by Amy Jarecki
“I’d say the encounter was just shy of a calamitous disaster. I almost dropped the tray, it was so heavy. I think I’ll need to build up the strength in my arms before I try it again.”
“Almost dropping is nowhere near as awful as completely dropping. I have firsthand experience with the latter.” After shaking out a clean sheet, Lucinda let it slowly drift to the mattress. “What happened next? Did he turn into an ogre and order you out of his rooms as you predicted?”
“He may as well have.” Evelyn moved to the opposite side of the bed to help. “My husband certainly wasn’t amenable to anything I said aside from having the boys measured for new suits of clothes.”
“So, he engaged you in conversation?”
“Somewhat.” As she tucked in the corners, Evelyn’s bonnet fell over her eyes. She shoved it back into place. “He spoke a bit more than his usual monosyllables, though there was a great deal of rancor.”
“I’m sorry, though I suppose grumpiness is better than silence, wouldn’t you say?”
“Only slightly better.” Truly, Evelyn had been hurt by Mar’s boorishness, though not surprised. Regardless of her feelings, it was a step in the right direction for him to engage in any conversation whatsoever. “But the most confounding thing of all was the mention of my bosom.”
Holding the top sheet in her hands, Lucinda stopped moving and gaped across the bed. “Your bosom, my lady?”
Though she’d known the lady’s maid most of her life, heat rushed to Evelyn’s face as she slid her palm over her cleavage. “Evidently since I am a matron, I should be wearing a privacy panel because my breasts are far too distracting.”
“Ha, ha!” The sheet sailed through the air and landed on the bed in a heap while Lucinda applauded. “Distracting? Oh, my, oh my, oh my, you have just found the magical elixir!”
Looking down, Evelyn examined one breast and then the other. “I suppose the neckline of this gown is a tad low—mayhap Mar’s right. I should—”
“Absolutely not.” Lucinda headed for the withdrawing room. “In fact, I shall find every low-cut gown in your wardrobe and ensure they are pressed, and I might just enhance the neckline on a few.”
“Oh, please.” Evelyn followed. “You’ll make him angrier than he already is.”
“Perhaps at first, but do you not see? He said your bosom distracted him. That means he’s having difficulty keeping himself from staring at his heart’s desire.”
“I’m not certain about that. He was very clear in stating he doesn’t want to stare at it.”
“He only thinks he doesn’t want to. All red-blooded men adore breasts, and if you don’t mind my saying, yours are unusually appealing—which is why you should never remotely consider wearing a privacy panel.”
Wringing her hands, Evelyn drew in a hiss through her teeth. “Are you certain?”
“I’m more than certain. If you do not believe me, ask Mr. MacVie. He will attest to the same.”
“Wonderful, my lady’s maid and my husband’s valet are helping me dig my grave deeper than it was before.”
Lucinda held up a sky-blue frock, one Mar had admired. “Were you not going somewhere, my lady? I wouldn’t want you to be late.”
“I have an appointment to meet with the master gardener.” Evelyn retied her bonnet’s ribbons. “And leave my blue gown alone. The bodice is plenty low, and I’ll not have Mar shouting at me because he can see my nipples, heaven forbid.”
Hastening toward the door, visions of her maid insanely wielding a pair of shears came to mind. “I mean it, Lucinda. Do not alter anything unless it is pinned at the throat.”
There. After giving explicit direction, Evelyn marched out to the glorious gardens, complete with a manicured maze. She found the gardener in the caretaker’s shop.
“Good day, Mr. Morten. Thank you for setting aside some time to visit with me.”
Sporting a feathered cap atop what looked to be a full head of gray hair, the gardener stood about five feet tall and was as thin as a fire poker. He took her hand in his gnarled fingers, bowed over it, and planted a kiss, his wiry beard scratching her knuckles. “I always like to please m’lady. Shall we start in the herb garden?”
“Yes, that will do nicely, thank you.”
“I figured you might want to supplement your medicine bundle. The last countess was quite fond of yarrow.”
“Yarrow is very useful.” Evelyn drummed her fingers together. “With two young boys, we’ll also need a ready supply of avens, Saint-John’s-wort, mallow, common valerian, feverfew, and comfrey for starters.”
“Agreed—though we may need to cultivate more avens.” His fingers tremored a bit as he gestured to a large, well-maintained plot. “Elsewise, I think you’ll find everything in order. You do ken your herbs, m’lady.”
“I spent a great deal of time with the gardener at Thoresby Hall, though I have more of an affinity for flowers.”
“We have plenty in bloom at the moment as well—peony, irises, roses, lilacs. Och, and I’ve planted your dog rose hedgerow, but I’m afraid it will be a few years before it begins to take shape.”
Evelyn looked in the direction of the man’s pointed finger. “My hedgerow?”
“Aye, ordered by His Lordship on the announcement of your nuptials.”
Evelyn’s insides grew hollow, which had been happening far too often of late. A hedgerow of dog rose would only serve to remind her of exactly how horribly she’d behaved toward Mar at first. Perhaps she needed such a reminder of the earl’s thoughtfulness—which she’d taken for granted. “Gazing upon them shall be my eternal penance,” she mumbled under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Mar’s kindness is quite touching.” She forced a smile, though inside she felt wretched. “Now tell me, what are His Lordship’s favorite flowers?”
“Oh, that would be peonies and roses for certain. We have an entire section of the garden dedicated to those blooms.”
“Lovely, then I’d like a vase of peonies or roses on the table during the evening meal every day whilst they’re in bloom.”
“Splendid idea.”
“And Mar’s favorite fruits and vegetables?”
“He’s very fond of berries of any sort, and he has an unusual affinity for neeps.”
Evelyn leaned in. “Neeps?”
The weathered lines around Mr. Morten’s eyes crinkled with his wink. “Sassenachs call them turnips.”
“Right.” She straightened. “Then why have they not been on the table, not once in the entire sennight since we’ve come to Alloa?”
“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Troup, but I’d reckon ’tis on account that there aren’t any. Last season’s neep and berry supply is gone, and this season’s will not be ready for harvest for another two months yet.”
“I see.” Evelyn bowed her head. “Thank you, sir. I must hasten to the kitchens.”
“My pleasure, m’lady. I…er…” The gardener scratched his beard. “Ah…”
“What is it?”
“Well, the last countess used to accompany me to the village on market day. I load the barrow with fruits and vegetables and anything Mrs. Troup has to spare.”
“For the market?”
“Nay. We visit the widows and infirm and the like.” He clasped his hands, his eyes unsure. “Would you perchance—”
“Like to join you?” Evelyn nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes, I would dearly love to. And ’tis nigh time I met the villagers.”
“Splendid,” he said, turning and starting off.
For the first time since she’d arrived at Alloa, Evelyn’s heart soared. “Thank you!”
“It isn’t easy to run the kitchens for an estate the size of Mar’s,” said Mrs. Troup, holding forth like a Scottish warrioress in battle armor. Another of the servants who didn’t travel to London, the cook was a stout woman who, though she would have been at home in a coat of arms, wore a linen apron over a plaid kirtle and a coif atop her head. “And I do not
like to have people underfoot, no matter who they are.”
For the past ten minutes, Evelyn had listened while the woman detailed the magnitude of her duties with iconic Scottish bravado. But at the suggestion that the lady of the house might be an inconvenience, she held up her palm. “I am quite impressed with your efficiency, madam. I see now why the meals are always on time and so well presented. However, now that I am settled at Alloa, I will definitely want to discuss menus and the ordering of supplies.”
Mrs. Troup sliced off a chicken wing with a swing of a cleaver. “I can assure you I do not need anyone meddling with my orders—I run a tight ship here and—”
“And…” Hoping to placate the woman, Evelyn offered a sincere smile. “I do not doubt your abilities for one minute. But I would not be upholding my duty as countess if I did not provide you with the support you need.”
The cook rested her cleaver on the board and wiped her hands on her apron. “What kind of support?”
“Agreeing on dishes of the earl’s fancy—especially turnips…ah, neeps.”
“Och nay. Out of season neeps exceed my budget for certain. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Swenson if you intend to spend the earl’s coin.”
“I assure you Swenson’s purse strings have been lengthened considerably and, as such, I give you all the approval you need to acquire the delicacy.” Evelyn took in a deep breath and patted her chest, positive none of the servants had any clue her dowry had saved Mar from financial ruin. “Now, I didn’t come to the kitchens to talk about menus. Today I rather need your help.”
The woman’s face brightened. “My help, m’lady?”
Encouraged by Mrs. Troup’s change in demeanor, Evelyn leaned nearer. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course I can.” The woman thumped her robust chest. “Nearly everyone comes to Mrs. Troup to discuss their worries. I say there isn’t a more sympathetic ear in all of Alloa than mine.”
“I’m incredibly happy to hear it.”
“Shall I pour us a cup of tea?” The cook used a cloth to remove the cast-iron kettle from the hob. “The water’s hot.”
Evelyn pulled a stool from beneath the big wooden table standing in the center of the kitchen and sat. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
It didn’t take long to prepare a pot of tea and slice two pieces of cake. “Now,” the cook began, holding a dainty cup, her stout pinky turned upward. “You had a secret you wanted to share, did you, m’lady?”
“Indeed. You see, I did something that made the earl very angry with me.”
“You?” Mrs. Troup asked in disbelief.
“Unfortunately, the recent turn of events was an enormous misunderstanding, but I now realize I was incredibly wrong.” Evelyn bit into a piece of cake. “And I personally want to make something special for Mar, but I have no idea what that might be.”
“Och, you’ve come to the right place, m’lady.” Mrs. Troup cut another slice of cake and put it on Evelyn’s plate. “You ken I’ve known the earl since he was a lad.”
“I did not. How fortunate. What is his favorite last course for the evening meal?”
“Plum tart with warm cream—and when there are no plums in season, he’s fond of sweetmeats as well.”
Evelyn stared into her cup. Curses, sweetmeats were for the holidays. “And plums won’t be ripe until August, will they?”
“Nay.” The cook swiped the remainder of the cake from the plate and took an enormous bite. “But the Alloa vines are filled with raspberries at the moment.”
“Raspberries? I thought you said Mar preferred sweetmeats?”
“That’s only in winter. He adores raspberries this time of year.”
“More than plums?”
“As much as plums, I’d reckon.” Goodness, why didn’t the woman say so earlier?
Evelyn sipped her tea. “Well then, here’s what I’d like to do…”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Seated on the back of his favorite gelding, John relished the breeze in his face. Daily of late he’d ridden the boundaries of his estate with the Erskine men.
“Shall we stop at the mine?” asked Callan, the man-at-arms.
“Aye, after I’ve had a look at the progress on the canal.” Last summer the excavation had begun to dig a canal from the Firth of Forth to the coal mine. John’s ancestor had discovered the coal when he was tunneling to the firth to create a secret passageway. Needless to say, the tunnel had never been finished, but the Erskines had advanced through the peerage ranks as a result of the discovery.
After years of neglect during his father’s tenure as earl, running the mine without investing in improvements, it had almost fallen to ruin. John had kept the business afloat, but now with the improvements he’d already made with money from Evelyn’s dowry, production had taken a turn for the better.
“Da!” Oliver hollered from the gardens, and not the well-manicured maze where he and Thomas usually played. They were in the raspberry patch, and Evelyn was right there with them wearing an enormous straw bonnet.
What is she up to now? He shifted the reins to the left, cuing his horse to canter over by his sons.
Thomas ran to the end of the row, his face smeared with red juice. “Countess says we can eat as many raspberries as we like.”
As John reined the horse to a stop, he gave the woman a frown. “Och, if you gorge yourselves, ye’ll end up with a bellyache for certain.”
“I think raspberries are my favorite food ever,” said Oliver, his face even redder with berries. Stepping near the horse, he held up a wooden pail. “We’re picking them, too.”
A few berries rolled around the bottom. When John glanced beyond, Evelyn peered up from where she was stooped over a vine. She held her full pail aloft. “We have quite the harvest, my lord.”
He clenched his reins in his fist. Blast it all, since she’d blatantly ignored his request to wear a privacy panel, he’d have a word with her lady’s maid.
“Carry on then,” he said, unable to help his frown. “But I expect you to come to the table with clean faces for the evening meal.”
As he continued the ride to the canal, Callan rode beside him. “’Tis nice to see Her Ladyship out with the lads.”
“They seem to be warming to her.” John kicked his heels and demanded a canter to avoid any further talk about his damned wife.
Work on the canal had made significant progress since he’d been in London, and they’d already started testing by taking small loads of coal down to the pier.
“I am overjoyed,” John said to the overseer while he strode down a line of laborers with sooty faces.
“And the men are happy with the new tools. Production is up by half.”
“Half?” John stopped and gave the man an appreciative once-over. “Already?”
“Aye, m’lord. And I have plans to increase by another half within a year’s time.”
“Excellent.” Smiling, John addressed the men. “I am impressed. I do believe we ought to celebrate your achievements with a midsummer’s holiday.”
Mumbles of approval rose among the ranks.
“A day well deserved,” said the overseer.
“Will there be a ceilidh, m’lord?” asked one of the men.
Callan stepped toward the outspoken laborer. “It is not fitting for you to ask.”
But the whites of every pair of eyes brightened with anticipation. They’d all mourned Margaret’s loss with him. John ought to celebrate their achievements with them as well.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, m’lord, but everyone’s eager to meet the new countess.”
“Aye.” He gulped while a lead weight sank to his toes. “’Tis agreed. We shall have a ceilidh with your holiday Friday next!”
John shook the hands of every single man until all that remained was the overseer and the retinue of Erskine soldiers. “I’d like to sail down the new canal before I return to the tower. ’Tis a notable day indeed. Good news has not been plentiful enough as
of late. Thank you for raising my spirits.”
John stepped lighter as he walked from the stables to the tower’s rear entrance. An overpoweringly delicious smell came from the kitchens, reminding him he’d missed his nooning. His stomach growled. Perhaps he’d stop in and sample whatever Mrs. Troup had baked.
“I want to forgo the first courses and only have the third course for the evening meal.” Thomas’s voice came from the open window.
“I think I only want to eat sweets from this day forward,” echoed his little brother.
John grinned, moving toward the door. But the sound of Evelyn’s voice stopped him.
“I’m not certain your father would approve of such a diet.”
“But you’d let us, wouldn’t you, Countess?” asked Thomas.
John’s muscles tensed. Was the woman plotting against him?
“No, it isn’t healthful to eat only sweets. One must exercise self-control and moderation.”
“But why?” asked Oliver.
“Because the healthiest of men are like your father—those who eat meat, vegetables, bread, cheese, all manner of food.”
“Including sweets,” said Thomas.
“Yes,” Evelyn replied. “In moderation.”
Unable to argue with her logic, John changed course and headed above stairs for a bath. Regardless if his stomach was growling, if he went into the kitchens with Her Ladyship inside, it would be awkward.
After Lucinda helped brush the flour from Evelyn’s hair, the countess dressed for the evening meal and paced the floor. Perhaps if she thought of all the horrible things Mar might say, it wouldn’t hurt so much to hear them. And if he missed half of the horrible things she dreamed up, perhaps her spirits wouldn’t drop to the dungeon of her soul.
He might say he didn’t like the tart. Or that the boys should have been tending to their studies. But most likely, he’d focus any hostility on her.
Mar might tell her she was irresponsible, finch-minded, and her behavior was ill-fitting of a countess. Those things shouldn’t hurt overmuch. She’d already heard them.
