Page 14 of The Chef and the Countess (The Duke’s Bastards #2)

By six o’clock Saturday night, Celia looked as tired as Liam felt. It had been her first week of work, and Liam was proud of the job she had done. She managed to keep up with the more experienced workers with only minor missteps. He located her in the staff dining room, scrubbing the table.

“Celia, enough for tonight. We have tomorrow to do the cleaning.”

She dropped into the chair and exhaled. “I cannot believe how fast the week went.”

“Time goes by swiftly when one is busy.” Liam placed a crockery bowl in front of her. “I know you ate supper, but here’s some pudding for you to try. It’s called flummery. It’s milk-soaked bread in Irish workhouses, but I’ve improved it by adding oats, honey, blackberries, plums, cream, and a drop or two of Irish whiskey.”

“That sounds delicious,” Celia smiled radiantly. “You used the crusts from the sandwiches?”

Liam would make her flummery every day to bask in her warm regard. “Aye, I did. I’ll fetch the tea.” Once he brought them mugs of tea, he sat opposite her at the table. Liam watched as she took her first spoonful.

Celia’s eyes closed. “Oh, it’s warm and delightful.” She took another spoonful and then met his gaze. “If I am being too forward, tell me. Is that where you had flummery? In a workhouse?” He must have frowned, for she waved her hand. “Never mind. It’s none of my concern. I’m sorry for asking.”

“I don’t like dredging up the past. I believe it should stay hidden so it will not interfere with the present—or the future, for that matter.” Celia appeared disappointed in his firm response. No, she was not disappointed—she was hurt, although she tried to mask it. Since when did he care what anyone thought?

Since I met Celia.

“I’m not saying I’ll never discuss it,” Liam said softly. “It’s just not easy for me. Give me time to warm up to the subject.”

“I understand. Honestly, I do. Can you tell me about the restaurant? Enya mentioned it was your idea to change it into a dining room.”

Talking about The Crowing Cock, he could handle. “I started learning the business when Walter Henning took me off the streets. He sent me to school in the afternoons.”

Celia smiled. “Like you do with the boys.”

“Aye. Walter’s business was basically a chop house and pub, with a brothel upstairs.”

“A brothel? Is that why the place is called The Crowing Cock?”

Liam nearly sprayed his tea across the table. He coughed and took another sip. “No. But I suppose it has a double meaning. There has been a pub on this corner lot since the mid-1700s. Back then, many taverns and coffee houses sold cock ale. The ale was made for medicinal purposes, a nourishing tonic mixed with minced, boiled game cock and spices. It supposedly helped the blood and humors or whatever they believed back then.”

Celia sipped her tea. “I had no clue about the ale. When did you close the brothel?”

“Not as soon as I would have liked. I wanted to close it when Walter died, and I inherited the business. But the ladies suggested an arrangement: they would keep it open until renovations could be done.”

“Your kitchen is wonderfully bright and cheery. Did you design it?”

“Aye. I picked up a lot of ideas from books. How to lay out a floor plan for maximum efficiency.”

“You are to be commended,” Celia enthused.

Liam basked in the praise. “I closed the brothel six months ago. The ladies wanted a say in the business and a small cut of the profits. I agreed to their proposal.”

Understanding dawned on Celia’s lovely face. “Fiona and Enya?”

“Aye. Hannah, as well. I’ve known them since Walter took me in at age fourteen.”

“You all came together for a common purpose. They mean a lot to you,” Celia stated, her voice gentle.

“Aye. They were protective of me, and as I grew taller and more robust, I became protective of them. I did not want to run a low-class chop house or work in an upper-crust place where French dining was the norm. I wanted something in between. I found a cookbook at a second-hand shop called “Soyer’s Shilling Cookery for the People,” published in ‘45. The French chef Alexis Soyer was famous for introducing gas cooking and helping craft legislation to help the poor Irish during the potato famine. He even traveled to Ireland to set up a kitchen to feed needy people. He served a thousand people an hour.”

“You admired him and emulated him. Cookery for the people, everyday meals, good food, and looking after those less fortunate,” Celia observed.

Liam sipped his tea. “Aye, I suppose I did. The basic kitchen design? The chopping boards that slide out of the counter? I got those ideas from Soyer. Also, how to avoid excess food waste and the importance of cleanliness. I could go on.”

“How fascinating. What is a chop house?”

“It’s just what it says. They’ve been around since the 1690s and usually served chops, steaks, and cutlets with a vegetable or two. Many were not all that clean, and neither were the servers. Wooden tables and benches, sawdust on the floor, tankards of watery ale, usually men only and rowdy. I didn’t want that.”

Celia smiled. “I admire you for achieving your goal. Building and running a business the way you choose must be immensely satisfying.”

Liam nodded. “It wasn’t easy, and it still isn’t. It’s only in the past few months that everything started to gel. For example, Walter allowed a certain criminal element to hang about here. I put a stop to that.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “Is your business in any danger?”

“No. They were here mainly for the brothel. They’ve moved on to other establishments. This place became too boring, I suppose.”

The door burst open, and Tommy entered the room. “Liam! The shed is on fire!”

Liam ran to the rear entrance with Celia and Tommy right behind him. He flung open the door to find a wall of flame engulfing the storage shed. “Tommy lad, run to the next street for the fire brigade. You know where it is. Hurry now.”

Tommy disappeared into the alley. By now, the staff had gathered in the kitchen. Liam pointed at Bruce and his potman, Jack. “There are buckets of sand hanging behind my office. Get them now.”

The men located them and handed one of them to Liam. Bruce and Jack carried the other two. Liam stepped outside, and sparks drifted in the slight breeze toward the roof of his restaurant. “Fiona! Find more buckets of anything that can hold water. Start filling them!”

Fiona grabbed Celia and a few others and left the doorway. Liam threw sand on the roiling flames, though it didn’t help much. Bruce and Jack did the same. “Bruce, form a line, fill these buckets, and start the relay.”

“Aye, Liam.” The ex-boxer hurried away, and Liam watched helplessly as the large shed burned with almighty heat. A tall spiral of sparks reached into the night sky. What was in the shed? Fifty-pound bags of potatoes and carrots because the weather was not below freezing, as well as jars of preserves and all of Hornsby’s items for the unfortunates, like boots, mittens, and the like. There were also extra pots, dishes, and other kitchen extras. Hundreds of pounds of merchandise and excess inventory. Gone.

With the line formed, Liam was handed a bucket of water. He emptied it and passed it along until he was given another. This continued for several minutes as he closely watched the roof overhang. Then he saw it: the corner of the roof of the restaurant was on fire.

The peal of bells clanging and the thunderous clamor of horses’ hooves filled the air as two wagons pulled up by the alley. Tommy must have told them the fire was in the rear. Good lad. One horse-drawn wagon had an expanding ladder, and Liam pointed to the roof overhang.

The fireman nodded, giving instructions to the others. The men pushed back the crowd that had gathered near the alley entrance. On the rear of the other wagon was a mounted vertical boiler with plumes of steam coming from the top. Liam silently hoped it had a chance to build up enough pressure to allow water to be pumped at high compression.

The station officer ran toward Liam. “Stand back, if you please. We’re hooking up the hoses.”

“The roof—”

“We’ll take care of it, sir. Please take your people to safety.”

Liam moved everyone inside, and they watched out the windows. Celia came to him and took his arm, squeezing it. He looked down at her, then patted her hand assuredly since she seemed so worried. Bloody hell, he was concerned.

The firefighters, resplendent in their double-breasted serge tunics and brass helmets, worked with precision, extinguishing the fire in twenty minutes. But how had the fire started in the shed? Liam’s confidence in the absence of any criminal element in his business was shaken. He resolved to question Fiona about the pub’s regular customers and any signs of unlawful activity.

The station officer waved Liam outside, so he pulled on his wool coat and joined the man near the smoldering wreckage of his shed. The air held a lingering, unpleasant odor of burnt potatoes, carrots, wool, and wood.

“We found this,” the officer said, handing Liam a stained rag. “Smell it.”

Liam held it to his nose and sniffed. The odor was faint. “Oil of some kind?”

“Exactly. I’m guessing paraffin oil. It’s a popular choice as it’s odorless except when exposed to high temperatures. That’s what you’re smelling. It was used as an accelerant. I need to report all suspicious fires to the Metropolitan Police, Mr…?”

The police? Jaysus. “Mr. Liam Hallahan.”

“I’m Captain Brannigan. Let’s go inside and fill out the paperwork.”

“Can I open tonight?”

“There’s no need to shut you down; the fire wasn’t inside the establishment.”

As he led the station officer towards the rear entrance, Liam’s frown deepened. The fire was a cause for concern. Maybe it was the work of a criminal element. But why? It was more likely the actions of someone with a grudge against him…like a vengeful viscount settling a gaming debt by hiring thugs to start a fire? The potential danger was palpable.

* * *

Sunday arrived, and after breakfast in the staff dining area—where the fire was the main topic of discussion--Liam disappeared. Since it was sunny and not overly chilly, Celia decided to go for a walk and explore. Not many businesses were open on Sunday, as the law stated no one could open until one o’clock in the afternoon, so many shops and restaurants didn’t bother. It was probably the reason Liam had decided to close on Sundays during the winter.

Since Celia was not familiar with the neighborhood, she located the boys. Teddy and Timmy were busy chopping vegetables for tomorrow’s luncheon. She peeked into the back room where the boys slept. It was rather cramped, with a bunk bed for two and another bed opposite. It was there that she found Tommy reading a cookbook.

“Tommy, I’d like to go for a walk, but I don’t know my way around. Will you escort me? I would appreciate the company.”

The lad blushed as he scrambled off the bed. “Aye, miss.” He grabbed his wool coat and hat off the hook by the door.

They stepped into the alley. Although it was January, the sun held some warmth. “Please call me Celia, Tommy.”

“All right,” he replied, slipping on a pair of woolen mittens.

“If I may offer some advice. A gentleman should walk on the side closest to the street. That way, if a carriage splashes a puddle onto the walkway, you take the brunt, not the lady.”

“Oh, sorry,” Tommy replied. He immediately switched sides. “We’re on Chicksand Street. There’s lots of shops here.” He pointed across the street. “A baker, a furrier, a tailor, a drapery shop, a dress shop, some houses, and Mr. Spielman’s bookshop. He has loads of used books. Do you like to read?”

“I do. I brought some books with me in my trunks. Is that where you got the cookbook you’re reading, or is it one of Liam’s?”

“I bought a couple of cookery books at Mr. Spielman’s with my first wages,” Tommy replied proudly. “The one I’m reading is about baking scones, pies, and such. I want to learn about baking and cooking meals. I have other books too, like pirate adventures.”

“Good for you,” Celia smiled. “When did you come to work at The Crowing Cock?”

“Four months ago.”

And that was it. Tommy became as reluctant as his employer to talk about the past.

“Does it hurt to talk about the past, Tommy? It does for me. I lost my parents when I was ten, in a boating accident. I went to live with my aunt, but it wasn’t the same. I felt so alone. I was glad when they sent me away to school. I made good friends there, like you did with Timmy and Teddy.” Celia’s words were empathetic, reaching out to Tommy’s painful past.

“I’m sorry your parents died. So did my mum,” Tommy replied quietly. “She was sick and put me in the workhouse because she couldn’t look after me. Mum said she would send a note to my father, and he would come and get me. She never mentioned my father until that day. That was nearly a year and a half ago. Mum said the man didn’t know about me.”

“He never came?” Celia asked softly. She motioned toward a small green area at the end of the street with a few park benches. An older lady sat at one, feeding breadcrumbs to the pigeons. She and Tommy sat on the opposite side, far enough away for a private conversation.

Tommy shook his head. “Miss, I mean—Celia, will you keep a secret if I tell you something? I’ve never told even Timmy or Teddy.”

“Yes, of course. I know we haven’t known each other long, but I will certainly keep your secret.”

Tommy clasped his hands in agitation. “I don’t know what to do. Mum gave me his name, the man she claimed was my father. I waited at the workhouse for almost a year. But I didn’t know how to find him. The workhouse wasn’t a good place, but I met Timmy there, and we looked out for each other. He said we should leg it. They beat us, you see.”

Celia gasped. “Oh, no.”

“Timmy and me met Teddy on the streets. We did what we could to eat. We were in a bad way, sleeping in abandoned buildings and going through the rubbish for food. I’m younger than them, but they looked to me for protection because I’m taller and bigger.”

“How old are you?” Celia asked, riveted by the story.

“I turned twelve on December 5 th . Unlike Teddy and Timmy, I knew my birthday and had some schooling. Mum did what she could; she worked at a dressmaker shop until she got sick. Then everything went wrong. Mum couldn’t work anymore.”

Holy crow. Judging by his size, Celia thought Tommy was fifteen at least. He’d lived on the streets at age eleven. How heartbreaking. “What was your mum’s name?”

“Molly Clahane. My name is Tommy Clahane.”

“Did you ever try to find your father after Liam took you in?”

Tommy shook his head. “No. That’s the secret, you see. My mum said my father was called—Liam Hallahan. She said she would send him a note to tell him where to find me.”

Celia gasped in shock. Liam? “Oh, Tommy. You haven’t said anything to Liam in all this time?”

“No. At first, I was scared. He never mentioned being my father, so maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the name was a—what’s the word?”

“Coincidence?”

“Aye, that. I don’t know how he found me, but he did. He said to come with him—that he had a job and a bed for me, but I said I wasn’t leaving Timmy and Teddy behind. Liam said, ‘Bring them, then.’ Just like that.”

Celia stared at the lad. She could see the slight resemblance: the raven black hair, clear blue eyes, and a sweet face that would someday be handsome—just like his father’s. The height and solidness also spoke to a connection to Liam. If Tommy had just turned twelve, Liam would have been eighteen when he’d sired him. Fiona recently told her Liam was thirty years of age—the same as Celia. How did he find out about Tommy? And how on earth did he find Tommy in this sprawling city?

“So you’re wondering if you should mention it? What do you think will happen if you do?” Celia asked, genuinely curious.

Tommy shrugged. “What if he isn’t the same Liam Hallahan my mum told me about? There’s lots of Irish about. If I reveal it, he might kick us to the cobbles.”

Celia took Tommy’s hand. “You have to know that Liam would never do that. Look what he did with me. My dreadful cousin dropped me here without a shilling to my name. I was a stranger, but Liam allowed me to stay. He could have turned me out, but he didn’t.”

“That’s true.” Tommy nodded. “I’ve been coming every Thursday with Timmy and Teddy for stew for over two months. I didn’t know Liam owned the place.”

“Life is strange,” Celia sighed. “Tommy, you should tell Liam—and right away.”

“I was wondering if you could tell him. He likes you a lot, I can tell. Liam talked to you more the past two weeks than with anyone outside of Fiona. You can explain it better than me. I’m not afraid of him, not for a long time. He’s been good to us. I just don’t know what to say. I’m no good at explaining things.”

“You explained it well enough to me.”

Tommy gave her a shy smile. “You’re kind and easy to talk to.”

“Thank you. As you said, I’ve barely been here two weeks. It might not be wise for me to insert myself into something that is none of my business.” Celia could hear Liam speak those very words, and he wouldn’t be wrong.

“Tell him I asked you to. Please, Celia,” Tommy pleaded.

“Why not go to Fiona or one of the others?”

“I like them, but I’d rather you do it.”

That was quite the burden the lad placed on her. But Celia understood Tommy’s reluctance to speak up, for she’d felt the same when she’d first lived with Aunt Etta and her family. Uncertainty could make a person question their feelings and actions. Assisting with this challenging situation would be one way to repay the generosity she’d been shown since she’d been hastily discarded here. Everyone had accepted her into their little family. No one more so than Liam.

“I’ll talk to him tonight. I promise. Now, let’s continue with our walk, and when we return, you can show me how to make scones.”

Tommy smiled and threw his arms around her neck. This was Liam’s son she embraced; she did not doubt it. The adorable gesture caused a lump in her throat. Her conversation with Liam later tonight would be interesting, to say the least.