Page 28 of A Winter By the Sea
He looked up with an air of casual ease. “Yes. Busy with sugar work, as you see.”
“Is that our sugar?Allour sugar?”
“Only what was in that box.” He gestured toward the storage box with his white-coated sleeve.
“Thatwasall our sugar.” The wooden box had compartments for a whole sugar loaf as well as for any ground or powdered sugar already made from it.
He splayed both hands toward the sugar-paste structure he was decorating. “A small price for art, yes?”
She shook her head. “Not small. Sugar is terribly expensive.”
“Is it? I’ve not had to worry about that. I suppose that’s the comptroller’s problem.”
“Well, here it is my problem. That sugar was meant for today’s tea and for tomorrow’s tarts and biscuits.”
“What are such trifles to this masterpiece, ey?C’est magnifique!You recognize the Brighton Pavilion, yes?”
Frustration mounted. “What is itfor? Is there to be some grand dinner at Woolbrook I don’t know about?”
“Not for some time, which is a pity. Still, one must keep his skills honed.”
“It is nearly time for the midday tea tray, Mr. Bernardi. So I suggest you chip off some of those domes for the sugar bowl or fetch sugar from Woolbrook to replace this in the next fifteen minutes.”
He pressed a hand to the buttons of his double-breasted coat. “You injure me.”
“And you injure me by using up our sugar! I have no budget for more.” She planted a hand on her waist. “Nor did you ask permission to avail yourself of this room or our supplies.”
“You did not complain the last time I worked here.”
“I would have said something, but it was Christmas. Christmas is over.”
“Not officially,” he grumbled. “Seven of the twelve days of Christmas remain.”
She looked at the clock. “You are down to ten minutes.”
He pouted, lips downturned. “I can’t do it. I won’t.”
She lifted her chin and held her ground. “Nine minutes.”
He huffed. “Oh, very well. But not the domes! Let us begin with the stable block. I shall replace the rest of your sugar later this afternoon.”
Sarah retrieved Lowen’s sugar-chipping tools—pincher and chisel—and handed them to him.
“You would force me to destroy my own work? Have pity, Miss Summers.”
“I could do it for you,ifyou slice cold meat and spread butter on these rolls.”
He sighed. “Very well. It will be less painful than destroying my masterpiece.”
The chef turned away, unable to watch her chip chunks of sugar from his handiwork, and began slicing the cold beef.
After working silently for a few minutes, she said, “Your name—Bernardi. Italian, is it? Do your people come from that region of the world?”
“I come from London, Miss Summers.”
“You know what I mean.”
“My father came to England as a steward. But I was born in this country. I am English.”
