Rosalind kept tight hold of the shawl underneath. She’d need it to wrap herself. It took a bit longer for her to grow warm.
She stopped where she stood and stared, hardly believing the sight before her. A flour-splattered, apron-clad Mr. Worth stood at the work table clutching a large mixing bowl to his midsection, holding it steady, and with a wooden spoon held in his cloth-wrapped right hand, he stirred the contents.
“What, may I ask, are you doing?”
Mr. Worth stilled and glanced up at her. “I think it is fairly obvious. I am mixing the contents of this bowl.”
“Mixing . . .” Rosalind could see that much for herself. That was not exactly what she meant.
“It’s a pudding, as I understand.” He renewed his hold on the bowl and wooden spoon and resumed his task.
“How is it you are here doing this?” The staff was more than capable of making preparations for the upcoming holidays.
“I have a surplus of time on my hands and wished to be of use to the household.” He never looked up and kept focused on his task.
“I can imagine.” Rosalind did not know what to think of the activity before her. “Now that the pianoforte has been tuned, I expect we can find you cleaning the windows or floors tomorrow.” She’d gone too far and immediately regretted her disrespectful remark.
“How are ye comin’ along, sir? I think that should be about it. Ye’ve been—” Cook strode into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ah, Miss Rosalind, I thought ye had already gone.”
“No, I . . . I was just marveling at Mr. Worth’s industrious nature.”
“Yes, Mr. Freddie has done very well, indeed.” Cook chuckled. “Let’s see wot ye have ’ere.” She took the bowl and spoon and gave it a mix then her approval. “Ye’ll not be needin’ the apron anymore. Nothin’ like a man’s arm ta get the job done, eh?”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled and untied then removed the apron, laying it on the table.
Rosalind averted her eyes as not to see Mr. Worth in his shirtsleeves but not before she noticed what she thought might be a slight blush washing over his cheeks, or was it merely the result of his physical exertion?
“How are ye’s hand? I hope there’s no blister there.” Cook squinted toward his linen-wrapped appendage.
“I don’t think so.” He unwound the strip of cloth from his palm, revealing a large red patch but no blister.
“Looks good, it does.” Cook’s critical eye was the best judge in all matters pertaining to the kitchen. “Why don’t you go on with Miss Rosalind to the parlor and I’ll have some tea and a light nuncheon sent there for the two of you, eh?”
“The parlor?” Rosalind thought the dining room might be better suited to take an afternoon meal.
“As I understand it, the bowff of ye spend a great deal of time there.” Cook looked from one to the other. “Playin’ the pianoforte and such is wot I’ve been told. The fire’s already been made.”
“Very well. The parlor it is. Thank you, Cook.” Rosalind would have rather eaten alone but knew she must make some concessions for their houseguests.
Cook waved them away. “Go on, then.”
“Do allow me, sir.” Rosalind helped Mr. Worth, who had already donned his waistcoat, with his jacket.
“Very kind of you, Miss Rosalind.” He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his cuffs.
“It is the least I can do if you are responsible for our pudding this evening.”
“I cannot take all the credit, I only provided the labor to mix the ingredients supplied by Cook and Maggie.” He motioned for her to exit from the kitchen first. “Shall we be off?”
Rosalind led the way.
They moved down the corridor, and, coming up on the breakfast room, Miss Rosalind paused. She put her index finger to her lips and glanced at Freddie, then swept quietly past the open door, stopping on the other side.
Inside were Miss Clare and Trevor, bent over some green bits laid out on the table, their heads together concentrating on the task before them.
“I think we should tie it, just here.” Miss Clare indicated a particular spot, which Freddie could not quite make out, with her small white hand.
“We can tie the ribbon there and bind it together.” Trevor, with his brows furrowed, must have been concentrating fiercely.
“Careful not to knock the berries off.” Miss Clare tilted her head to regard him with a smile to remind him.
“No, I shan’t.” Trevor chuckled, which sounded, to Freddie, most mischievous.
“It is astonishing that Mama has allowed us to place a kissing bough in the house this year. I’m not even certain how it works precisely.” Miss Clare held up a white mistletoe berry between her fingers.
“Hand me that berry and I shall show you,” he teased.
“Oh, no! You cannot! It’s not proper!” Clare squeaked but was careful not to raise her voice.
“Let me tell you, then.” Trevor explained, “When a gentleman is clever enough to catch a lovely young lady standing under the bough, he picks a berry and claims a kiss.” He fixed his gaze upon her.
“Are you certain it is not the kiss first before retrieving the berry?” Miss Clare stared from the berry in Trevor’s possession to his face. The following silence, and the building tension of an impending intimacy that would follow, became uncomfortable to observe.
“I’ve found the red ribbon and here is some greenery.” Mrs. Harris’s entrance broke the spell between the two lovebirds. “We have a choice of either holly or evergreen, or shall we use both?”
“Whatever you think is best, Mama,” Miss Clare replied at the same time Trevor said, “That is a very good idea!”
Freddie quickly dashed to Miss Rosalind’s side of the doorway and without any urging from him, they continued swiftly, and silently, down the corridor to the parlor.
They arrived just as Maggie had finished placing a laden tray on the table to one side of the room. “I’ll be fetchin’ the tea in a moment.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” Miss Rosalind sat and motioned for Freddie to do the same. He swept into the seat on the opposite side of the table from her.
“I am glad Mrs. Harris entered when she did,” he commented. “I don’t think Trevor would have behaved improperly but— He is a gentleman, after all.”
“It was becoming a bit awkward to eavesdrop on them.” She met his equally uncomfortable gaze.
“We were not exactly spying on them.” Freddie could make excuses and try to justify why they were standing outside the room in silence instead of making themselves known.
“No, we were not, but— Oh, dear.” Miss Rosalind placed her hands over the rising color in her cheeks. “It was difficult not to watch.”
“It all started off so innocently,” Freddie began.
“They were only conversing,” Miss Rosalind offered.
“Actually, they were conferring on how best to proceed to make a holiday decoration,” Freddie clarified.
“Yes, nothing was amiss at all,” Miss Rosalind agreed.
Freddie had quite given up the pretense that nothing more than polite conversation was happening and stated the obvious out loud. “They’re growing quite fond of one another, you know.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Does that concern you?”
“If you think my sister’s growing affection for a passing traveler we know nothing about is of any concern to me, then, yes, sir, you would be correct. It does.”
Freddie could not imagine anyone thinking ill of his friend. Trevor Rutherford was the single most admirable individual known to him. “I can vouch for Trevor, ma’am. As for his prospects, he is a younger son of a viscount, with no hope of coming to the title, but that does not make him any less a paragon among men.”
Miss Rosalind leveled an austere stare at him. “Do you expect me to believe this recommendation from his best friend whose own character is at best questionable?”
“Oh.” He had forgotten they
were all strangers to one another. Otherwise, Miss Rosalind would know exactly who he was, which she did not, and currently he knew he wanted to keep it that way. For how long it would last, Freddie did not know. “I beg your pardon. I have forgotten our acquaintance is only but a few days.” He paused and glanced away. “Somehow it seems much longer.”
“That is because we have known of one another previous to your arrival to Thistles.” By her expression it seemed the recollection of their meeting brought unpleasant memories, as it did for him.
“Am I mistaken in my belief that we have moved past that unfortunate incident?” Freddie certainly hoped so. He regretted his behavior and these ill thoughts of her.
“I expect so. I have, at any rate.” Miss Rosalind drew her shawl snuggly about her shoulders, appearing chilled in what he considered to be a comfortably heated room.
Now that he took a closer look at her, he studied her dress. Made out of some heavy material that provided warmth, the garment looked to him that it might be worn out of doors, and was not fashioned for a day dress.
It had seemed to him she felt a chill in the room and sincerely hoped he was not the cause.
“May I make you up a plate?” he offered. “I see some nice ham from last night and there’s steam rising from that bread. Must be fresh out of the oven. We can place a bit of cheese on top, it will melt just enough to—” A glass of burgundy would really make this snack exceptional but he supposed his companion would not approve of drinking in the middle of the day. And truth be told, nor should he.
“It all sounds quite splendid. Thank you.” Miss Rosalind did not need to lift a finger. Freddie would set a portion of each on the small plate, arranging it just so. Maggie entered with a tea tray.
“Very good.” Freddie was glad to see a hot beverage arrive, certain it was much needed. “Maggie, would you be so kind as to pour for Miss Rosalind?”
“Very good, sir,” the kitchen maid replied and did so, leaving the cup and saucer on the table near her, then filled a second cup for him. “If there’s anyfing else ye’d be needin’?”
“Thank you, Maggie.” Miss Rosalind reached for her cup and cradled it in her hands. “Well, Mr. Worth, since we have been thrown together, will you not tell me a little about yourself? Or do you feel that is an intrusion?”
Oh, the dreaded story of his life. Freddie had no wish to go near the subject but knew he could, without mentioning his position in society or his family, tell the truth.
He set the first plate before Miss Rosalind and began to prepare a second for himself, taking his time. In reality he was not deliberating slices of meat but pieces of his life that might be safe to divulge.
“Of course. I grew up in the country, Essex, to be specific, in a well-to-do household. My father, Edward, and my mother, Sarah, had four children. I am the third born and have two elder and one younger sister.”
Freddie took a moment to take a bite of food, chew, and swallow. Miss Rosalind did the same, and unfortunately, waited patiently for his next words.
“My mother died when I was four. I don’t really remember her much. Her sister, my aunt Penny, came to look after us. She started us all on the pianoforte at a young age. My sisters continued their musical studies, going on to play several instruments each, leaving me, most happily, to accompany them until I went off to Eton. I believe my aunt took on the task of playing with my sisters after I left.”
“So your musical talent comes from your mother’s side of the family? What of your father, then?”
“I believe he is known to have a very fine baritone voice.” And that was all Freddie wished to say about the Duke of Faraday.
Miss Rosalind chuckled. “I take it he does not play?”
“That would be correct.” Freddie sipped his tea.
“Is your distaste for idle time inherited from your father?”
“Idle time?” He swallowed hard, caught off guard by her question.
“Yesterday you tuned the pianoforte and practiced all afternoon and this morning you had nothing better to do than find employment in the kitchen.” She gazed at him wide-eyed.
“I suppose that must come from my father, now that you mention it.” Freddie forced a bit of a thinking scowl as he answered. “He was always occupied with one task or another. Besides, I saw no reason not to participate in the running of the household, especially when Trevor and I were not exactly invited guests.”
“It was very thoughtful for you to do so, sir.” She lowered her head in gratitude.
“Besides, there is ample time to practice the pianoforte this afternoon. I saw no harm in giving up a few hours this morning.”
“Will you need to tune the pianoforte again before you play? It has been such a very long time since it has been tuned.”
“I should think it would not need it since yesterday.” He gazed at her, teasing, “You are more than welcome to prove me wrong.”
“Of course.” The flush of color in her cheeks at her acceptance of the challenge seemed to revive her. She set her teacup and saucer on the table, stood, and crossed to the pianoforte.
Chapter Eleven
Rosalind hadn’t quite thought of what she would play. She simply sat at the pianoforte, set her fingers upon the keys lightly, and began. It was an unnamed piece from her childhood from a page of music she had never seen and was not certain existed. Her rendition, even after not practicing it for many years, sounded splendid.
It had been a very long time since she had heard the sweet clarity of the notes. Rosalind felt her throat tighten with emotion and she blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes.
“I believe you are correct, sir. Indeed, there is no need to tune the pianoforte.” She did not wish Mr. Worth to see how the music had affected her.
“That tune was quite lovely,” Mr. Worth said softly. “What is it?”
“I don’t know its title, my mother taught it to me years ago.” Rosalind drew her shawl, which had slipped to her elbows, around her shoulders once again. “I haven’t thought of it, much less played it, in quite a while.”
“Miss Rosalind?” Maggie appeared at the doorway, drawing their attention. “Cook says all is ready.”
“Very well, thank you. I’ll be there shortly.” She rose from the pianoforte and turned toward Mr. Worth. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must be going. I thank you for your conversation and company.”
“Are you to retire for the afternoon? Shall we practice our four-hand piece later, then?”
“No, sir. I am going out to deliver food baskets.” She quit the room and he followed her into the corridor.
“Out there?” He pointed, ostensibly, outdoors. “In this weather?”
“Hunger does not have a timetable and I do not intend to make one for my neighbors.”
“Surely it is someone else’s duty to see to these things.”
“Yes, but the Earl of Brent cannot be bothered by hungry tenants.” She heard the bitter tone in her own voice and resolved to correct herself. “My visits involve more than leaving food.”
“Oh—him. I . . .” Mr. Worth’s eyebrows rose and for some reason he appeared to be taken aback. “You must allow me to accompany you.”
“There is no need. Harry, as always, will be more than sufficient to aid me, thank you.” She continued to the doorway.
“Miss Rosalind”—Mr. Worth stepped forward, in a rush, to her side—“Please, I would very much like to join your party, if I may.”
“Truly, sir. It is not necessary.” Rosalind had no idea why he was so insistent he should come along. She had no intention of making Cook or Harry wait and moved down the corridor toward the kitchen. “The journey is quite usual for me, even in this weather.”
“Blame it on my need to occupy myself,” he replied, following at her heels. “As little as you know me, you know well enough I cannot stand by and remain idle.”
An hour later Freddie had managed to wear down Miss Rosalind’s resolve and he was allowed to join t
he small party. The three trudged down a path, not visibly well-worn, but familiar to the pair with whom he traveled. Each held a small lantern. He had donned his greatcoat, scarf, gloves, and hat, expecting to face the cold he had grown so vehemently to despise.
What Freddie had not expected were the deplorable living conditions he found the tenants on his estate endured. Even he could not fail to be profoundly affected when he witnessed, in the half dozen dwellings he entered, hungry, sick, and wholly neglected people. Miss Rosalind had not exaggerated their plight. Her hostility toward the Earl of Brent was completely justified, and Freddie felt he deserved her contempt.
Miss Rosalind finally announced this would be the last stop, the last he would need to endure, before returning to Thistles. There was none or very little speaking as they moved from one to the next dwelling. Miss Rosalind led the way, holding the lantern to light their way while Harry pushed the sled and Freddie, in his dejected state, brought up the rear.
“This is the home of John and Mary Walsh,” Miss Rosalind told Freddie while Harry unpacked the sled. “They live with their orphaned six . . . no— It’s five grandchildren now. They lost little Sally a few weeks back. She’d always been sickly and it wasn’t a surprise, still . . .” She placed the basket in the crook of her arm and filled it with small, paper-wrapped parcels given to her by Harry.
Freddie nodded in understanding and took several of the larger bundles to carry into the house. He did not think he could adequately respond to these strangers and hoped he could find his voice when speaking to the elderly couple. Would he be able to conjure a word or two of compassion or to comfort them for their loss and their situation?
Yes, guilt consumed him. Freddie swore to himself he would bear it.
The front door opened, and an elderly man peered through the narrow slit.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Walsh,” she greeted.
“And ta ye as well, Miss Rosalind.” He pulled the door open, motioning for her to enter. “Mighty kind of ye ta be calling, as miserable as it ’tis out. Come in, come in . . . get out of the cold. All ’o ye! Good ta see ye, ’arry.”
A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) Page 9
