“You have made something of yourself, Margaret! And you should be proud.”
“I’m not pretty. Some might say I hurt the eyes. That’s why I have to work harder than anyone else, because of my looks. Chambermaids are pretty—in case the gentry sees ’em. Footmen too.” That was all she could get out before one large tear rolled down her cheek.
“Please don’t cry, Margaret. I had no intention for this to transpire. I didn’t request to work in the kitchen. I’m just filling in so Amelia won’t lose her job. I’m sure as soon as she returns, you’ll be back in the kitchen, just that fast.”
Margaret wiped her tears using the backs of her shaky fingers, then her eyes narrowed. Her grief hadn’t taken long to turn into anger, and perhaps hatred. “You won’t get away with this, Miss Nicey-nice. You’ll be sorry you stole my job.”
Margaret continued toward the scullery. And Charlotte just stood there feeling miserable.
I wonder how Mrs. Darling found out I do most of the fancy baking?
Her conversation last night with Mr. Winters came back to her. Had he spoken of her with the housekeeper?
A thrill of impressive proportions skittered up and down Charlotte’s back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
From across the table in the breakfast room, which was completely different from the grand dining hall they’d eaten in last night, Emma watched Beranger in a deep discussion with Lord Harry. She’d never seen him so intense. Between her bites of egg, some sort of beans, and a crumpet she’d taken from the tray of sugary delights resting on the sideboard, she caught words such as poker, debt, and Gavin.
“And what is this?” she whispered to the footman who was filling her cup from a fine silver pot. The English even brewed their coffee differently; Emma would be able to stand a spoon in the dark sludge if she so desired. She poked at the curious-looking item using her fork.
The footman pulled back and raised one brow. “That’s black pudding, Your Grace.”
She noted the firm texture. “It doesn’t look like pudding. It looks like sausage, but the color is strange.” She took a tiny bite, chewed, and then swallowed. “It’s tasty,” she said, as if conversing with the footman was a natural thing to do.
“That’s because it is sausage, Your Grace.”
A bubble of irritation surfaced inside. She was learning quickly that English reticence sometimes made simple things difficult. “Then why call sausage pudding? Clearly, it’s not. And I’ve never seen black sausage before. What makes it so?” She cut off another portion and considered the odd flavor. Not pudding indeed.
Across the table Beranger and Lord Harry had stopped speaking and were watching her with amused smiles.
Annoyed, she swallowed and glanced back at the footman, who seemed to be growing more uncomfortable by the second. “Can you explain?”
“Pig’s blood turns black with air. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve not watched the process myself. The blood is gathered when the hog is slaughtered, so—”
Emma gagged and reached for her water.
Beranger and Lord Harry roared with laughter.
The poor footman hurried away.
After rinsing out her mouth, she took several gulps of her heavily sweetened and creamed coffee and then glared across the table at Beranger. “You’re supposed to warn me, Beranger! Not let me make mistakes.”
“When is eating a delicacy a mistake, my love?” He smiled innocently as he gestured to his plate. Tiny bits of leftover black pudding were evident. “And is this any different from eating mountain oysters, as I heard the ranch hands refer to on the Five Sisters?”
“I don’t eat bull’s testicles, and I don’t eat pig’s blood either.” She shivered. “Not willingly, anyway.”
She looked away before she said something she’d regret and wondered where everybody else was. Last night she’d learned that Beranger’s cousin had been staying at the castle for quite some time. Possibly even since Gavin’s death. The fact that these grown men and women didn’t have any sort of job at all was puzzling. They spent their days talking and eating. What kind of a life was that?
As if her thoughts had conjured them, the dowager duchess, Lady Audrey, and Justin came into the room.
“Shall you let us in on your joke, Duke?” the dowager asked, looking between the men. “We heard you two all the way down the hall.”
They availed themselves of the buffet table and sat, Beranger’s cousin taking the empty setting next to Emma.
“Lord Harry was just telling me about an incident that happened in a bar in Santa Fe. That’s an American town I’m well acquainted with, having lived and worked there for over a year. It’s nothing you’d find amusing, I’m sure.”
He lifted his coffee cup and locked eyes with Emma over the rim. His gaze said he was sorry and that they were on the same side.
“As a matter of fact,” he went on, since he still held everyone’s attention, “Santa Fe is where Emma and I met. In a women’s apparel shop.”
Please stop. Don’t say that I was taking you to task for flirting with the sales clerk.
“Emma was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She stole my breath, and my heart. Isn’t that right, my love?”
Heat scorched her cheeks. All eyes turned her way. Even the footmen’s, if the burning sensation on the back of her neck meant anything. She’d scold Beranger later. She didn’t like being the center of attention, especially around his stepmother.
“What can I say?” she said with a good-natured smile. “I fear my husband needs glasses. He’s in fine form this morning. You all should be on your guard.”
Lord Harry coughed playfully into his hand and mumbled, “And why not? These few days are his honeymoon, you know . . .”
“Leave the poor girl alone!” Justin chortled. “You’re both incorrigible. Give her some time to settle in, then, I’m sure, her being an American, she’ll take you down a peg or two, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Beranger echoed. “I’ve seen her do it to a man who wronged one of her sisters.”
“Really, Justin,” the dowager duchess admonished, stirring some lemon into her tea. “You’re beginning to sound like an American yourself.” She took a sip and then dabbed her lips with her napkin.
The dowager’s posture was impeccable, as was Lady Audrey’s. Emma straightened even more and lifted her chin the tiniest bit. “I’m curious about life in the castle. What do you like to do for fun, Lady Audrey?” Emma asked.
Lady Audrey looked surprised. “For fun?”
“Well, yes. I love to read and ride my horse.” She realized how silly that sounded after the words were already out of her mouth. “My sister Belle took up shooting when we moved to Colorado and is a sharpshooter.” She was rambling. But like a toboggan on ice, she had no way of stopping the momentum until she reached the bottom of the slope. “Mavis likes numbers, puzzles, and civics. Lavinia, hats, anything and everything hats—although in the last year she’s taken up the painstakingly slow and patient art of rock sculptures. And Katie—” My gosh, what does Katie like? I can’t think of a thing. “Well, Katie likes just about everything. She’s a successful businesswoman. She runs a lumber mill.” She sounded like a fool. Why had she gone down this road in the first place? Worse: she felt a wave of homesickness.
Even when Lady Audrey lifted a stiff shoulder, her posture never suffered. “I sing and play the piano. I do stitching and enjoy writing verse. And paint. I so enjoy my watercolors.” Her brow lifted. “And I socialize.”
“We’ve had more visitors than ever at Ashbury of late,” the dowager added smugly. “Lords who have known your father, and his before that,” she went on, directing her gaze at Beranger. “Along with their eligible sons. She will have her pick when she decides to marry.”
Beranger lowered his coffee cup into the saucer. “That’s good news indeed.”
“And I,” Justin blurted good-heartedly, “like to do whatever my benefactor or benefactress is doing
at the moment. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, except perhaps building, like your youngest sister, Duchess.” He winked at her. “Someday, perhaps, you can show me how to brand a calf, since we don’t do that in England. We don’t have the wide-open plains like Americans. Our lands are marked and fenced.”
Emma found herself relaxing and liking Beranger’s cousin.
“I hope we can see some of your paintings, Lady Audrey,” Beranger tried again, bringing the conversation back to her. “Do you do landscapes?”
His half sister dropped her gaze to her plate. “Yes. But nothing worth seeing yet.”
Disappointment crossed Beranger’s face. “Well, soon, I hope. Now”—he placed his napkin beside his plate and stood—“Lord Harry and I have work to do. Accounting ledgers to look at and a trip to London later today, for a vote in tomorrow’s House of Lords. There’s a bill I’d like to vote on concerning voting rights for more classes of Englishmen.”
The dowager’s smile was cool, but she said nothing.
Emma frowned and stared at Beranger. When had he made the decision to go away? And without saying a single word to her. Of course, he’d take her too, wouldn’t he?
He caught her gaze. “Until a proper lady’s maid is hired for you, Emma, Hyacinth Green will fill in. She can pack the things you’ll need. Two nights won’t require much.”
Thank God! Relief flowed from her head to her feet.
“The duchess can’t possibly go.” The dowager’s voice was pleasant but firm. “She’s just arrived. Important people want to be introduced. And we have much to go over. The Dowager Countess of Sarre is coming for tea tomorrow, as is Lady Coldred. You remember the local baroness, don’t you?”
“Those visits can wait.”
Beranger didn’t sound as firm as the dowager. Emma looked between the two.
Sadness sagged the dowager’s features. “Perhaps you don’t remember Harriet Ninham, Dowager Countess of Sarre. She’s ninety-five with a delicate heart. She might not make next week. As a boy, you experienced the concept of duty from afar, but never had to conform, to graciously forfeit of yourself. Our main duty is hospitality and graciousness. Now that you’re duke, you may not realize the enormous importance of your station, and that of your new wife.” She turned her gaze on Emma.
“I’ll be happy to stay behind,” Emma said, fuming. How dare the dowager paint Beranger in such an ignorant light? If she expected Emma to fall to pieces over a simple social event, she was wrong. Emma would show her she could handle herself in any situation.
“You’re sure?” Beranger asked.
Had a look of relief just crossed his eyes? “Absolutely.”
“We’ll cut our stay to one night. That’ll be sufficient time for us to visit our solicitor and make an appearance at the House of Lords.”
He came around and helped her from her chair.
“Don’t rush back on my account,” she responded, gazing into his eyes. “I have your stepmother and sister to count on. If you need more time to finish your business, take the opportunity while you’re in London.” Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of sleeping even one night without him, but she kept her tone light. “What on earth could go on here beside chitchat and drinking tea? Besides, I do want to get to know the place.”
He pulled her into his arms for a quick embrace and whispered against her ear, “Are you sure? I’d like you to come along. See London.”
Wanting to show him she could take care of herself, and that he need not worry, she nodded. “I’m sure. You’ll be better able to concentrate on business if I stay here.” She was well aware of the others watching. “Go and have a good time, and don’t worry. We ladies will have our own fun while you’re away.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Deep in thought, Tristen Llewellyn crossed the open lawn and approached the castle greenhouse, intent on delivering a message from his uncle the gamekeeper to the gardener, telling him their evening game of chess would have to be postponed, for he wasn’t feeling up to the task. The building, on the south end of the garden, was not far from the servants’ door that led to the kitchen. From the other direction, Tristen saw a flash of sapphire along the line of trees and knew it to be Lady Audrey’s walking cape. She usually went out this time of day for air, and to enjoy the fall colors.
A burst of heat hit Tristen as he entered the greenhouse. Stuffy air filled his lungs. Striding down the aisle, he passed rows of planters with new sprigs of green he couldn’t identify. Others were tall and mature. He recognized the wide leaf of green tobacco not yet ready to be harvested, but that was about all. Aunt Rose would be able to name every plant. She and Uncle Arson were good to have taken him in. Life back in Wales felt like a distant dream. At one time, he’d thought he’d study to become a master mason, like the grandfather who had raised him. Hard substances in his hands roughened his skin, grounded him, and made him know that only small changes were needed for a true conversion. Carefully chipping away at an inlay was like watching a beautiful flower bloom. The hours he’d assisted his grandfather—or even just watched—were some of the best of his life.
Then suddenly his world had changed overnight.
For a moment, he gazed at his hands in the bright enclosure. Not soft, but nothing like before.
“Hello?” Tristen called and turned a complete circle. “Anyone here?” The place was small, but visibility was hampered by plants and boxes. The gardener could easily be missed if he were squatting down. The message from his uncle wasn’t urgent, but Tristen had obliged because Uncle Arson had a difficult time now even getting out of a chair. If unsuccessful here, he’d check the expansive garden next, and if that didn’t pan out, he’d be on his way.
Yesterday, he’d come upon more tracks in the forest, most certainly made by poachers. Empathy for the poor made him sigh. The penalty for poaching had been steeply increased by the last duke. Three months behind bars and worse for a repeat offense. They needed the game to feed their families, but he had a duty to his employer. The risks of closing his eyes to the illegal practices were countless. For Lady Audrey, or any other innocent person walking in the woods, stumbling upon the crime could be extremely unsafe. Desperate men were dangerous.
Unsuccessful in his endeavors inside the greenhouse, Tristen opened the door to leave and practically ran into someone with a wicker basket draped over their arm. “Miss Aldridge!” he said, recognizing the young woman he’d encountered on the road only two days ago. Hadn’t she said she worked at the bakeshop in Brightshire? A small world indeed.
Amusement sparkled in her eyes. “Mr. Llewellyn, what a surprise.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you worked in Brightshire?” He glanced at her hand, remembering her hurt palm.
“My cousin is the scullery maid in Ashbury’s kitchen, and she’s taken ill. I’m filling in until she can return so she won’t lose her job. But right this moment, I’ve come to gather a few fresh herbs for the rosemary-walnut bread I’m baking.”
Her pleased expression made him smile. “How is your palm? May I see?”
Her eyes widened.
“It was only a tiny scratch, Mr. Llewellyn, and is now healed. There was never a need to worry.”
Without asking, he gently took her hand. What she’d said was true. Only a tiny scrape remained on her palm, but the rest of her hands appeared red. Scullery work was not easy. And now she was baking too?
He let go and leaned back, feeling the edge of the building with his shoulder. A bit of sunshine had appeared from beneath the clouds, and he told himself that was the warmth he felt on his face. It had nothing to do with the touch of the hand he’d just been holding. “How does the scullery maid bake bread? I’m confused.”
“Actually, I’ve been promoted to assistant baker, and the poor girl who used to be in the scullery is back there until my cousin returns. I feel horrible about it. Margaret Malone is none too happy about her demotion either.”
Margaret? The girl had taken a shine to Trist
en the day he’d arrived. He did his best to be her friend without encouraging any infatuation. He, an ex-convict who would himself be out of a job once his uncle’s strength returned, had nothing to offer any woman. Not a scullery maid like Margaret—and certainly not beautiful Charlotte Aldridge.
At his silence her smile faded. “I wasn’t looking to take Margaret’s place—it just happened. I never said anything to Mrs. Darling about my baking, but I think Mr. Winters—”
“Mr. Winters?” Tristen tamped back his irritation. He’d seen him hanging around the kitchen before. That man never missed a pretty face. “Oh?”
Charlotte shook her head dismissively. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He came to the kitchen with a berry stain on his shirt, and we spoke for a bit. He’d have no reason to mention me to Mrs. Darling, I’m sure.”
Tristen wasn’t sure about anything at all, now that the warmth he’d been feeling had been dispersed by a gust of icy annoyance. Miss Aldridge was none of his business. Whom she spoke with didn’t concern him in the least. “I best be back to work,” he said, ready to resume looking for the gardener. “Good luck to you in the kitchen.”
An hour later, morning preparations had come and gone, and Cook was working ahead on the noon meal.
Charlotte, in deep contemplation, whipped the spicy scented batter of her family’s one-hundred-year-old gingerbread recipe. If she’d made this recipe one time, she’d done so a thousand and needed no words on paper to remember the ingredients and proportions.
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