“I think, Papa, you are better off saying nothing at all to Mrs. Jarvis.” It didn’t take much for the cook to find her excuse and walk out, especially this time of year when she liked to go to Manderson and pay an extended visit to her sister’s family. Rather than ask for the time off, she preferred to make the major beg for her to come back, of course. That way she could negotiate for a raise in her salary. “But at this moment, our most important concern is my cooking, for I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer it for the next few weeks without her.”
Her father heaved upright in his chair and laid a hand on her arm while she fluffed the cushion and set it carefully behind his back. “Everything that woman makes is tainted by the flavor of her resentment. I would rather eat a bowl full of your cold and lumpy gravy made with love and good intentions.”
“Well, that’s all very nice, and fortunate, because that may be what you get to eat tonight.” Becky glanced at his exposed toes. “Papa, you had better give me those to darn. Really, you cannot go about with holes like that.” She thought again of the parson’s wife eyeing their laundry as it dried on the washing line.
“Why not? If anyone should peer in at my window tonight, they will see I have holes, m’dear, and they will know for certain that I have toes, if they were ever in any doubt. And if that upsets ’em, they’d best not see the state of me drawers.”
“Papa!”
“I like my clothes comfortable, familiar, and worn-in, Becky. I cannot be doing with new things, as you know. But if you do not wish me to wear my favorite clothes, I can sit here as the Good Lord made me, and then, as I told that surly ingrate Jarvis, she would have complaints of a more serious nature.”
“Oh, she certainly would.”
“How was the play, m’dear? I wish I could have come out to watch. Blast this cold weather!”
“I will tell you all about it, Papa, when we sit down to dinner. Suffice to say, I managed to speak everyone else’s lines as well as my own. I am always too eager and impatient.”
“But I’m sure you read them very well, m’dear. Whether they were your lines or not.”
“Unfortunately that’s not quite the point.” While Becky lit a few more candles so he could see to read his newspaper, she felt his eyes following her around the room.
“Dear Becky, I hope life here isn’t too dull for you.”
“Dull for me? Certainly not.”
“But you can have few adventures here.”
“Thank goodness! I had enough adventures by the time I was seventeen and I did not go seeking any of those out deliberately. They found me. Now, here in this place where so very little ever happens to disturb the tranquility, I can look forward to a peaceful old age.”
“I hope not, m’dear.” He looked appalled. “One should never be too old for new adventure.”
And this opinion, she thought dourly, is why someone in the family has to remain sensible.
She kissed his brow and left him happily wriggling his naked toes before the replenished fire.
As Becky neared the kitchen door again, a delicious aroma tickled her nose. The sound and scent of sizzling meat made her feet quicken the last few steps. She pushed the door fully open and stared in amazement.
Her rescued stray—coat, hat, and jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled up—stood at the fire, leaning on his cane with one hand and stirring something in the pot with the other. The table behind him was littered with bones, potato peel, and onion skin. His dog, thirstily drinking from a bowl of water on the floor, raised its head to look at her, wagged its stump, and then resumed its noisy slobbering.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Making your supper…before I steal all the silver spoons from the pantry and take off into the night, of course.”
It was so utterly unexpected to have help from a man rather than hindrance that she didn’t know what to say.
He looked over his shoulder. “Well, don’t just stand there undressing me with your eyes. I could make use of another pair of hands. If they’re not too dainty for chores.”
Dainty, indeed! Undressing him with her eyes! The man had some cheek after the way he’d stared at her before.
But Becky was in such a state of shock that she didn’t make a single comment of denial to his accusation.
Six
“I don’t suppose you have any spices, do you, Gingersnap? Indian saffron? Cumin? Chili?”
She had some familiarity with those things after her years in India, but Mrs. Jarvis would never approve of such as that in her kitchen. She was a “plain” cook and proud of it. “I’m sorry, no. And I told you never to call me that, sir.”
“I’ll call you what I like until you stop calling me sir. The name is Luke, like I told you. Sir indeed.” He shook his head.
“It is a term of respect that a young woman of my age should use for a fellow of advanced years.”
He spared her an exasperated frown, but Becky hid her smile and blinked innocently. She wondered how old he actually was. Despite the walking stick, the man possessed a palpable vitality, raw and uncivilized. Sometimes he had an expression on his face that was almost boyish, but then, if he caught her looking, he made it somber.
“If we must be bloody polite, I suppose I should introduce you to my dog. His name is Unnecessary, but I call him Ness for short. Ness, this here prissy petticoat that you talked into feeding you is Miss Sherringham. Say how do.”
The dog raised his snout and gave a low bark.
She laughed. “I remember him when he was a dear little pup and you coddled him in your coat.”
“Coddled?” he exclaimed, scowling. “I never coddled—I ain’t the sort! He was just very small and poorly, ’tis all. Someone had to—” He shook his head and glowered into the cooking pot, stirring harder. “Coddling indeed.”
“Well, I beg your pardon for suggesting it.” She stooped to pet the dog. “I am honored to meet you, Unnecessary. But what a sad name.”
“’Tis a true one.” His master sniffed, looking down at them. “He ain’t necessary, is he? Just a stupid dog, following me around until he finds better company with more to offer.”
The animal barked in apparent agreement and went back to his nap.
Lucky Luke worked with his shirtsleeves rolled up, broad forearms exposed and deeply tanned, suggesting he often worked outdoors and in a state of improper undress. His hands were rough-skinned and large, but the one not clutching his cane was dexterous as it chopped, sliced, flipped, and stirred. Occasionally he paused, tasting from the spoon, then asked her for some other dried herb from the pantry. When their fingers touched by chance, she felt the hard, weathered skin brush against hers. Saw his gaze slip down to her hand, his lips tighten. As if he were angry. As if he thought she caused that frisson deliberately.
“I suppose you were trying to make curry,” she said finally and rather stupidly for lack of anything else to say. It was not like her to be lost for conversation, but her evening had taken on an extraordinary, almost—dare she think it—fairy-tale quality. Nothing seemed quite real. Even the snow outside the window contributed to the feeling of still performing in a play. She would not be surprised to look around the corner and see the blacksmith, using his bellows to blow white goose feathers through the air. “Don’t you need a recipe?”
“Nah! I’m not good following words on paper. They get all jumbled up in my head. Back to front and inside out. I’m better with my hands.”
“Yes, so I can imagine—I mean—so I see.”
He gave her a sideways look that resulted in another swift rise of blood temperature. She looked around for something to use as a fan.
“You’ve been to India then, missy?”
“We traveled a great deal with the army, and my father never liked the idea of leaving me behind. We had no female relatives with whom I could stay.” She
put her hands behind her back, so he wouldn’t keep looking at them. “I went everywhere with my father. When we were in India, I almost married the son of a maharaja.”
“Almost?”
She lifted her chin and said primly, “There were too many obstacles in our path. It was an affair that had to end. We were ripped asunder by forces beyond us.”
“Sounds painful.”
“It was. Very.” Forgetting the need to hide her hands from his heated glances, she picked up a carrot and bit into it.
“What happened? He pulled your hair or broke one of your dolls? Or called you Gingersnap?”
She sighed and her shoulders relaxed as she leaned against the table. “No, my father came and took me home again in time for nursery tea.”
“Ah! Fathers! Always in the way.” He turned back to the pot. “Now pay attention, Maharani, and you might learn something. I’m a master at the art of cooking.”
Oh, she was paying close attention, fascinated in fact. She raised a hand to the back of her neck, where her hair tickled as if he’d touched it with his own busy, agile fingers. “It won’t be a proper curry without those spices. I remember my father liked it so hot his forehead would perspire.”
“Aye.” He grinned at her. “The hotter the better for me too.”
She felt his gaze brush her hair, but then he cleared his throat, made his face grave, and quickly looked back at the fire.
“My father likes all the things he’s not supposed to have,” she muttered.
“We all like that, don’t we?”
Becky tucked a fallen spiral of hair behind her ear. “I meant spicy things and rich, sweet desserts. Making my papa follow doctor’s orders is an uphill task.” She bit her tongue and winced. Why had she told him all that? Surely he wasn’t interested in her problems. She’d observed before that he probably had a great many of his own.
“I promise your father will like this stew and it will do him the world of good,” he said. “I’m an excellent cook. There will be no complaints.”
“No.” She glanced at his thick, broad shoulders. “I’m sure there wouldn’t be.”
“Of course, I don’t have everything I need here. We’ll have to extemporize. But I’m good at that.”
“How modest you are, sir.”
He tossed her a quick scowl. “Gingersnap!”
“Very well then…Luke. Since you are cooking my dinner, I suppose I can call you that.” Perhaps it was the oddity of seeing a man put himself to good use for her that made everything off-kilter and the improper seem perfectly acceptable.
“What happened to your leg?” she asked.
“All wretched villains like me have one of these wounds, you know. We can’t join the Scoundrels League without one. Now, where do you keep the salt? And we’ll need bread if you have any. Haste, missy! Don’t stand about gawping and idle.”
How dare he boss her about in her own house? Perhaps, under the circumstances, since he was cooking her dinner, she would ignore it. This once.
Becky strode around the table, hands behind her back again, trying to think of practical matters. “How did you find me here, Lucky Luke?”
There was a pause while he tasted the food again. “Find you?”
“I don’t suppose I was easy to trace. We left Brighton five years ago, when my father retired from the army.”
“Ah, but I always collect on a debt. Like I told you.” He looked around to find where she’d gone and then shook a wooden spoon at her. “No obstacle gets in my way when I want something. I suspect you have much to learn about men, young lady.”
Becky wrinkled her nose and laughed, for the idea of him teaching her anything was patently ridiculous. She knew all about men and their ways, having lived twenty-two years with a couple of the most frustrating, ill-behaved males in captivity.
“Something amuses you, madam?”
“That you came all this way just to find me. Had you nothing more important to do?”
“Nah. Not today. I’d put you off long enough. Couldn’t leave you pining for me, could I?” He treated her to another of those dark, sinister, sideways glances. “Even bothersome, interfering redheads need a kiss now ’n’ then.”
“I certainly don’t need anything of the sort,” she declared. “I’m only giving it to you because I promised.”
“Hope you know what you’re getting into, maidy. It won’t be a little kiss like you’re used to from your milksop young suitors.”
“Full of yourself, aren’t you? I’m sure I can manage.”
“We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”
Already too warm, Becky moved away again to fetch bread from the cooler larder.
But her pulse leaped about like a playful rabbit in spring, and she had to go near him again to put plates in the warmer beside the hearth. How could she help looking over and taking another assessment while he was preoccupied?
He was too muscular for a gentleman. Too…large. There were a few men she knew whom he could probably lift over his head with one arm. She thought of what Justina had said to her that evening—about something to warm her cold nights.
Instantly she closed the door on that image. Slammed it, in fact.
Not that it will help me, she thought. A man his size would simply break the door down if he wanted in. No obstacle, so he said, kept him from what he wanted.
She almost dropped the plates as a little shiver passed through her body and made her catch her breath.
“Like me, you enjoy a good drama, and don’t pretend otherwise…” Justina had said to her that evening. “There is a constant twinkle of mischief in your eye, Rebecca Sherringham.”
Mischief? Her? As if she had time for it while she was so busy saving everyone else from theirs.
“That’s a hefty sigh, maidy,” Lucky Luke muttered. “Something troubling you?”
“Nothing troubles me,” she assured him firmly, wondering why he was looking at her that way again. He’d assured her there was nothing else stuck to her face, and as far as she knew, all her buttons and hooks were secure.
The plates safely stacked in the warmer, she reached for a cabbage leaf and fanned herself.
“Sure? Nothing ol’ Lucky can’t take care of for you?”
She swallowed. “Certainly not. I take care of problems for myself.”
“Uh-huh. So you do. I’d forgotten.”
Thankfully he looked back at his cooking pot, but Becky was obliged to continue fanning herself with the leaf until it was as wilted as she felt on the inside.
* * *
The enticing, rich, succulent fragrance of well-seasoned chicken stew traveled throughout the house, bringing her father to the table that evening without being told. He looked eagerly to see what was in the tureen.
“How clever of you, m’dear,” he exclaimed.
“It wasn’t me, Papa. Much as I might like to take the credit, the cooking is due to our guest.” She still didn’t know his last name, she realized. “He came to our rescue this evening.”
“As you came to mine, Miss Sherringham.” Her handy man was in the open doorway, carrying the bread in his free hand. It appeared as if he’d made some attempt to neaten his appearance before dinner, replacing his uniform jacket, splashing water on his face, and running fingers through his hair.
“This is my father, Major Sherringham.”
“Sir, it is an honor to meet you.” He bowed then limped forward and looked for somewhere to put the bread.
When Becky whispered that she didn’t know his name, he smiled stiffly as if his leg was hurting. “Lucky Luke will do,” he said.
She didn’t argue but gestured for him to sit, worried about his leg and how long he’d been standing on it while he cooked their supper.
Her father looked with interest at the new arrival. Company was always enjoyed i
n the house, especially if it was of an informal type, and the more the merrier in his eyes, even if he fell asleep before the guests had departed. Most fathers would be alarmed at their daughter bringing home a stray man, but Major Sherringham placed great trust in his daughter’s judgment. This was one of the eccentricities that women like Mrs. Jarvis found so appalling, but Becky thought sheer laziness had much to do with her father’s broadminded attitude. Like most men, if he found something he didn’t want to do, he claimed it was women’s work. He’d hired nannies or ayahs to watch over his daughter as she grew up, while he remained, for the most part, blissfully untroubled by the work of raising his offspring. As long as his familiar comforts remained unaffected, he was happy and thought he had the best children in the world.
“Becky will sort things out,” was one of his favorite sayings.
But while his daughter was there to mend things, his son was his companion in breaking them.
He’d been missing Nathaniel’s company lately, but tonight he had the chance to share his table with another like-minded man and this made his mood merry, his earlier quarrel with Mrs. Jarvis quickly forgotten.
Lucky Luke settled in at their table, chatting about the army and India, finding two subjects he instantly had in common with the major. His spelling might leave much to be desired, Becky mused, remembering the scrawling blots he’d once penned across a playing card, and she knew he didn’t think much of book study, but he had a sharp mind when he chose to use it. He was certainly clever at avoiding direct answers about himself. He navigated around questions like a dancing master around a ballroom.
When her father asked about his wounded leg, Lucky Luke replied with, “I daresay you saw many battles yourself, Major, and suffered more than your share of scratches.” Thus her father was led off into one of his long, improbable tales, and once again, there was no explanation for that limp.
Occasionally, Becky got up to refill their glasses or stir the fire, worrying about her father getting a chill. Whenever he was involved in an enthusiastic story—either as a teller or a listener—he had a tendency to lose control of his fork or spoon, which required Becky to give his chin or his cheek the occasional wipe with a napkin.
Sinfully Ever After (Book Club Belles Society) Page 6