The Marriage Test Read Free Page A

came out to call everyone inside.
    Seizing the opportunity, Griffin darted stealthily across the yard and inserted himself between the edge of the open kitchen wall and a dog cart that turned out to be filled with baskets of green tops, scrapings, and kitchen offal.
    The Count of Grandaise reduced to hiding among the kitchen refuse to catch a glimpse of a cook.
He groaned.
Grandfather must be turning over in his grave.
    Desperate for a better vantage point, he stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen opening and spotted a space between the wall and stacks of grain bags and barrels. Using the cover of the confusion of kitchen workers bustling thither and yon, he darted around the open wall to the safety of that new niche.
    That was when he saw them.
    Pies. A whole sea of them. Golden, perfect crusts mounded and laid out side by side … like undulating waves that stretched for yards atop cooling tables near the open wall. He recalled Axel’s and Greeve’s descriptions and against every disappointment-jaded impulse he possessed, his mouth began to water.
    On the far side of the kitchen, in one of the four great hearths, fat pork shanks and legs of lamb were roasting over spits, flames flaring as grease dripped onto the coals. Nearby, pewter platters were laid out on tables, their handles tied with clean linen. Beside each was a boat and ladle ready to receive and dispense sauce. One of the old sisters was stropping long knives, preparing for the carving.
    Fat tureens of pottage sat steaming on tables near the door, accompanied by baskets of beautiful golden bread. Farther still were platters piled with what looked like packets of fried dough—pasties of some sort.
    His mouth was gushing water now. He had to have one of those pies … had to have a taste. Just as he slipped from his hiding place to the edge of the cooling table, a horde of chattering females came rushing back into the kitchen and swooped down on the pottage and bread. Orders and instructions flew from several quarters.
    “You and you go before with the bread … you and you come behind with the bowls.”
    “Sister Archie brought a message and the abbess jumped up and rushed from the dining hall,” he heard someone say with bewilderment.
    “What do we do?” came another female voice.
    “Begin serving the pottage,” came a definitive response. “You … two by two … one holds while the other serves. And use your napkins!”
    He was tempted to try to catch sight of whoever was issuing orders, but decided to focus instead on sampling one of the pies. Sticking his nose up over the edge of the cooling table, he seized the closest one, tucked it under his arm, and headed back to his hiding place.
    Sitting on the floor amid barrels and grain bags, he drew out his eating knife and realized his hand was trembling as it poised above the pie. He cut a thick wedge, pried it out, and gave it a looking over … prolonging both the anticipation and the hope. Then he opened his mouth and …
    Ahhhh.
    The texture. The spicing. The delicate crust and tenderness of the meat.
    By the blessed Saints, it was …
he chewed, swallowed, and took a second bite before allowing himself to think it
… marvelous!
    Only long years of ruthlessly practiced self-restraint prevented him from burying his face in that pie tin and wolfing down the contents.
    It could be, he told himself desperately, that the cook simply had a way with crusts or got lucky with the combination of fillings. One dish was not enough on which to judge an entire kitchen. Or a cook. He licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste of spices, and stared ruefully at the pie. He needed more.
    As soon as the tide of servers retreated back into the dining room and only a pair of elderly sisters and some kitchen boys remained to continue carving the meats and applying the sauces, he left his hiding place again and crept around the work tables. He watched from below and as the kitchen boys swung another spit