Three women were preparing food in the far corner. Two appeared to be kitchen maids, and they were washing and dicing meat. The other woman was a bit older and had her head in one of the ovens. Ellie assumed she was Mrs. Stubbs.
Helen cleared her throat, and the two maids turned to look at them. Mrs. Stubbs rose too quickly and banged her head on the lip of the oven. She let out a short howl of pain, muttered something that Ellie was certain her father would have disapproved of, and stood upright.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stubbs," Helen said. "I would like to introduce you to the new countess."
Mrs. Stubbs bobbed a curtsy, as did the two kitchen maids. "My lady," she said.
"You'll be wanting something cold for that bump," Ellie said briskly, in her element now that she had found a task to complete. She stepped toward the kitchen maids. "Would one of you be so kind as to show me where the ice is stored?"
The maids gaped at her for a moment and then one of them said, "I'll fetch some for you, my lady."
Ellie turned to Helen with a slightly sheepish smile. "I'm not used to having people do and fetch things for me."
Helen's lips twitched. "Obviously not."
Ellie crossed the room to Mrs. Stubbs's side. "Let me have a look at that."
"No, really, it's quite all right," the housekeeper said quickly. "I don't need—"
But Ellie's fingers had already found the lump. It wasn't very large, but she was certain it must be painful. "Of course you do," she said. She picked up a thin towel she saw on a worktable, wrapped it around the ice one of the maids was holding tentatively toward her, and pressed it against the lump on the housekeeper's head.
Mrs. Stubbs let out a grumble and muttered, "It's very cold."
"Of course it is," Ellie replied. "It's ice." She turned to Helen with an exasperated look on her face, but her new cousin had her hand clamped over her mouth and looked as if she were trying very hard not to laugh. Ellie widened her eyes and jutted her chin forward in a silent appeal for cooperation.
Helen gave a little nod, took a couple of breaths to stem her giggles, and said, "Mrs. Stubbs, Lady Billington has come to the kitchen to inspect the ovens."
The housekeeper's head turned slowly in Ellie's direction. "I beg your pardon."
"I couldn't help noticing this morning that the toast was a bit black," Ellie said.
"That is how Mrs. Pallister likes it."
Helen cleared her throat and said, "Actually, Mrs. Stubbs, I do prefer my toast on the slightly less charred side."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I did. You said it came out that way no matter how long you toasted it."
"I can only conclude," Ellie interjected, "that something is amiss with the oven. As I have a great deal of experiences with stoves and ovens, I thought I might give it a look."
"You?" Mrs. Stubbs asked.
"You?" Kitchen maid #1 (as Ellie had taken to calling her in her mind) asked.
"You?" Kitchen maid #2 (by default, of course) asked.
All three were gaping visibly. Ellie rather thought that the only reason Helen hadn't let her mouth drop open and echo, "You?" was because Helen had already done so upstairs in the informal dining room.
Ellie scowled, planted her hands on her hips, and said, "Contrary to popular opinion, a countess may occasionally possess a useful talent or two. Perhaps even a skill."
"I have always found embroidery quite useful." Helen said. She eyed a blackened stovetop. "And it's quite a clean hobby."
Ellie shot her a dirty look and hissed, "You are not helping."
Helen shrugged, smiled, then said, "I think we should let the countess take a look at the oven."
"Thank you," Ellie said, with what she thought was great dignity and patience. She turned to Mrs. Stubbs and asked, "Which oven do you use for the toast?"
"That one," the housekeeper replied, pointing a long finger at the filthiest of the lot. "Those other ones belong to the Frenchie. I wouldn't touch them if you paid me."
"They were imported from France," Helen explained.
"Oh," Ellie said, feeling as if she were trapped in a very strange dream. "Well, I am certain they can't compare to our good, sturdy English ovens." She walked over to the oven, pulled the door open, then turned back around to suggest, "Do you know, we could avoid all of this if we just used a toasting fork?"
Mrs. Stubbs crossed her arms and said, "I'll never use one of those. Don't trust them."
Ellie couldn't imagine what could possibly be construed as untrustworthy about a toasting fork, but she decided that it wasn't worth pressing the issue, so she lifted her skirts above her ankles, kneeled, and stuck her head in the oven.
* * *
Charles had been hunting for his new bride for several minutes, his quest finally taking him, most improbably, to the kitchens. A footman swore that he had seen Ellie and Helen head that way a quarter of an hour earlier. Charles couldn't credit it, but he decided to investigate, anyway. Ellie wasn't the most conventional of countesses, so he supposed it was possible that she had taken it in her head to introduce herself to the kitchen staff.
He was not prepared for the sight that awaited him. His new wife was on her hands and knees with her entire head—no, rather half her torso—jammed into an oven that Charles was fairly certain had resided at Wycombe Abbey since before the time of Cromwell. Charles's initial reaction was one of terror—visions of flames leaping through Ellie's hair raced through his mind. But Helen appeared unperturbed, so he managed to squelch the urge to run into the kitchen and haul Ellie to safety.