Mind Diver

Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

The giddy newness of her situation was starting to wear off. Gillian was now beginning to wonder how she, with a twenty-first century mindset, was going to survive in the eighteenth century.

After the terse, strained discourse with Taylor Ashworth’s father, Gillian had quickly finished her toast and chocolate by herself. Still hungry, yet not so that she would take even a tiny bite of the vile meat growing cold on her plate, Gillian rose, determined to locate the kitchen. It took some stealthy searching, but she simply followed her nose, carefully avoiding any servants along the way. After all, she didn’t want the help to think she had suddenly forgotten the floor plan of a home she’d lived in all of her life.

Gillian made her way past the library (which she promised herself she’d check out later), a dressing room, a water closet and powder room, finally down an L-shaped hallway, which ended in the kitchen. As she entered the large room, pots and pans of various sizes hanging from hooks in the walls, a tall heavy-set woman looked up suddenly at Gillian’s arrival. The cook’s small eyes narrowed a little as she watched Taylor/Gillian move into the kitchen. It was as if, Gillian thought, the woman was guarding her domain from any and all interlopers.

“I was wondering,” Gillian began, her hands clasped innocently behind her back, “if I could have you whip up some scrambled eggs for me. I’m still a tad hungry after breakfasting with Papa.” She smiled prettily at the woman.

The cook frowned, cocked and shook her head slightly. “ ‘Scrambled’ eggs you say? I don’t understand what ye mean for me to do...exactly.”

Gillian frowned in sudden embarrassment at her possible faux pas. Jeez, she thought, didn’t they scramble eggs in the eighteenth century, or did they only poach or boil them? I guess asking for fried, over-easy eggs wouldn’t work either. “Umm...it’s a new way of making eggs...uh...I believe it’s all the rage in Paris these days. Can I show you how?”

The cook’s head reared back in horror at Gillian’s suggestion. “Oh no, Miss – Mister Ashworth has forbidden me to allow ye to cook anything ever again after...well...that bit of fire business when you were fifteen.”

Gillian pretended to remember the incident in question. “Oh yes,” she said, widening her eyes and nodding her head. “Of course – that! I’d nearly forgotten. Well, we certainly can't have that ever happening again, can we?” Gillian had no idea what “that” had been, but somehow, she thought, the incident must have involved a rather frightening conflagration that may have not only nearly overcome the kitchen, but the entire townhouse as well.

The cook’s face relaxed a little; probably relieved that she would not have to suffer a mercurial tantrum from a spoiled brat, Gillian surmised. “Well, miss, if ye like ye can...guide...me through the process of preparing the, er, scrambled eggs.”

Gillian curved her lips in what she hoped would be a sweetly sincere smile. “It’s really quite simple: you crack a couple of eggs into a bowl and beat them until they’re nothing more than a yellow liquid, adding a bit of milk to the mix. Then, after pouring them into a hot and buttered pan, you stir them until they become...fluffy.” At the cook’s dubious expression, Gillian added, “They’re really quite good; you might want to whip up a batch for yourself later. I predict everyone in London will be eating scrambled eggs before the year is done.” And I will have altered British culinary history in the process.