Page 22 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Concerning Alchemy, Puff Balloons (Not Loonies), Dodecahedrons, Bird’s for Baking, and Cockeyed Paintings…

“Today’s topic of study is… the alchemy of baking,” announced Emmeline to her three expectant charges, all suitably attired in serviceable cotton pinafores to protect their clothes.

They were presently gathered in St Lawrence House’s kitchen along with Fanny, the maid who’d become an “under” nurserymaid of sorts, and Mrs. Punchbowl, the duke’s cook.

“What are we making?” asked Harry, her eyes alight with interest. But then her bottom lip dipped into a moue of displeasure. “I hope it’s something we can actually eat. Scientific experiments are all well and good, but it would be nice to produce something that’s edible.”

“Oh, it’s definitely edible,” confirmed Emmeline. “But there is also science involved.”

It had been almost two weeks since their excursion to the British Museum, and Emmeline had done her very best to keep the children entertained and out of mischief.

They’d all paid a visit to Hatchards and purchased armfuls of books and charged them all to the duke’s account.

They’d made plaster of Paris snakes and beetles and snails, much to Gareth’s and Bartholomew’s delight.

While the astrolabe demonstration had not yet eventuated due to the constant inclement weather—overcast skies, foggy nights, and rain made it impossible to view the heavens—the duke had kindly loaned Harry a microscope to keep her active mind engaged, and she loved it.

Emmeline had also endeavored to take the children to the park every single day—the boys especially needed outdoor time to release their boundless energy—but not today.

It was teeming buckets, blowing a gale, and altogether freezing cold and miserable.

Emmeline had thus decided a cozy kitchen adventure was in order.

“We’re actually making something that’s dear to my own heart.

” Emmeline caught each of the children’s gazes.

“A treat my own dear mama made for me when I was young, and it was cold and dark and raining just like today. Drumroll…” With a pair of wooden spoons, she tapped out a rapid tattoo on the polished oak counter like a regimental drummer. “We’re making puff balloons!”

“Puff balloons!” exclaimed Mrs. Punchbowl, her brown-as-currant eyes narrowing. “Never ’eard of ’em.”

“They’re essentially a fried scone,” explained Emmeline. “To serve them, you must drizzle them with lashings of golden syrup. There’s only one way.”

“Yummy scrummy!” cried Gareth. “Puff balloonies in my tummy!”

“Puff bal- loons , not loonies,” corrected Harry. To Emmeline she said, “They do sound positively scrumptious. Do they explode if you blow them up enough? Like a balloon?”

Mrs. Punchbowl scowled and placed her fisted, flour-dusted hands on her ample hips. “?’Ere, I’ll ’ave no explosions in my kitchen, Nanny Chase. I remember wha’ ’appened in the library and the nursery afore you started ’ere.”

Emmeline raised her hands in a calming gesture.

“Now, now. There’ll be no explosions of any kind whatsoever.

The scones do puff up a little—that’s because of the addition of the baking powder—but they don’t blow up.

However, one must exercise great care during the cooking process because they’re fried in very hot lard.

I shall enlist the help of Mrs. Punchbowl when it comes to that part.

We shall make the dough, and once the puff balloons have cooled—we don’t want any burned tongues—we shall eat them for afternoon tea. ”

“Hooray!” shouted the boys, and Harry grinned.

The making of the puff balloon batter commenced.

Flour was sieved into a large bowl with a little salt and Bird’s Baking Powder—Bartholomew had to be reassured that the white chalky substance in the baking powder tin was not made of crushed bird bones but bicarbonate of soda and cream of tartar.

Then everything was mixed together with enough milk to form a lumpy, very tacky dough.

“Oooh, it is sticky,” declared Gareth as he helped shape the messy mixture into a rough rectangle on the floured kitchen table.

“It’s tastes awful,” said Bartholomew, wrinkling his nose in disgust after he’d licked a dough-coated finger. “Like glue.”

“Ah, but it hasn’t been fried or drizzled with syrup yet,” Emmeline reminded him. “Now”—she picked up a bread-and-butter knife—“what shape do we want our puff balloons to be. Circles or squares?”

“Squares,” said Gareth.

“Round like balloons,” said Bartholomew.

“Dodecahedrons,” said Harry. But there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“You’ll get more scones out of the dough if Nanny Chase cuts squares,” added Mrs. Punchbowl.

“Squares!” chorused all three children.

Emmeline laughed. “Very well.”

Within the space of fifteen minutes, Mrs. Punchbowl had fried all the scones until they were puffed and golden and light as air. After hands were washed and the kitchen had been restored to its usual state of spick-and-span, the children sat down to a feast of golden-syrup-drenched puff balloons.

“These are wicked good,” said Bartholomew around a mouthful of sticky scone.

“Best thing ever,” agreed Gareth, licking his fingers.

“Do you think Cousin Xavier would like a puff balloon or two?” asked Harry.

Mrs. Punchbowl shook her head. “I’m afraid ’is Grace doesn’t like sweet food, poppet. Plain, ’olesome food is more ’is cup o’ tea. Speaking o’ which”—she glanced at the kitchen clock—“?’is Grace is due for ’is afternoon pot o’ coffee and serve o’ shortbread.”

“Shortbread? I thought you said His Grace didn’t like sweet things,” said Emmeline. During her interview, there had certainly been an array of all sorts of treats laid out, but looking back, Emmeline couldn’t recall the duke having anything other than his strong black coffee.

“Oh, the shortbread isn’t for the duke,” said Mrs. Punchbowl. “It’s for ’Oratio. That raven.” She laughed, her cheeks growing as rosy as apples. “?’E’ll eat almost anyfink.”

Emmeline couldn’t help but laugh too. Over the last few weeks, she’d been making a concerted effort to get to know the other staff members at St Lawrence House. Fanny was sweet and Mrs. Punchbowl was jovial. Bertie always had a ready smile and a wink for her.

Woodley was his usual po-faced self. Horatio fluttered in and out of rooms and chatted to Emmeline now and then. As for the raven’s enigmatic master…

The duke, still very much engrossed in his work, kept to himself all day, every day, until later in the evening after the children retired for the night at eight o’clock.

Then he would summon Emmeline to his study, and he would ask her about how his wards were getting on, before checking if she’d noticed anything untoward or unusual, particularly about the behavior of the other staff.

In quiet moments, Emmeline would readily admit to herself that it was the favorite part of her day, chatting with the duke. Even though it shouldn’t be—he was her employer .

But he was witty and self-effacing and charming in a subtle way. He even seemed to relish hearing all about his wards—what they’d been learning about, their latest antics—and she hadn’t expected that.

She felt listened to and seen, like the duke valued her observations and opinions. She felt like she mattered.

It had never been like that with Jeremy.

Once he’d wooed her and wed her, his interest had begun to wane almost immediately.

A thespian and aspiring playwright, he’d spent far too many hours either idling away in their Cheapside lodgings, “working” on his plays, or rehearsing and performing at Freddy’s music hall.

Except, “writing, rehearsing, and performing” also meant drinking far too much and having affairs with other women while Emmeline worked long hours at her father’s store.

Needless to say, it was a time Emmeline would rather forget.

While she’d grieved for Jeremy and what they’d once shared, she couldn’t say she wasn’t still bitter and angry about his betrayal of their wedding vows and of the precarious financial position he’d left her in.

But if he hadn’t drunk too much and accidentally fallen through one of the stage trapdoors to his untimely demise at the age of six-and-twenty, she wouldn’t have embarked on the course she was on now.

Life had certainly taken her on a strange journey.

Training at the Parasol Academy, and now working for the mercurial Duke of St Lawrence, certainly kept Emmeline busy enough that she didn’t dwell on all the old awfulness of the past. Although, she couldn’t help but feel a tad guilty about “spying” on the St Lawrence House staff and then talking about them all behind their backs with the duke.

On the other hand, she genuinely wished to get to know some of the other servants.

Perhaps even make a friend or two because she would admit to feeling a trifle lonely whenever she had a spare moment to herself.

She missed her dear friend Mina Davenport.

She even missed the hustle and bustle of student life at the Academy.

So it wasn’t simply an intelligence-gathering exercise to discover who was responsible for the odd goings-on in the house.

Emmeline truly wished to form new connections.

Once the children had had their fill of puff balloons—the last one had made it onto the duke’s afternoon tea tray, even though His Grace wasn’t likely to eat it (and Horatio might)—Emmeline asked Fanny to escort the children back to the nursery.

Emmeline needed to clean her uniform. After making puff balloons, she’d managed to get flour and sticky syrup on her sleeves and pinafore, and it wouldn’t do.