Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  Mayson sighed, remembering the times when he had gone to the kitchen and made dishes to tempt his father in his last days. But the Grim Reaper would visit any household, and mere skill with a spoon could not defeat him.

  Tonight’s snack for the Dowager was a simple fruit pudding with a light syrup, and a topping of fresh, sliced strawberries from the estate’s hot house. Easy to digest, and unlikely to upset an aging tummy, while still delighting the taste buds of a food connoisseur. With it tucked neatly into a special cupboard, Mayson turned his attention toward cleaning up, setting the bread sponge for morning, and generally ending the day in the kitchen.

  The potboy cheerfully helped him with wrestling the large, copper-bottomed pots to the washing drain, an innovation installed by the late Duke of Tolware. The maids came back to take the remains of the dishes that had already been served up to the servants’ dining hall for their dinner. Everything was normal. Everything was as it should be. But something kept pulling at him.

  Was it a pair of sparkling green eyes? Was it the quiet dignity that the new companion wore about her like a mantle? Was it some niggling unease caused by the kitchen maids nattering about murder?

  More likely, a touch of indigestion from too much tasting, Mayson thought to himself.

  Just then the butler entered. “Mr. Rudge,” he said ponderously, “The Duchess would like for you to come up to receive thanks for your dinner preparations.”

  Hastily, Mayson whipped off the stained, spattered apron that showed too clearly the effects of the evening’s labors. Just as quickly, he put on a clean one. He then doffed the sweat-stained skull cap that kept his hair out of the food, and the food out of his hair, replacing it with a pristinely starched chef’s hat that was kept for just this purpose.

  Looking the absolute best that a professional cook at the end of a long, hot meal preparation can possibly look, he went up to receive formal accolades and thanks.

  As he stood in the dining room door, in his proper place for such events, he noted that Mrs. Swinton wore a slightly dressier version of the gown she had worn earlier. This one displayed her fair shoulders, as was proper for dining in company, but still covered her bosom more than adequately and was modestly understated.

  With effort, he wrenched his attention away from her, and gave the Duchess a proper bow, murmuring his thanks for the appreciation.

  Back downstairs, he took his seat at the servants’ table, about midway down the side of it. He ranked somewhat below the butler and housekeeper, but higher than the other kitchen workers. The head stableman sat across from him, shoulder to shoulder with the head gardener.

  The meal was eaten in reverent silence, except for the occasional, “Please pass...” and the clatter of cutlery against china. When the dessert was finished, the butler rose and said, “Excellent as always, Mr. Rudge. You are a treasure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Mayson replied. “It is my pleasure to be of service.”

  The night staff began clearing the table. As he passed Mayson while clearing the table, the potboy nudged him and said, “She’s a looker, ain’t she?”

  Mayson frowned at him.

  “Miz Swinton,” the young man said. “She’s quite a looker.”

  Mayson stared at him for just long enough to make the youngster squirm. “Mrs. Swinton is an attractive lady, and far above your station. Do not forget yourself, Jemmy.”

  The young man flushed. “I din’ mean nothin’ by it, Mr. Rudge. But she’s, as you say, attractive. An’ more’n that, she’s nice.”

  Mayson let his attitude soften. “Yes, she is. And therefore all the more deserving of respect, don’t you think?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Rudge. I’ll remember.”

  Mayson gazed thoughtfully after the lad as he staggered off toward the kitchen under his load of dishes.

  He said no more than what you were thinking. She is lovely, and she is nice. But you are only a cook, and she is a companion. She is above your station, too.

  Mayson sighed. Sometimes it was difficult to make it through a day in good order. He began to scrape and stack dishes, doing his part of the clearing up. Was this how his life was to be now? Always the same?

  Chapter 4

  Darrius sat at the head of the dinner table, with his intended on his left and his mother on his right. Mrs. Swinton sat between Blanche Notley and her mother, Lady Carletane, while Lord Carletane, Miss Notley’s father, sat across the table from them.

  The table is sadly out of balance, he thought sourly. I should have invited some other guests, but this is my mother’s house, not mine.

  “Oh, my very dear,” the Duchess gushed to Blanche, “I am so glad you could visit with us today. Darrius had the gardener bring the most delicious treat from the estate’s very own hothouse.”

  “That is simply amazing,” Blanche replied. Her voice was thin, high, and slightly nasal. “I have not been able to visit a hothouse since I was a child. It was found that the vapors from the plants clog up my nose and make my eyes run as copiously as if I had lost my last friend.”

  “Dear me,” the Duchess seemed slightly taken aback by this information, as if she had not heard it every time she was in raptures over a berry or blossom. “That is simply dreadful, Blanche. I am so sorry for your plight. I simply cannot imagine not being able to stop and smell the roses.”

  Blanche took this statement in good part. “I am afraid that if I tried, I would be smelling nothing at all for weeks to come. Just think how tragic that would be, not to be able to appreciate the aroma of a good, beef broth or the essence of a kidney pie.”

  The Dowager Duchess lifted one eyebrow slightly, and gave a delicate little shudder. “You could have gone all evening without mentioning kidney pie. Dear George doted on them, but I simply cannot abide the flavor of organ meats. We had a cook who most delicately would make up a small fish pie for me on the nights when he made kidney pie for everyone else.”

  “That was extremely kind of him,” Blanche remarked, diplomatically endorsing the cook from the past and his endeavors. She was just as aware of the Duchess’ aversion to kidney pie as the Duchess was of Blanche’s inability to appreciate the scent of most things that bloomed or leafed.

  Darrius knew that if his mother and his intended were not interrupted, they would go on like this for hours. It was a game between them, one with almost all the moves mapped out, much like the maneuvering of two experienced chess players who are so well matched that neither loses a man to the other, allowing them to play for weeks, if not months, at the same game.

  With the idea of breaking up this verbal competition, Darrius turned to Lord Carletane and asked, “Have you been hunting recently?”

  “Nothing to signify,” his future father-in-law replied. “Bagged a few pheasants a week ago, Sunday. Good sport, though. Took out a young hound that I’m just now training.”

  “Excellent,” Darrius commented. “Did he do well?”

  “Well enough. At least he stuck to business, and didn’t go off hunting bunnies.”

  “That’s impressive for a young dog on his first outing,” Darrius said admiringly.

  Lord Carletane nodded, pleased by the approbation. “Isn’t it just? My kennel master knows his trade well. Turns out pups trained to a treat. What about yourself? Seen any sport lately?”

  “A little fishing,” Darrius replied, fully aware that his bride-to-be had an aversion to all outdoor sports. But dash it all, he did not want to sit through an evening of the ladies’ verbal sparring. “They were biting well after that last rain. Our cook has an excellent eye as to what parts to save for bait, and had some choice bits ready for me. This last round, I was using pieces of bacon that had gone a bit off.”

  Lady Carletane apparently decided that the hunting and sporting talk had gone on long enough. “Your Grace,” she addressed the Duchess, “Is that a new cap? It is quite fetching.”

  “Oh, indeed it is!” the Duchess replied, pleased as Punch that someone noticed. “My c
ompanion, Mrs. Swinton, made it. She is an excellent hand with a needle.”

  “Is that indeed so?” Blanche raised her lorgnette, and peered through it at Evelyn. “Are married ladies usually companions?”

  “Widowed,” Mrs. Swinton replied, equably. “Married ladies would be much too busy with home and hearth. As it is, I find that it is my pleasure to create such small things for Her Grace.”

  “Oh.” Blanche let her lorgnette fall to her lap. “I am sorry, I had no idea.”

  “It is quite all right,” Mrs. Swinton replied. “How could you have known?”

  “Perhaps you can become a milliner,” Lady Carletane sniffed, “Since it is clear you have few conversational skills.”

  “Now that is unkind,” the Duchess said severely. “What sort of conversational skills should she have, Lavinia? I declare, marrying a Viscount has given you no more social graces than when we were girls in finishing school.”

  Oh, no. Must head this off before it turns into a major row.

  “I say,” Darrius put in, “It is a fetching cap. I believe that Mrs. Swinton is quite skilled in several needle and craft arts. She recently requested some lamb’s wool for knitting. She has kept my mother happy and entertained for the better part of two months, for which we are all grateful.”

  The Duchess closed her fan with a snap, and gently rapped Darrius on the knuckles of his right hand. “Ungrateful boy! If I were not so pleased with Mrs. Swinton, I declare I should take umbrage. As it is, I will tell you, Lavinia, that she reads beautifully and is happy to discuss almost any topic. You must understand that Mr. Swinton was taken from her by consumption not quite a year ago. You cannot expect her to be equable about discussing it.”

  “So recently as that?” Lord Carletane asked. “I’m sure many ladies would be prostrate with such a stressful event in the near past.”

  Mrs. Swinton, who by now had two spots of high color on her cheeks, said quietly, “Consumption is a long and expensive illness, Lord Carletane. I am afraid I did not have the luxury of taking time to be prostrate.”

  Lord Carletane chuckled. “You know, I quite like her, Lavinia. She is pert and she has backbone. Reminds me of Adelaide when she and George were first married.”

  “Well, I never!” Lady Carletane sniffed. “I’m tempted to send for the carriage so that Blanche and I can simply go home.”

  “There, there, my dear,” Lord Carletane soothed. “You know you are my favorite lady of all time. But you have to admit, that we have quite put Mrs. Swinton on the spot, and here we are talking about her as if she were a statue in our midst.” He turned to Mrs. Swinton and said, “I quite apologize. We are behaving abominably.”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Swinton said. “It is natural for people to be curious, and you can scarcely learn about anything if you do not ask questions. I will own, I do find it difficult to talk about Mr. Swinton. I do miss him a great deal, even though we were only married for two years.”

  Blanche’s face softened. “I do apologize. I’m sure it must have been a difficult experience for you.”

  Mrs. Swinton sighed. “Apology accepted. Think nothing of it.”

  “Perhaps we could speak of a less delicate topic,” Darrius said. “What was your opinion of Waverly, Mrs. Swinton?”

  “I found it to be well-named,” she returned promptly. “The protagonist was always ‘wavering’ about something.”

  “Quite so, quite so,” Lord Carletane chortled. “I’m surprised you made it all the way through it.”

  “We finished it a day or two ago, then turned out attention to some local histories, did we not, Your Grace?” Mrs. Swinton deftly turned the attention back to their hostess.

  “Why, yes, we did,” the Duchess agreed. “Which did you prefer, Mrs. Swinton, the description of Hillsworth or the walking tour on the moors?”

  “I found both fascinating,” Mrs. Swinton replied. “But I think the moors were my favorite. Which did you prefer, Your Grace?”

  “Oh, I have always loved the account of our day at Hillsworth. George was so handsome that day. It seems a hard thing that the place is falling to ruin now, under the care of that uncle to the heir. What was the lad’s name? I declare I cannot remember.”

  “No idea,” Darrius replied. “Nor do I think the property is in as sad a state as all that. No doubt it shall come about once the inheritance is straightened out. It is difficult to steward a place with an absentee landlord who might or might not return one day.”

  “Just what is the story about that?” Mrs. Swinton asked.

  “A most curious thing,” Lord Carletane said. “The heir went fishing one day, and then disappeared. They found his fishing hat and his pole beside the riverbank, but no sign at all of him. Some folks believe that his uncle did him in, but I, for one, would never think such a thing of Leroy Rutley, as fine a sporting man as ever rode to the hounds.”

  The Duchess clicked her tongue against her teeth, and nodded to the butler to have the soup course cleared away, and the main course brought in. She made a face at the small dish of boiled greens that appeared next to her plate but brightened when she saw the cruet of vinegar beside it. “My cook is such a dear boy. He never forgets to make the physician’s recommendations palatable.”

  “We are all grateful to the physician, as well,” Darrius said to his parent fondly. “I declare you have never looked better, Mother.”

  “I would take umbrage at that, my son, except that I truly do feel better. Of late, I have not felt so bilious at bedtime, and have even had energy enough to walk to the end of the garden. It is quite a change from languishing in my rooms. Of course, it does not hurt at all that the buds on the trees are swelling, and the snowdrops blooming.”

  “Achoo,” Blanche sneezed daintily into a lace handkerchief. “I feel my nose closing down, just thinking about such a journey.”

  And here we go again. Between Mother, the future in-laws, and Blanche, I feel completely beleaguered. Yet, I need this marriage and the endowment, to say nothing of joining our estates together. At this dinner, the one sane, sensible conversationalist has been Mrs. Swinton.

  Chapter 5

  Mayson smiled at the soft patter of slippered feet. Mrs. Swinton was coming downstairs to get the Duchess’ special treat. He had observed that the companion was not as fond of sweets as Her Grace, and had added an assortment of crackers and sliced cheese to the evening snack.

  For the Duchess, he had a pear compote that was lightly sprinkled with sugar, then liberally dusted with cinnamon and just the tiniest pinch of nutmeg. Mrs. Swinton laughed when she smelled the nutmeg in the mix.

  “What is it?” Mayson asked, feeling a little worried.

  “I had a little nut tree,” she recited mischievously.

  “Oh, the one with the silver nutmeg and the golden pear?” Mayson gave a little chuckle of his own.

  “The very one,” Mrs. Swinton agreed. “I wonder if Her Grace will think of it?”

  “How did you know there was nutmeg?” Mayson inquired.

  “The smell. Cinnamon has a similar odor, but nutmeg gives it just that little bit more of an edge.”

  “That it does,” Mayson nodded. “Like a tiny bit of pepper on a dish of dumplings. Not enough to upset the senses, but rather to tease them into enjoyment.”

  “That is amazingly poetic,” Mrs. Swinton said in astonishment.

  Mayson felt a glow of pleasure at her praise. “Thank you,” he said. “It warms my heart that you think so.”

  “Oh, you!” Mrs. Swinton said, “You are teasing me.”

  “No, not at all,” Mayson replied. “Not very many people appreciate my small homilies. But I find that cooking is a great deal like life.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Swinton paused, the tray in her hands.

  “Yes, indeed. In cooking, you frequently get back the effort you put into it. Dash things together indifferently, and you get back a slapdash sort of meal. But if you measure, calculate, and plan, you frequently create something good.
Moreover, if you have written down what you did, you can duplicate the dish on another day. Life works like that—you get back mostly what you put into it.”

  “But what about when your efforts multiply?” Mrs. Swinton asked. “Sometimes the smallest deed can bring amazing results.”

  “That,” Mayson said, flashing an appreciative grin, “is what happens when you accidentally happen upon exceptional ingredients and the results are far greater than you would have anticipated with more ordinary fruits.”

  Mrs. Swinton smiled back at him. “Do you know,” she endorsed his comment, “I do believe that you are right.”

  With that, she turned around and headed up the stairs, leaving Mayson gaping after her.