Page 9 of Kept 3
“No, I want to go to bed.”
He looks disappointed but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he rises and walks the distance to the other end of the table where I sit. I flinch as he walks behind me and pulls out my chair, his hands brushing across the back of my neck like a breeze, so lightly I could almost have imagined it.
Standing I move to leave, but he places one hand on my forearm. Holding my breath, I turn back to him as he leans forward and takes my hand. Pressing his lips to it, he raises his dazzling eyes to mine, and I realise they are the exact blue of the sapphires in the necklace that, somehow, is now around my neck.
“Sleep well, Josephine.”
He breathes out heavily, and I get a lungful of his heavenly breath as I pull my hand from his, and nod. My head is still spinning as I walk down the hallway, and I shake it to clear away the fuzziness as I hear his faint laughter echoing behind me.
But I do sleep well that night, better than I had so far during my captivity.
TOAD IN THE HOLE
(Traditional English recipe)
Ingredients:8 thick beef or pork sausages 1 tablespoon dripping, Yorkshire pudding batter.
Method:
Cook sausages in deep baking dish with dripping until the fat is hot.
Pour in Yorkshire pudding batter until sausages are completely covered and bake for 25-35 minutes until batter is well-risen, crisp, puffed and brown.
Pudding Batter
Ingredients:250g plain flour, 1 egg, 310ml milk, pinch of salt.
Method:
Sift flour and salt, add egg and half the milk, a little at a time, and stir.
Mix until smooth and then beat for 10 minutes until air bubbles appear on surface.
Cover and allow batter to stand for 30 minutes.
Stir in remaining milk to give a thin batter just before cooking.
4
Cooking in a long gown that is probably worth more than the average family car, I ignore the butler’s constant disapproving scowl and finish plating the meal.
My chef/private tutor has yet to arrive; Nicholas told me he is on his way but has not revealed his identity. So, for now, I cook alone, albeit under the scrutiny of the butler, who flat out refuses to talk to me, unless giving me an order.
Tonight, to honour Ricardo and remind Nicholas that I continue to hold a grudge and will never forgive him for what he did in Sicily, I once again, cook Italian. In fact, I smirk, I will continue to cook Italian every night until I escape.
This evening I have made a roasted red capsicum spread with parmesan polenta for entrée and spaghettini al sugo crudo for main, a sauce I learned from Ricardo. I’m using my mother’s handmade pasta recipe, which even Ricardo, a Sicilian, had to concede was on par with his own. For dessert, I am making an Anglo-Italian trifle, a little of my own recipe, a little of Ricardo’s. I wish I could add his recipes to the bottom of my mother’s cookbooks, but I have to rely on memory now because I no longer have her books. Luckily, I had made this pasta many, many times even before I visited Sicily, so I have it down pat, and Ricardo’s recipe is very simple and easy to remember.
Thinking of my mother, and of Ricardo, knowing they live on through their recipes, gladdens my heart, as does being able to leave the confines of my room and surround myself with the familiar; with the smells and comfort of a kitchen. Cooking has lightened my mood considerably during the day – I could sometimes forget I was a prisoner; pretend I was a private chef to a billionaire – only the night brought with it the truth.
Tonight, like every other night for the past two weeks, I will dine with Nicholas in the great dining hall.
Every evening he watches me eat, tries to engage me in conversation, tries to convince me to say the words that will bind me to him and allow him to drink from me, and sleep with me – but I will not. Now that I know he wants me to come willingly, I have power, and I’m sure as hell not going to hand that over on a silver platter – not when I’ve come up with a way to escape. But for now, for tonight at least, I will pretend all is well.
“This is delicious, Josephine,” he smiles and leans back in his chair, “you have great talent in the kitchen, and elsewhere, I’m sure.”
“I miss my mother’s cookbooks,” I say quietly, not raising my eyes to his. Most nights, I try to say very little. I don’t want to give him any indication that I am in the slightest way happy about being kidnapped and held prisoner – because I’m not. Tonight, it is even more important than ever to keep his mind on the mundane, in case I let slip in some unknown way that I’m hiding a secret, a plan.
“Yes,” he says quietly, “but you know, the best chefs are those that experiment, those that try new things, rather than sticking to a recipe. You may have freed yourself from constraints you didn’t know you were working under.”
