Jefferson's Sons by Kimberly Bradley Page B

The man driving the wagon turned out to be his assistant, and the wagon was packed with all the fancy pots and equipment Miss Edith would need now that she was head French chef for Monticello.
    Uncle Peter was going to be the brewer. He would make beer and cider, and take care of the wine Master Jefferson imported from France. He said he didn’t mind the change. “That fancy cooking, it’s not for me,” he said. “Never wanted to work in a kitchen like that.”
    French cooks didn’t settle for regular fireplace cooking. They used something called a stew stove, which was like a long row of small fireplaces built out in the open, against the wall beneath the windows. The stew stove was why Miss Edith needed bricks.
    â€œHow’s this going to work?” Beverly muttered as he mixed mortar for Uncle John. “Kitchen’ll be full of smoke.”
    Fanny Hern overheard him. “It won’t if it’s properly ventilated,” she said.
    â€œOh, ventilated .” Uncle John waggled his eyebrows at the fancy word. Beverly laughed.
    French cooks had spits that both rotated and moved up and down, powered by weights like giant clockworks. They cooked in copper pots, not cast iron. They used so much wine, spices, and other expensive ingredients that Miss Edith tried to make Burwell give her a set of keys to the locked storerooms.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” Burwell said. “I’ve got to keep close inventory on that stuff. A couple of hams walk away from the smokehouse, that’s one thing. A keg of French brandy walks away, I’ll have some fast explaining to do.”
    â€œI’ll write down whatever I take out,” Miss Edith said. “You can trust me.”
    Beverly was surprised Miss Edith had learned to write, but Burwell didn’t seem to be. “I know I can trust you,” Burwell said, “but I can’t trust everybody, and I don’t want trouble.”
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    Beverly didn’t want trouble either. The biggest source of trouble right then, he thought, was Monsieur Julien. Beverly’d never met anyone like him at all.
    Monsieur Julien directed the layout of the kitchen, the height of the spits, the number and sizes of the stew stoves. He advised Miss Edith on menus and on stocking the pantries. But he also told stories. He made jokes. He listened to the stories Miss Edith told him. He laughed with her. If she said something sad, he sympathized.
    Beverly had never known a white man like that.
    He tried to talk about it to Mama. “It’s like they’re friends, ” he said.
    Mama looked at him sharp. “I suppose that’s possible,” she said at last.
    â€œYou and Papa—” Beverly said.
    â€œThat’s different.” Mama waved her hand. She didn’t seem to notice that Beverly had said Papa . “That’s a secret, it’s different. And a man and woman thing, that happens all the time.”
    â€œI didn’t mean that,” Beverly said.
    â€œNo, no,” Mama said. “I know what you mean. I understand the difference.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s because he’s French. France never allowed slavery. In France, people with dark skin aren’t automatically seen as inferior to people with light skin.”
    Beverly thought about that. “What did that feel like?” he asked. “When you were there.”
    â€œDifferent,” Mama said. “Good. If I went to a shop, I got waited on right away, even if a white person came in on my heels. The other servants in our house there, besides my brother, who was the cook, were white, and we all got along, better than I expected. When I visited Miss Martha and Miss Maria at their school, their friends liked me. Really liked me; I got to know some of them pretty well. I forget now, but I had friends who were white, in France.”
    Mama sighed. “You don’t really realize how much color matters