The Kitchen Marriage

Book 2: Montana Brides Romance

by Gina Welborn, Becca Whitham

Genres: American Romance; Religious & Inspirational

Synopsis

“A good mail-order bride story . . . full of danger, mystery, faith, and delicious cooking” from the authors of The Telegraph Proposal (Hallie Reads).
 
A bright future awaits the women of courage and faith who boldly chase their dreams across the wide-open Montana Territory, prepared to embrace adventure and forge their own destinies . . .
 
When French immigrant Zoe de Fleur is forced out of her position as household cook for a high society New Yorker, the pretty and talented chef seizes an unexpected chance to head west for a new beginning. She pursues what she thinks is a prestigious job in the frontier’s “finest kitchen,” but instead finds herself in a matchmaker’s agency . . .
 
Isaak Gunderson is one of Helena, Montana’s most eligible bachelors, but he’s too focused on running for mayor and his family’s business to think about a wife and family. His twin brother, Jakob, is supposed to be too busy as well, yet sends for a mail-order bride anyway. Isaak doesn’t want to fuel an ongoing rivalry with his twin, but this tempting newcomer can’t be ignored. If only she’d come to Helena a different way and loving her wasn’t a betrayal . . .
 
“A delightful summer read . . . [Fleur] is a character not just of her time but of our time also.”—Historical Novel Society

Release date: September 25, 2018

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Her future rested upon one flawless meal.

Zoe de Fleur maintained a leisurely pace as she walked home from Central Park. Remains of last week’s snow were still nestled in rooftop crevices and frost blanketed the grass. Birds chirped, on the hunt for food. Smells of roasting chestnuts. White plumes of smoke rose from newly stoked hearths. An icy breeze nipped at her likely reddened cheeks, reminding her that winter—and February—enjoyed an extra day this year.

The perfect leap year day for the perfect dinner.

She exhaled, creating a puff of cloud. How could she capture the morning’s beauty in food? Not for tonight. She had no time to experiment. But for Easter. Meringue certainly.

And what else?

She strolled along the marble wall that encircled Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s Fifth Avenue mansion, pondering future dessert ideas. While construction of new mansions could be seen up and down the avenue, this five-story white marble home on the corner had been for the last decade considered “almost too splendid for comfort.”

Or so Zoe had been told.

Although she had spent her childhood and youth living in numerous European castles, the Crane house surpassed them all, in her estimation, because of its spacious and modern kitchen.

Meringue, marzipan flowers, and . . . cake.

But what kind?

“Hey, Miss de Fleur, you want a paper?” Up ahead, Nico—and his red-tipped nose—stood on the street corner with his daily stock of newspapers in his cart . . . and with that flat beige derby of his cocked jauntily to the side fitting his devil-may-care attitude.

“Not today,” Zoe said as she always did. As she stopped next to him, she eyed the bandage on the fourteen-year-old’s right hand. His knuckles were swollen. His face, though, bespoke no bruises, nor did he stand in pain as he had after last week’s beating. “How are you zis morning?”

He grinned. “All to the merry, I say.”

“Nico,” she said, stretching out the vowels in his name to convey her displeasure.

“What?” came with a big cloud of breath.

“You know I dislike . . .” She paused, trying to think of the right words in English. Façade faces? Emotion masks? “Fake cheer. Be honest with me about”—she pointed to the bandage—“zat.”

His smile fell. He fisted his bandaged hand. “I fought back, all right. You told me I had to stand up for myself.”

That she had.

Her advice had also come with encouragement to be the bigger man and walk away from the argument before it became physical. Or, even better, start a conversation to bring harmony, to understand the other person’s feelings. Become friends. Not fight back. Never fight back, because fighting brought pain. Brought scars. Not all of which were physical.

“When I was a child”—she unwrapped the woolen scarf about her neck—“my papa said embarrassing a bully with words can be as effective as responding with fisticuffs. I did what he told me, and I was horrified because of how my words made ze other girl cry.” She draped the scarf around Nico’s neck. “How did hitting zat boy make you feel?”

“Strong.”

Zoe clasped her gloved hands together. “Were his feelings hurt?”

Nico shrugged. “Don’t care. I wanted him to stop pestering me.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his brown corduroy coat. “I’m not ever going to see him again anyway. I’m never going back to the orphanage. With all I’ve saved, I can buy a train ticket to California and . . .”

Zoe nodded as he rambled on and on about his grand plans to start over out West. Open a saloon. Become a blacksmith or a trapper. Maybe even dig for gold. Or marry some rich old lady about to die. The poor boy had hopes and dreams enough for a score of orphans. If only half the stories he told about life in the orphanage were true, she would hate living there. In the last three years of Nico trying to sell her a paper, he had vowed at least twice a month that he would never return to the orphanage. And yet he had.

As he would today, too.

“Find me after you have sold your stock,” she said, interrupting Nico’s description of his future house and its six floors.

His blue eyes widened. “Can I taste what you’re cooking for tonight?”

“Some.”

“With wine?”

“No,” she said, and then smiled and patted his shoulder. “Come to ze kitchen around eleven. I will make you hot cocoa, but you must be gone before Chef Henri arrives or he will have both our heads.” She swiped her hand across her throat.

Nico’s upper lip curled, enough of an action to clarify to Zoe what he thought of the renowned and current president of the Société Culinaire Philanthropique, who had an exclusive contract to cater any and all of Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s parties. Unlike Papa and Chef Henri, Zoe could never become a member of the Société because she was female, a rule Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane called “a medieval practice.” It bothered her greatly that Zoe could not claim the respectful title of chef, despite her French blood, despite following European tradition and apprenticing over a decade under her father’s tutelage, and despite taking over Papa’s job as chef for the Gilfoyle-Crane household.

If anyone should be offended, Zoe should be. And she was not. Changing the Société rules was tantamount to changing her sex. Impossible. Complaining would accomplish nothing.

Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane paid Zoe a salary equal to what Papa had earned, even though, at twenty-two, she had less than two years’ experience managing a kitchen on her own.

At that thought, Zoe smiled. “Life is good here.”

“For you it is.” Nico’s brow furrowed as he studied her. “Why are you always so happy?”

“I have much to be zankful for. God is good to me.” She tugged his derby down over his red-tipped ears. “Be not late for lunch.”

“You’re swell, Miss de Fleur.”

“Zis is true.”

He laughed. “Don’t let Chef On-ree convince you otherwise.”

Zoe waved as she walked away. She turned down the alley behind the homes lining Fifth Avenue. As the BEZEE’S FLOWERS delivery wagon waited in front of the steps leading to the Crane house basement, which was only a little below street level, similar to the other nearby brownstones, the hired florist and her workers unloaded the profusion of flowers.

Zoe breathed in the fragrant air. Tonight’s dinner guests would enjoy an ethereal and fragrant floral feast.

While the florist issued orders to her workers, Zoe silently slipped past them. She hurried down the five steps to the servants’ entrance. Electric sconces brightened the narrow hall that, even in the full light of day, received no outside sun.

She stepped into the kitchen.

Mrs. Horton was adding a tea set to a tray. Nothing but crumbs remained of the breakfast scones, coddled eggs, and ham Zoe had prepared for those on staff.

“Good morning,” she said, removing her gloves. She shrugged off her hat and winter cloak, then hung them on a wall peg. “Is zere anything I can do to help?”

To Zoe’s relief, Mrs. Horton shook her head. “You have enough to do before Chef Henri and his crew arrives,” she said with a fair amount of pity in her tone. She finished preparing a tea service. “The Nephew has requested his morning tea.”

Zoe sighed. Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s oldest nephew had a name—Manchester Gilfoyle IV—but, in private, the rest of the staff simply called him the Nephew. If Zoe were Mr. Gilfoyle, she would feel crushed to know she was so disliked. Of course, if she were Mr. Gilfoyle, she would be a more considerate person.

Mrs. Horton picked up the service tray. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

“Zank you.” As Mrs. Horton left the kitchen, Zoe claimed her freshly washed white apron from the peg next to her coat.

She looped the apron over her head, then wrapped it around her serviceable gray work dress. From the apron pocket, she withdrew a white kerchief, folded it into a triangle, and draped it over her curly black hair, knotting the ends at the base of her neck. Her uniform failed to testify to her skills. But if she were to wear Papa’s double-breasted chef’s coat and toque blanche . . .

Chef Henri, in affront, would banish her from the kitchen.

She breathed deeply and slowly, as she always did to focus her mind on work. Tonight could not fail. She owed it to Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane.

After a quick cleaning of the remains from breakfast, Zoe sat at her office desk in the small room connected to the kitchen. In the center of her desk was the dinner menu Chef Henri had created with Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s approval. Embossed gold font on Egyptian linen parchment. The writing was in French, even though the hostess could barely speak the language.

Zoe sighed. Oh, the irony.

Four dishes in the twelve-course meal were Zoe’s creations. Not to Chef Henri’s pleasure. He had conceded to Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s request, although his outrageous fee would remain the same.

Chef Henri was greedy and arrogant and—

Worth none of Zoe’s thoughts.

She opened the notebook Chef Henri’s assistant, Chef Gerard—who constantly boasted he used to be a pâtissier in a shop near the Palais-Royal in Paris—had given her a month ago. He had listed what she needed to purchase, what she needed to have prepared ahead of their arrival, and what she needed to do during the four-hour meal to aid them as they cooked. Though detailed, his list was inefficient. Nor did it allot her time to prepare her four dishes. Why would anyone consider doing something in a way so obviously cumbersome and impractical?

Zoe grabbed her fountain pen. A few adjustments were necessary for a better flow for all. Content with the changes, she put down her pen. “Tonight will be a success,” she muttered.

And then she went to work.

That evening

“You are a genius in the kitchen” came a husky voice, soft enough for Zoe to hear over the yelling and cooking noise from Chef Henri and his assistants.

She looked left and flinched in shock at how close the footman, Robert, stood to her. As she continued to whisk the egg whites, while holding the bowl at the perfect fifteen-degree angle, she took a step back to put more space between them. That she was an excellent chef was true. A genius? That had been her father.

Now was not the time to disagree with Robert’s praise.

Every second of this evening mattered. Every second increased her taut nerves. She hated cooking in the same kitchen as Chef Henri, whose every look in her direction was icy and critical. Because he refused to allow the windows open, the kitchen temperature neared unbearable. He was quicksand to all the joy, pleasure, and beauty she usually experienced while cooking.

As long as he and his assistants continued to ignore her, she could endure the heat.

Zoe smiled at Robert, then nodded toward the platters of hors d’oeuvres to begin the dinner’s third course. To achieve a successful twelve-course dinner in four hours in service à la russe, courses must be brought to the table in sequence. At the precise time.

Precise.

Or else.

Robert leaned against the counter as if he had all the time in the world. “While I was clearing the oyster platters, the talk was about the vinaigrette you’d made. The banker you asked me to observe wholeheartedly agreed.”

Zoe’s curiosity perked up. “Oh. What was said about ze soups?”

He shrugged. “What does it matter? You didn’t make any.”

“I wish to know.”

“No one seemed overly impressed with any of them.”

Not surprising. None of Chef Henri’s soups had ever impressed her. If Papa were alive, elephant consommé would never have been put on the menu.

Zoe moistened her dry lips, then glanced down at the upside-down watch pinned to her apron’s bib. One minute left to whisk the eggs and then she—

“Girl, where are the truffles?” Chef Henri bellowed in French, and Zoe flinched. He never spoke to her while catering a dinner. Nor had he said a word to her when Papa introduced them four years before.

Because Chef Henri behaved as if he was entitled to respect—but mostly because there was no person she disliked more—Zoe responded in English. “On ze supply shelf.” Where all is organized alphabetically. Despite the ache in her arm, Zoe kept whisking the eggs into a stiff froth. “Go,” she ordered Robert. To convey urgency, she motioned with her eyes to Mr. Peterson, the ever-punctual butler, who carried the third-course wine selection.

That was all it took to prod Robert into action. He grabbed two platters of hors d’oeuvres.

Zoe checked the time. Almost finished whisking.

“Find them for me!”

She jerked her attention to the center of the kitchen, where Chef Henri stood at the chopping block counter, preparing the filling for the roasted fowls. She waited for one of Chef Henri’s assistants to aid him. Doing so was their job. At this point of the evening, her only responsibility was her three remaining dishes.

No one moved to help.

Zoe stopped whisking. She peeked at her watch and then at Chef Henri’s glaring face and then to the bowl of perfectly stiffened egg whites she held. Now was the exact moment to add them to the cooled coffee mixture. Chef Henri was closer to the larder than she was. In three steps he could grab the truffles from—

He punctuated his “Now!” with fists pounding the chopping block. “Or you will never work in this city again!”

Every assistant stared at Zoe.

If she helped, her soufflé would be ruined. If she disobeyed—

It is better to give an artist what he wants than to argue with him. Papa’s admonishment echoed louder in her mind than any of the kitchen sounds.

Thus she set down the bowl of stiffened whites and went in search of truffles.

Sometime after midnight

Zoe dropped the scrubbing brush and covered her mouth with the back of her hand, shielding anyone from seeing her yawn. Not that anyone would. For the last hour, Chef Henri’s assistants, in their bundled coats and scarves, sat outside on the benches under the basement windows, looking up to the street level, smoking, and sharing the remaining food and several bottles of wine from the dinner. They had no more concern for the evening temperature than they did for helping her clean the kitchen’s disarray. At least the two footmen had helped with removing the trash.

She gripped the kettle in the sink and closed her eyes, taking a moment to rest. The dishwater was lukewarm. Once she finished washing the last of Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s copper kettle, she needed to . . . needed to . . . to—

Her chin hit her chest. Zoe gasped and jolted awake. She stretched her eyes open, slapping her cheeks with her wet palms and shaking her head until the drowsiness passed. Now was not the time to fall asleep. She withdrew the last copper kettle from the dishwater, rinsed it, and then grabbed the drying towel.

The kitchen door opened.

“Miss de Fleur?” came Mr. Peterson’s reserved voice. “Your presence is requested in the drawing room.”

Zoe looked to where the impeccably dressed butler stood next to the kitchen’s propped open door. How did he manage not to look tired? Like her, he had been awake since before dawn.

Leaving the kettle on the counter next to the plethora of washed dishes, she followed Mr. Peterson out of the kitchen.

They climbed the stairs to the main floor on ground level, then made their way down the marble hallway to the front of the house. Light from the crystal chandelier shone brightly in the drawing room. Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane sat in a chair by the crackling hearth. Brilliantly arrayed in diamonds and a pale oyster gown from the House of Worth, she looked as beautiful and pristine as she had when the dinner had begun—six hours ago!

Chef Henri sat on the gold velvet settee in front of the heavily draped double windows.

Zoe stepped into the room.

Chef Henri stood.

Zoe found her place on the Persian rug’s center medallion.

Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane motioned for Chef Henri to leave the room.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. As he passed Zoe, the corner of his mouth indented.

“I expected better from you,” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane announced the moment they were alone.

Zoe blinked, confident she had not heard correctly.

“Chef Henri explained everything, specifically your interaction with the footmen.” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane sighed.

That one breath conveyed all Zoe needed to know.

Disappointment.

“Did my cooking meet your expectations?” Zoe asked, and hoped her tone did not sound desperate and insecure.

“Of course it did”—Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane shifted on the chair—“and that is why it devastates me to have to ask you to leave.”

Leave?

Zoe stared in shock.

Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane strode to the hearth. Her gaze focused on the crackling flames, her hands clasped tight. “Your unimposing nature causes you to be overlooked and overpowered by others. Your father knew this . . . and believed you had the skills to be one of the finest chefs in the country. Before he died, he asked me to help you rise to your potential.” She regarded Zoe. “That is why I have put up the collateral you need to secure a loan for your own restaurant. I know your cooking rivals Chef Henri’s.”

“You zink too highly of me.”

“And you think too poorly of yourself.” Said in a manner more firm and decisive than anything Zoe had ever heard her employer speak. “You need someone to believe in you so you can learn to believe in yourself.”

Zoe studied her clenched hands.

“Tonight wasn’t a failure.” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s words drew Zoe’s attention. “Your dishes impressed Mr. Soutter. You will go to the bank at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon to sign the loan papers and discuss available locations for you to rent. Mr. Soutter is expecting you.”

Managing a restaurant was beyond her expertise. Papa had never worked in a restaurant either; he had only served as a private chef. To those of noble blood. To those of nouveau-riche blood.

And yet Zoe nodded at Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s command.

“You may stay here through the end of the week. I have done all I can to help you build your reputation. However, I cannot continue to employ a household cook who fraternizes with the men in my service when she should be focused on her work.” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane gave a sad shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Zoe. I know you did nothing of the sort, but Chef Henri will say otherwise.”

Zoe regarded the crackling fire, mesmerized by how it flickered and moved on its own. Nothing forced it. Yet it stayed confined to the hearth even when it had the power to consume this room, this home. It stayed because it had no mind of its own. It stayed because it was as subjugated as Chef Henri’s assistants.

She looked at Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane. “When I was at ze critical point of my soufflé, if I had explained zat to Chef Henri, would he have asked someone else to help him?”

Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane was quiet for a moment. “I am quite aware of his attitude toward women chefs. Despite his medieval and misogynistic views—and I am disgusted at the position in which he has put me—I must behave as if I believe his word over yours.”

Tears blurred Zoe’s vision.

“Please tell me you understand why I must do this,” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane said.

Zoe nodded.

Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s reputation in society would be impugned by standing beside a lowly female’s word over that of the esteemed president of the Société Culinaire. She needed Chef Henri catering her dinners more than she needed Zoe to be her household cook.

“Why does he hate me?” Zoe asked. “I am insignificant to him.”

“As I would be, were it not for Mr. Crane’s bank account. Men like Chef Henri—” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane waved at nothing. “Enough about him. I see greatness in you, Zoe de Fleur, but you need someone to push you out of your complacency.”

“You do zis for my own good?” Zoe could not help but ask.

“Yes, dear girl, I do.” Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane walked to Zoe. “You will become a great chef once you learn to stand firm for what you know is right. Don’t let any man limit your success.”

“I shall never forget all you have done for me . . . and for Papa,” Zoe managed to say despite the tightness in her throat. “I will make you proud.”

Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane smiled. “You already have. I’ll be here for you if you need me. Now go conquer the world.”

Later that morning

Zoe trailed her gloved fingers along the marble wall surrounding Crane house. She strolled with no need to hurry. In three days, she had to leave the only home she had known since emigrating with Papa to America. But she was also free of the incessant competition between Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane and her sister, the Mrs. Marsden—the designation hers—to prove which one of them hosted the best dinner parties. Why did it matter?

A party should never be a means to affirm status in society or lead siblings into a verbal battle.

A party should be about spending time with loved ones.

Into Zoe’s mind popped the memory of Papa sitting at a table with her, enjoying the tea and pastries she had prepared. Vision blurring, she stopped walking. Tears slid down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them away in time to see a rock skipped across the sidewalk. It landed exactly where her next step should be. She looked up.

Ahead on the corner was Nico, waving and grinning broadly.

Zoe trudged forward.

He had not been on the corner when she left the mansion to walk to Central Park. He seemed more interested in her than in waving papers at the carriages, hackneys, and wagons moving as slowly down the street as she was.

“How was the dinner party?” he called out.

As she neared Nico, she eyed the space between him and the marble wall. She could easily slide past him and turn down the alley, but before she reached the servants’ entrance, he would have caught up to her. Such an action of hers would only incite his curiosity. As much as she wished to avoid him—avoid everyone—the wisest thing would be to behave as usual.

Which was why she stopped at the corner and said, “Ze dinner was a success.”

“I knew it would be.” He tipped up his cap and frowned. “You don’t look well. I’ve never seen your face so blotchy. You sick?”

“Ze night was long and my sleep fitful.” Of the five hours she had lain in bed, she may have slept an hour. She glanced inside his cart. Four papers comprised what was left of his stack.

“You want a paper?” he asked.

Zoe hesitated. If she had a newspaper, she could ask Mrs. Horton to help her find a boardinghouse or an apartment in the classifieds.

She nodded. “Wait here. I will go find a nickel.”

He gave her a sheepish look. “Uh, you wouldn’t have any leftover dinner, would you?”

“Zere is some.” She tried to smile, but her heart ached too much to put on a mask of false cheer. “Why do you ask?”

“How about a trade?” He looked hopeful. “A paper for lunch.”

On the tip of her tongue was When did you eat last? She suspected his last meal had been the one she had served him yesterday.

Instead, she said, “Come with me.”

She turned down the alley. Once they reached the basement stairs, Nico stored his cart beside the Crane house’s servants’ entrance. He grabbed a paper, then opened the door. She led him down the hallway to the kitchen. After their coats and hats were hung on the wall pegs, she pulled on her apron and wrapped the kerchief around her head. Mrs. Horton, whom she expected to see in the kitchen when she returned from her walk, was nowhere to be seen. The dear woman must be managing the housecleaning . . . or meeting with Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane. A new household cook would need to be hired. If Mrs. Horton failed to find one, she would be responsible for the cooking until one was employed.

Which did not have to be. Zoe could stay and cook.

Tears again blurred her vision.

Blinking them away, Zoe pointed to the table in the far corner of the kitchen. “Sit.”

Nico obeyed.

Zoe then focused on her work. She warmed the oven, collected a pot of stew from the icebox to feed her fellow servants, set it on the cookstove for it to reheat, grabbed a dinner plate, and then descended to the cellar to study the contents. The remains of last night’s banquet would be enough for Nico. She filled his plate with salted petit fours and a few dry and glazed ones, leaving what was on the platter for the rest of the staff to enjoy with their stew.

She eyed the shelves. The cellar needed restocking after last night’s dinner. She should go after her meeting at the bank and—

Her chest tightened, her pulse raced, her heart pounded, and she suddenly felt moisture on her forehead. The ceiling had no leak. Could it be . . . ? She touched her face. Why was she perspiring? She shivered. The cellar was nippy, even more so in the winter. It was so cold down here that fine hairs on her arm verily stood tall. Verily? A panicked bubble of. . .