She wanted food—meat and fish, butter and eggs and bread. Hot, succulent, satisfying food that melted in her mouth and filled the empty, aching hole in her stomach.
She’d been counting on Darragh to break, to toss up his hands in defeat and agree to hire a cook. But as each new day dawned and he didn’t so much as whisper a word of complaint, she began to fret. He was stubborn enough to outlast her, she realized, no matter how long the siege might take. Worse, she suspected the wretch was cheating, privy to a stash of food she couldn’t find. And if he did have additional foodstuffs, Lord knows how long he might be able to hold out.
When Aine arrived this morning, Jeanette had practically fallen upon the girl, all but begging her to cook her a meal. With wide, sympathetic green eyes and hair as black as midnight, Aine had bobbed an apologetic curtsey and explained that Mr. O’Brien had forbidden her from doing aught else but the cleaning and laundry chores as agreed. She’d said she could answer any questions Jeannette might have on how to cook, but that she wasn’t to do any of the actual preparation herself.
Jeannette had choked down an oath and stalked back to the bedroom, infuriated all over again. She wasn’t even permitted the satisfaction of twisting the key in the lock, since Darragh had secreted it away. He’d secreted them all away, hiding every single blessed key in the house. Despite her pleas on the subject, he had refused to return any of them. Not until he could trust her not to lock him out, he said.
And since she couldn’t lock him out, she couldn’t keep him out either. Not out of the bedroom nor out of her bed. She did her best to ignore him during the day, letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought of his loathsome edict.
But at night he was impossible to ignore. Devil that he was, he delighted in finding clever and ever more inventive ways to turn her desire against her, to make her eager and aching and yielding in his arms. The first two nights he waited until she was too sleepy to put up more than a token protest, quickly luring her traitorous body to override her mind. Then last night he’d simply leaned close and started dropping random kisses onto her skin. Refusing to be shooed aside, he persisted until he had her purring beneath him, had her quite literally begging for his touch, his name a breathless, fervid sigh on her lips.
She knew she ought to be ashamed for surrendering in his arms the way she did at night, when by day he exasperated her to the point where she could barely bring herself to speak so much as a civil greeting to him. But there it was, the odd ambivalence of their relationship. The inexplicable push and pull between them that stirred the full gambit of emotions from high to low.
As the day progressed, she did what she could to pay no heed to her empty, aching stomach, glad Darragh was occupied in his study drawing plans or some such thing. But by afternoon she knew she could stand it no longer. Still, she refused to ask for any quarter from her husband, seeking Aine out instead.
She found the girl in the backyard, long hair tied back in a kerchief as she hung wet laundry from the line.
“Excuse me, Aine,” she said. “Could you help me, do you suppose? I need to light the fire in the stove, and I…well, I do not know how.”
The girl looked up, a pleasant smile curving her lips. “Sure and I’d be that pleased to help you, ma’am. Just let me finish hanging this sheet and I’ll be there in a nip.”
As a servant, Aine ought to have called her “my lady.” Even married to an untitled commoner as Jeannette now was, her hereditary title—the one that came to her through her father—was still hers to use. A correction hovered on her lips, but she swallowed it down. What did it matter here in this place whether or not this ordinary girl addressed her properly? What lady, after all, would be asking the assistance of a servant to light a stove in the first place?
Aine completed pinning the sheet, then turned with a lithe step and disappeared into the kitchen. Jeannette followed, and once inside stood by to watch and listen while the maid showed her how to add kindling and light the range.
“Is there a simple dish you might suggest?” Jeannette asked the girl once the stove was heating nicely. “Something flavorsome, but easy to cook?”
Aine considered the question. “Potatoes, onions and bacon make a nice quick dish. They’ll fry right up in a skillet in no time at all.”
Jeannette thanked the girl and watched her return outside to the laundry. Potatoes, onions and bacon did sound simple. Plain and homey and filling, a far cry from the elegant cuisine upon which she usually dined. But under the circumstances, such fare would have to do. And surely even she could cook such a dish—after all, how hard could it be?
Darragh followed his nose into the kitchen, pleased to find Jeannette at the stove, but not so surprised to find her looking less than happy.
Metal spatula in hand, she chiseled in clear desperation at something cooking—or should he say burning—inside a heavy iron skillet. Cursing, she blistered the air with a litany of words he wouldn’t have imagined a gently bred woman like her to know. He watched as she grabbed a thick towel off the counter and wrapped it around the handle to yank the pan off the heat.
“Ouch.” She stuck a knuckle in her mouth.
He hurried across. “Did you burn yourself?”
She rounded on him, her translucent eyes flashing hotter than a boiling sea. “Yes, and I hope you feel badly about it, since it’s all your fault.”
“Here now, let me have a look.”
She slapped him away. “Keep your looks to yourself.”
He gathered up her hand anyway, saw a faint pink mark on her skin, relieved to discover the wound wasn’t serious. “Shall I draw you a bit of cool water from the well to ease the pain?”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she said in a martyred tone. “I will simply have to bear the pain until it heals.” She glanced toward the skillet, her disappointment plain. “Oh, look at it. It’s ruined.”
Whatever it was. In its current sad state he couldn’t quite tell, though he suspected the main ingredient might have started out as potatoes. Criticizing her first attempt at cooking, however, was no way to instill confidence.
“Looks delicious,” he lied. “A mite crispy along the edges—but then, I like it that way.”
Incredulous eyes met his own. “You like your potatoes burned?”
Ah, so he’d been right about that. If he could still recognize what it was she’d cooked, then surely he could eat it. At least he prayed he could.
He slapped his hands together, as if eager to begin the meal. “Let me gather up a pair of plates and in we’ll dig.”
She stood back as he did exactly that, setting places for them at the table in the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. He left her to scrape the charred mass onto a serving platter and carry it into the other room.
She set the dish down with a thump.
Helping her with her chair, he took a seat opposite. He forced an enthusiastic smile, then spooned a hearty portion of blackened potatoes onto his blue-and-white-patterned china plate.
Good thing he was hungry, starving actually. He hadn’t eaten a satisfying meal since the night of their arrival. She had to be starving as well, ravenous hunger clearly being what had driven her into the kitchen, just the way he’d planned.
Still, he’d been worried, afraid she just might outlast him. Sainted Mary, he was glad Jeannette had yielded, since it had been near killing him not to go to Aine and beg her to cook them something, anything that didn’t have to be eaten cold or raw.
But he’d resisted and had won the reward. Though, to be honest, the food presently on his plate didn’t look much like a reward. But Jeannette had made it and that was the point. He only prayed he’d be able to subsist on her mistakes long enough for her to learn to cook. If she learned to cook. Well, if worse came to worst he’d muddle through, a bit thinner for the experience.
Wishing he’d thought to get himself a knife, he jammed his fork into what looked like a dark, flattened brick and chipped off a corner. Th
e food crunched between his teeth, the taste of charcoal and something else, something greasy and slightly revolting sliding over his tongue.
Half-raw bacon, he realized. And overly seasoned. Dear God, had she poured an entire pot of salt into the skillet?
He chewed faster and gulped. “Delicious.”
She raised a dubious brow, studied him as he forced in another mouthful. He got a huge wedge of onion this time, burned on one side, raw on the other. Amazingly, despite their blackened surface, parts of the potatoes were under-cooked and hard in the center. Without question, the dish was one of the most revolting he’d ever consumed.
But consume it he did, working his way through at a rapid pace. In between bites, he gulped swigs of the ale he’d poured himself, grateful for the relief it gave his abused throat and tongue.
For Jeannette’s part, she poked at the congealing mass with the tines of her fork. After a sniff, she ate a single bite, her nose crinkling in disgust before she set her utensil aside.
Vitruvius ambled in, canine eyes pleading in the hopes of earning a treat. Instead of shooing the dog out of the room, she set her plate on the floor. Tail wagging, Vitruvius raced up and wolfed down a huge mouthful. Seconds later, his tail drooped and he gagged, hacking the food back out onto the plate with a retching cough.
For a long moment she and Darragh stared at the dog, looking on in silence as he whimpered and retreated from the room, as though stung.
“Well, I guess that told me,” Jeannette declared. Suddenly the humor of the situation caught her and she began to snicker, then laugh full-out.
Darragh joined her, a huge grin on his face. “He’s a rude lad, he is.”
“But an honest one. Poor thing, I feel like an axe murderer.”
“Animal has no taste.”
Downing a reinforcing gulp of ale, Darragh stabbed another forkful of the food on his plate and raised it to his mouth.
Jeannette’s lips parted in horror. “For mercy sakes, Darragh, stop. Even the dog can’t bear to eat it.” She reached out a hand, laid it on his forearm to keep him from taking another bite.
His skin unusually pale, he wavered. “It’s not so bad.”
“Of course it’s not, it’s worse than bad. So dreadful that if anyone dared to serve me such slop I would have them hauled off to the gaol for committing a crime. Put your fork down.”
Looking relieved, he did as she instructed.
“I don’t know how you ate as much as you did,” she said after a long moment.
He planted a fist against his chest, his stomach roiling aloud in protest. “I’m starting to wonder about that myself.”
“You should just have said the meal was terrible.”
“How could I now? Not after the grand try you gave.”
“But it wasn’t grand,” she cried. “It was a disaster.”
He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss onto the top. “Aye, a grand disaster that makes me proud.”
“How can you be proud of being served such a disgusting, revolting mess?”
“Because you made it and that’s enough.”
Something in the region of her heart melted at his words. She’d failed, she thought, and failed miserably. She couldn’t even cook a meal a novice should be able to make. Yet still he claimed to be proud. To her recollection, no one had ever been proud of her before. Admiring, perhaps. Dazzled and envious, even in awe, but never proud.
In her life, the attainment of perfection was the ultimate goal. To be more beautiful, more popular, more desirable and refined than any other. To use the trappings of privilege and wealth to achieve heights in status and prestige.
But Darragh cared nothing for such matters. To him an attempt was still worthy of praise, a failure something for which he could inexplicably still express pride.
He puzzled and warmed her all at the same time.
“Nonetheless,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable with the emotions churning inside her breast, “I am hopeless in the kitchen, and if you persist in this plan of yours to have me cook, the both of us shall soon wither away to skin and bones.”
“We’ll be fine. I told you before, you’ll learn, and this was only your first attempt. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I’m not. It’s my stomach that’s doing the scolding for me.”
“Well, if yours is scolding, then I suppose you might say mine is screaming.” He grimaced. “Have a care with the salt next time.”
“I was trying to give it some flavor.”
“Flavor, was it now? More like swallowing down the ocean.”
Her lips twitched.
His lips twitched back.
Both of them broke into smiles, then laughter.
When their mirth subsided, he laid a hand over his belly. “Oh, I think you’ve done me in, lass. Is there any buttermilk? A glass might prove soothing.”
“In the springhouse, I believe. Shall I ask Aine to get some?”
“Aye. Then after, tell her I’d like a word. I’ll see if she can stay a bit longer this evening and come again extra in the morning.”
“For what reason?”
“To show you a few things about fixing a meal, if you’re agreeable.”
“I’d be more agreeable if you’d simply hire a proper cook. I was not raised to perform common domestic chores, particularly in the kitchen.” She paused, reading the stubborn resolve in his gaze. “But since you insist upon perpetrating this insanity, very well, Aine’s assistance would be most welcome.”
“Good,” he said on a pleased look. “I’ll see it done.”
She waited for the gloating grin to form on his countenance. He had won this particular skirmish, asserted his male will over her own.
But no grin emerged and no gloating either. Just a comfortable smile that emphasized the long square lines of his jaw, the blunt angles of his forehead and chin and nose in a most thoroughly pleasing way. There were no two ways around it, her husband was an extremely handsome man. Of that she could have no complaint.
Rather than let him see the effect he had upon her, she stood. “Well, I suppose I should go find Aine.”
“Aye. And Jeannette?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being my bride.”
With that, he gathered their plates, dropped a kiss onto her surprised mouth, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Chapter Nineteen
That afternoon’s thank-you was just the first of many Jeannette received from Darragh as the weeks passed, the last of September merging into October as fall settled like a crisp, cool blanket over the land. Whatever she cooked—good, bad or mediocre—her efforts were greeted with enthusiasm and unstinting appreciation.
Despite Aine’s cheerful tutelage, learning to cook proved to be a daunting and difficult task.
All her life Jeannette had taken meals for granted. Food was something the servants prepared and served, something she and her family ate. With the exception of menu planning in consultation with the chef and housekeeper—one of her mother’s duties, as mistress of the house—Jeannette had never spared more than a fleeting thought for where the ingredients were derived and what happened to those foodstuffs while they were being turned into dishes fit to be served at table.
But in quick order the blinders had been yanked from her eyes, leaving her with a new sympathy and understanding for all the kitchen staff who had ever dutifully prepared her a meal.
After the potato debacle, Aine started her out with something easy—scrambled eggs. Aine helped her cook sausages too—careful to make certain the meat didn’t burn—and aided her in brewing her very first pot of tea.
After the girl left for the evening, Jeannette sat across from Darragh at the dining room table. Sighing in happy relief, the two of them worked their way through the platter of simple food with pure, unabashed delight.
Baking bread, simmering oatmeal, frying and roasting meat, boiling vegetables were nex
t on the list of essentials that needed to be learned—her first attempts all colossal catastrophes. And though she wanted nothing more than to give up and tell Darragh they would have to go back to eating apples and cheese, she bit her lips and doggedly persevered.
As for Darragh, he worked during the day in his study, whistling as he sketched his plans, occasionally muttering under his breath as he researched various books and consulted previous designs. One morning a little over a week after their arrival, he announced he had business and would be away for a few hours.
At first, she’d been peeved. “Why aren’t you inviting me along?” she asked, thrusting her lower lip out on an obvious pout. “Don’t you think I would enjoy an excursion away from the house?”
“No,” he’d answered, pointing out that besides her having the evening meal to prepare, his business would only bore her and make her regret her decision to come along.
Of course, she could have ridden after him; there was a second horse stabled in the barn. But she wouldn’t know her way around the area, and frankly, from what she’d seen on a couple of the walks she’d taken, there really wasn’t anything of interest to see.
Alone in the too quiet house, since it was one of Aine’s days off, she set herself to baking bread. All went well until she opened the oven door to check on the baking loaves and saw they were flat and hard as brick bats.
“Oh,” she cried, using a pair of steel tongs to pull the pans from the oven, wisps of hair curling over her forehead from the heat.
Swiping a forearm across her perspiring skin, she stared at the miserable results of her day’s baking, wondering where she had gone wrong. Her eyes fell upon a small blue jar and she knew, nearly smacking her forehead for her stupidity. The leavening! She’d forgotten to add the leavening. Of all the idiotic mistakes, she admonished herself. Dejectedly, she sank onto a kitchen chair and burst into tears.
Darragh found her still there half an hour later, her eyes red and swollen from all the tears she had shed.
“Here now,” he said, crossing quickly to her, “what’s amiss? Have you hurt yourself?”
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