and coffee on a tray, and a basket of some manner of homemade pastries.
“Miss Aurora?”
The woman looked over her shoulder. “Oh, there she is. How you doing? You eat?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Not enough. You and Lane, too skinny.” The cook turned back to her eggs and flipped them around with a red spatula. “You should let me feed you.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” There was a grunt of disapproval, and before their usual argument started up, Lizzie cut in, “You’re looking so well.”
“I told that butler I didn’t need no ambulance.”
“Clearly, you were right.” And Lane must be so relieved. “Have you seen Mr. Harris?”
“In his office. You want me to go with you?”
“So you heard about champagne-gate?”
“I was the one who gave Gary the heads-up ’cuz I knew he’d see you first. Didn’t want you to walk in here without being forewarned.”
“I didn’t switch any order.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Miss Aurora lifted up the fifteen-pound frying pan like it weighed no more than a paper plate. As she portioned out the eggs, she shook her head. “And there’s a perfectly good explanation.”
“What is it?”
“Not my business.”
“Okaaaaay.” Lizzie took a moment to give the cook an opportunity to elaborate, but she didn’t. “Well, anyway, I’m going to go take care of this. I’m really glad you’re up and around, Miss Aurora.”
“You’re a good girl, Lizzie. But you’d be better if you’d let me make you some breakfast.”
“Maybe in my next life.”
“You only get one. Then you go to Heaven.”
“That’s what my father always told me.”
“Mine, too.”
Walking over the tiled floor, Lizzie pushed open the double flap doors and went down the staff hall. Mr. Harris’s office was right across from Rosalinda’s, and she knocked on the butler’s door. Knocked again. Tried a third time even though it was a waste of knuckles.
Sniffing at the air, she grimaced and thought that the corridor needed some serious airing out. Then again, the Bradfords refused to put central AC or heat in this part of the house. Staff, after all, could suck it up.
Going over to Rosalinda’s varnished door, she gave that one a try, too, even though the family’s controller was a strict nine-to-five’er, with a thirty-minute lunch at twelve noon precisely and two fifteen-minute breaks at ten-thirty and three. The regimented schedule had seemed bizarre at first, but however many years later, it was just another of the rules and regs at Easterly. And it made sense—a woman who did nothing but pay bills and add and subtract money out of accounts probably had slide rules in her veins and serious control issues.
Thus, her title.
Putting her hands on her hips, Lizzie knew that the butler was probably waiting on the family in the small dining room. Including Lane.
She checked her watch. She was not going to wait for Mr. Harris to come back here, and there was no way she was having this confrontation out in the open. Plus, there was real work to do—she hadn’t finished the bouquet bowls the night before.
Heading for the conservatory through back channels, she tossed out the tangle in her brain and focused on what she had to do. After the flowers were finally finished, she could put the tablecloths out because there was no chance of rain or wind before the brunch tomorrow. And she was usually in charge of getting all the glassware and plates where they needed to be at the bars and food service stations around the garden. Greta was due in—
“Good morning.”
Lizzie froze with her hand on the conservatory’s door.
Glancing over her shoulder, she met Lane’s eyes. He was sitting off to the side in an armchair, legs crossed at the knee, elbows on the rests, long fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before and his hair was a mess, as if he’d slept somewhere other than his bed.
“Waiting for me?” she heard herself say as her heart pounded.
up in her bedroom, Gin fisted a Prada blouse and crammed the thing into the corner of her Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase. “Tissue paper … you’re supposed to put tissue paper in here. Where is …”
Going on the hunt, she found the pastel pink sheets with her initials stamped on them in a large, flat drawer in her wardrobe room. Back at where she was packing, she licked her forefinger, peeled one free and a waft of Coco tickled her nose—because her maid had sprayed each one individually when they’d arrived. Stuffing the delicate paper around the wad of silk, she backed that up with a McQueen skirt.
Which was silly. Like a bunch of elves had come in and f’ed everything up under the moonlight?
Putting the staff entrance to use, she walked into the vast kitchen that was, for the moment, clean and cold and empty, just waiting for the arrivals of the chefs who were slated to work from eight to eight. The place wasn’t completely deserted, however. Miss Aurora was in front of the industrial stove, an iron pan full of bacon crackling to her left, a second one to the right full of bright yellow scrambled eggs. Four plates were set out on the main island’s stainless-steel countertop, along with bowls of fresh raspberries and blueberries, a silver service of sugar, cream, and coffee on a tray, and a basket of some manner of homemade pastries.
“Miss Aurora?”
The woman looked over her shoulder. “Oh, there she is. How you doing? You eat?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Not enough. You and Lane, too skinny.” The cook turned back to her eggs and flipped them around with a red spatula. “You should let me feed you.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” There was a grunt of disapproval, and before their usual argument started up, Lizzie cut in, “You’re looking so well.”
“I told that butler I didn’t need no ambulance.”
“Clearly, you were right.” And Lane must be so relieved. “Have you seen Mr. Harris?”
“In his office. You want me to go with you?”
“So you heard about champagne-gate?”
“I was the one who gave Gary the heads-up ’cuz I knew he’d see you first. Didn’t want you to walk in here without being forewarned.”
“I didn’t switch any order.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Miss Aurora lifted up the fifteen-pound frying pan like it weighed no more than a paper plate. As she portioned out the eggs, she shook her head. “And there’s a perfectly good explanation.”
“What is it?”
“Not my business.”
“Okaaaaay.” Lizzie took a moment to give the cook an opportunity to elaborate, but she didn’t. “Well, anyway, I’m going to go take care of this. I’m really glad you’re up and around, Miss Aurora.”
“You’re a good girl, Lizzie. But you’d be better if you’d let me make you some breakfast.”
“Maybe in my next life.”
“You only get one. Then you go to Heaven.”
“That’s what my father always told me.”
“Mine, too.”
Walking over the tiled floor, Lizzie pushed open the double flap doors and went down the staff hall. Mr. Harris’s office was right across from Rosalinda’s, and she knocked on the butler’s door. Knocked again. Tried a third time even though it was a waste of knuckles.
Sniffing at the air, she grimaced and thought that the corridor needed some serious airing out. Then again, the Bradfords refused to put central AC or heat in this part of the house. Staff, after all, could suck it up.
Going over to Rosalinda’s varnished door, she gave that one a try, too, even though the family’s controller was a strict nine-to-five’er, with a thirty-minute lunch at twelve noon precisely and two fifteen-minute breaks at ten-thirty and three. The regimented schedule had seemed bizarre at first, but however many years later, it was just another of the rules and regs at Easterly. And it made sense—a woman who did nothing but pay bills and add and subtract money out of accounts probably had slide rules in her veins and serious control issues.
Thus, her title.
Putting her hands on her hips, Lizzie knew that the butler was probably waiting on the family in the small dining room. Including Lane.
She checked her watch. She was not going to wait for Mr. Harris to come back here, and there was no way she was having this confrontation out in the open. Plus, there was real work to do—she hadn’t finished the bouquet bowls the night before.
Heading for the conservatory through back channels, she tossed out the tangle in her brain and focused on what she had to do. After the flowers were finally finished, she could put the tablecloths out because there was no chance of rain or wind before the brunch tomorrow. And she was usually in charge of getting all the glassware and plates where they needed to be at the bars and food service stations around the garden. Greta was due in—
“Good morning.”
Lizzie froze with her hand on the conservatory’s door.
Glancing over her shoulder, she met Lane’s eyes. He was sitting off to the side in an armchair, legs crossed at the knee, elbows on the rests, long fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before and his hair was a mess, as if he’d slept somewhere other than his bed.
“Waiting for me?” she heard herself say as her heart pounded.
up in her bedroom, Gin fisted a Prada blouse and crammed the thing into the corner of her Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase. “Tissue paper … you’re supposed to put tissue paper in here. Where is …”
Going on the hunt, she found the pastel pink sheets with her initials stamped on them in a large, flat drawer in her wardrobe room. Back at where she was packing, she licked her forefinger, peeled one free and a waft of Coco tickled her nose—because her maid had sprayed each one individually when they’d arrived. Stuffing the delicate paper around the wad of silk, she backed that up with a McQueen skirt.
