by Dalton, Lily
She read aloud. “Make with your own hands twelve iced plum cakes. Deliver them to Mrs. Kettle, who will determine whether your efforts are worthy of the next quest.”
Claxton held silent, waiting for whatever she might say.
“Oh, my.” She lowered the parchment. “Twelve iced cakes. I hadn’t anticipated that as a quest for two little boys. I’d rather expected climbing a tree or crafting a man-of-war out of sticks.”
“Most often the tasks were very much so,” Claxton explained. “But other times my mother encouraged my brother and me to learn a broader array of skills, those of self-sufficiency.” He shrugged. “And humility.”
“Humph.” She sniffed, one slender eyebrow lifting archly. “Humility, you say.”
He ignored her jibe. “My mother believed it important for us boys to assist with the more menial tasks that kept the house in order so as to understand the difficult demands placed upon the Kettles, both of whom she adored, and the servants we would certainly one day employ. Sometimes her quests were intended to teach us empathy for a scullery maid. Other times, the groundskeeper. In this case, a cook.” He chuckled, remembering. “She or Mrs. Kettle would have helped us bake the cakes, so we did not burn the house down.”
She perched on the edge of the settee, glancing suspiciously at the suspect leg as if to be certain it did not fly out from under her.
“I think that’s wonderful. Indeed, I admire your mother more and more the more I learn about her.” She made a silly face. “Although I wish she would have chosen a different task, as baking is not my strongest talent.”
“Nor mine, but no matter.” He shook his head. “While it has been highly diverting to find this second quest, I don’t believe the game can proceed further. Too much time has passed. Mrs. Kettle won’t remember the details, and even if she did, I can’t imagine that she held on to a meaningless scrap of paper for this long.”
Sophia nodded, extending her arm to trace her fingertips over the carved leaves on the upper frame of the settee. “I understand your reluctance. Neither do I wish to subject myself to an hour or more of efforts in the kitchen when they may only result in disappointment. But we ought to try. You owe that much to your mother’s memory.”
Vane did not wholeheartedly agree. As much as the quest had brought back happy memories he’d not recalled for a very long time, what they had stumbled upon were the remnants of a child’s diversion, not King Arthur’s tomb. Yet he found Sophia’s excitement in the game undeniably intoxicating. More so, the discovery gifted him with a glimpse of the young woman she’d been before his past had driven them apart. She’d actually smiled this morning, and he did not want her to stop.
He stood with sudden conviction. “I had thought to go down to the village this morning for a bit of tobacco. While there, I will inquire with Mrs. Kettle.”
“Yes, let’s do pay a call.”
“You need not accompany me.” He would almost prefer that she did not. Though the game had inspired an easier manner between them, he knew the list of names he’d written out at her behest the night before remained in her thoughts. She did not trust him. He saw that in her every wary glance.
“Of course I will accompany you,” she said. “You made clear you don’t intend to play by the rules. I’ll not forget that warning. Do you think I would allow you to achieve an unfair advantage by proceeding without me?” Her eyes sparkled like emeralds ablaze in candlelight.
She came to stand beside him at the fire, an oblivious seductress. Firelight deepened the shadowy crevice between her breasts. His body thrummed with the primal urge to stalk and seduce.
Yet she only blabbered on about the game, suffering no such distractions.
“But we cannot go to Mrs. Kettle empty-handed,” she said. “To do so would be contrary to the spirit of the game, even if our efforts advance no further. Certainly there’s a baker in the village. Couldn’t we simply purchase the plum cakes or something similar and present them to Mrs. Kettle?”
Resigned, he answered, “I’m happy to humor you in any way.”
*
They arrived at the Kettles’ cottage after leaving the sledge at the nearby livery stable so that the horse could be tended to. Moments later, installed in the tiny parlor, they sat in comfortable chairs warmed by tea and news of the Martindale child’s arrival early that morning. News of the birth inspired a pang of wistfulness in Sophia, but joy for the parents as well. She borrowed pen and paper from her hosts and penned a short congratulatory note from herself and the duke, something Mrs. Kettle assured her would become a treasured family heirloom for the Martindales.
As for her and Claxton’s news, Sophia could hardly wait to share the discovery of the Duchess Elizabeth’s quest and learn whether Mrs. Kettle remained in possession of the third boon.
“Do forgive us Mr. Kettle’s present state,” said Mrs. Kettle. “As you’ll remember, your Grace, he suffers terribly from chilblains.”
Mr. Kettle sat beside the fire, a blanket over his shoulders and his feet ankle deep in steaming water.
“Indeed, I do,” said Claxton, looking elegant and huge in a patchwork chair much too small for his muscular frame. “One of the officers with whom I served had some success with porridge.”
“Really,” exclaimed Mrs. Kettle.
The duke nodded. “He would prepare a large pot and, once it cooled a bit, immerse both his feet in the stuff.”
“That’s very interesting.”
Mr. Kettle nodded. “Something we shall have to try.”
Sophia sat quietly and listened to the comfortable conversation between Claxton and the Kettles. She found the exchange unexpectedly heartwarming, and yes—entertaining. She for one would never have thought to ask the duke about remedies for chilblains.
“Has Haden paid a call?” he asked. “He is at the inn.”
“No, he hasn’t, but he was younger when the two of you left Lacenfleet. I’m certain a reintroduction is not foremost in his thoughts. Mr. Kettle will venture over in a bit and invite him to visit.”
Claxton nodded toward the fireplace and grinned. “You still have naughty Lord Misrule, I see.” He stood and from the mantel carefully lifted a wooden doll dressed in the green-and-gold costume of a jester. Little bells, sewn at his toes, jingled at the movement.
Mrs. Kettle responded, “I only just let him out of his box.”
“You always were more trusting than me. Better keep your eye on him.” Claxton winked at Sophia. “Every Christmas he causes all sorts of mayhem. I remember one year he hid all the spoons in the tea jar, and until we found them, we had to eat our custard with forks.”
Mrs. Kettle snorted and clasped a hand over her mouth. “Yes! Yes! I remember! The custard had not set, and we all had such a time getting it to our mouths.”
Beneath his blanket, Mr. Kettle nodded and smiled.
Claxton returned the doll to his perch. “Another time, the sneaky wastrel poked holes all over a sack of sugar that had been left on the kitchen table, creating quite the mess. Haden and I caught him red-handed too, with a skewer clutched in his little hand.”
“What a wicked fellow.” Sophia laughed.
At that moment, three small faces appeared at the window, bright cheeked and topped by winter caps. The muffled voices of children carried through.
“…Y’see? I told you. That be the duke, ’imself!”
“Robert won’t believe us when we tell ’im.”
“Go get ’im then!”
“You go get ’im. I’m stayin’ ’ere.”
Claxton gave a quiet laugh and a flush rose up from his neck, going as high as his cheeks. Sophia watched, transfixed by his discomfort at being so admired by three little boys.
Mrs. Kettle sprang from her chair, an index finger held in the air. “Forgive me. I just remembered something.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and a moment later returned with two small china dishes, the first of which she pressed into Claxton’s hand and the second
into Sophia’s.
Claxton peered down into the dish. A smile curved his lips. If possible, the blue of his eyes became bluer. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
Mrs. Kettle’s face lit up like a candle.
“Sophia, Mrs. Kettle makes the most delicious sugarplums.” Claxton’s gaze found her. Sophia caught her breath at the quiet emotion she observed there. “They were always my favorite at Christmas.”
Mrs. Kettle, with a glance at Sophia, explained, “I use more apricot, less prune—” She counted out each alteration to the traditional recipe on her fingers. “And I always leave out the caraway seeds.” She reached out to pat Claxton on the arm. “His Grace never did care for caraway.”
Claxton chewed thoughtfully.
“Just as I remember them,” he pronounced, smiling. “Only better because they are real and not just a fantasy. I used to dream of these, you know, every Christmas Day.”
“Delicious,” Sophia agreed, her mouth filled with pleasurable spice and sweetness.
Mr. Kettle leaned forward in his chair. “You know, she made them every year to have on hand, on the chance you might return—”
“Oh, hush, Mr. Kettle.” With a hiccup, the elderly woman pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Did you?” Claxton asked quietly, obviously moved. A flush rose into his cheeks and he smiled a very different sort of smile than she’d ever seen on his lips—one of boyish, unrestrained joy. “Thank you, Mrs. Kettle.”
Sophia dabbed her eyes as well. It felt good to see Claxton happy. Things had been such an ugly mess these past few days. How heartening to enjoy a moment of such cheer.
When Mrs. Kettle calmed, she tucked the handkerchief in her bodice. “I would offer buttered muffins as well, but I see you have brought something wonderful from Mr. Woodall’s shop for us to share.”
She lifted the box from the little table beside her and, opening the lid, peered inside.
Vane explained the discovery of the envelope.
“Where did you find the envelope, you say?” said Mrs. Kettle, smiling faintly.
“Affixed to the back of Lord Claxton’s portrait,” said Sophia. “The one over the mantel.”
Beneath the lace frill of her cap, Mrs. Kettle inhaled sharply, her eyes awash with another surge of tears.
“Yes, actually.” She took another deep breath. “I do recall something about that.” She waved a wrinkled hand in the air. “Have you the quest with you, written out by her ladyship?”
“Indeed.” Claxton produced the envelope from his coat pocket and handed it over.
Staring down into her lap, Mrs. Kettle drew her fingertip along the upper edge of the envelope and smiled. “We all used to have such fun, didn’t we?”
Sophia caught Claxton’s sudden downward glance and drawn mouth. Compassion flooded her. Mrs. Kettle’s tender words clearly caused him pain. Once, he had been just a boy, and in that moment she glimpsed the magnitude of the hurt he must have felt at being torn away from such loving circumstances. The memory of that difficult time had never receded. Yet at the same time she cautioned herself against feeling too deeply and allowing her softer emotions to be confused for something else.
Unfolding the paper, Mrs. Kettle read the contents, nodding slightly and lips twitching into a broader grin. Setting this and the envelope on top of the baker’s box, she stood and lifted a black-and-gold tin from the mantel. Fingering through its contents, she produced an envelope identical to the first.
“I am indeed in possession of the next quest.”
Claxton uttered a low exclamation and leaned forward in his chair. Sophia laughed and clapped her gloved hands, thrilled that the diversion would continue.
Mrs. Kettle’s sparkling gaze narrowed with sudden discernment. “However, these are not plum cakes; they are queen cakes.”
“Queen cakes and plum cakes are almost the same,” Claxton argued softly, brows gathered in protest.
The housekeeper snorted mirthfully. “Not at all ‘almost the same.’ Nor were these prepared by your own hand as the quest specifies.”
Claxton eased back in his chair, throwing Sophia an amused glance. “With the weather being so terrible…”
Sophia lifted her teacup for a sip. “We’ve none of the necessary supplies.”
“Poor excuses.” Mrs. Kettle tsked and shook her head. “And until you present suitable replacements, the next quest in the game will remain unopened. Those were your mother’s own rules.” She tucked the envelope into her apron pocket. “That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy these. My lady?” She extended the open box to Sophia, who after glancing at Claxton selected one. “They are very good.” But Mrs. Kettle slyly added, “Though mine are better.”
Claxton stood. Three pairs of eyes at the window widened beneath winter caps. “We had best be on our way if we are to complete this task before nightfall.” To Sophia, he inquired in a deliberate tone, “Unless you would like to forget the matter altogether.”
Sophia’s eyes widened with offense. “No, I don’t wish to forget the matter altogether. I am consumed with curiosity over the contents of the next quest. We must find them all before the frost recedes and we are obligated to return to London for Christmas.”
Mrs. Kettle asked, “Will you work together or compete against one another?”
Sophia looked at Claxton, nodding. “We will compete.”
“The lady’s choice,” said Claxton with a sigh, spreading his upturned hands in surrender.
Mrs. Kettle winked at Claxton. “Very well. I look forward to your presentations, at which time I shall judge which are the best, showing no favoritism to either one of you.”
Mr. Kettle dried his feet and found his boots. “I have sat too long in this chair. Sir, if you would allow me to accompany you to the livery, I’ve a bit of business to attend to with the hostler.”
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Kettle called. Following them to the door, she produced three brightly colored penny trumpets from her apron.
She pressed them into his hand. “For the three rascals out there. Can you imagine being their age and receiving a trifle from the Duke of Claxton? Give them a memory they’ll never forget.”
Claxton peered down at the tiny woman. “Thank you for thinking of it.”
Moments later, a cacophony of cheers and honks could be heard from outside. Sophia and Mrs. Kettle watched from the window as the boys followed Claxton and Mr. Kettle down the lane.
Sophia said to Mrs. Kettle, “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have met you and Mr. Kettle.”
Mrs. Kettle reached for her hand and squeezed. “Likewise, my dear.”
Sophia said, “Seeing his Grace with the two of you…well, it’s allowed me to see an aspect of him I’ve not seen before.”
“He’s quite imposing isn’t he? More like his father, in that respect, than I expected. But may I say, madam, that the two of you seem very well suited.” Mrs. Kettle crossed to their chairs and refilled both of their teacups. “His dear mother, the duchess, could not have hoped for better.”
“Thank you for saying so.” Sophia bit her bottom lip and lowered herself into the chair. A sudden rush of tears stung her eyes, and she attempted to blink them away before Mrs. Kettle saw.
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Kettle sat down beside her, her brow creased with concern. “That doesn’t appear to be a wholehearted expression of agreement.”
Sophia cleared her throat. “Things have been difficult of late.”
“The marriage is still young.” Mrs. Kettle nodded reassuringly. “And from what we’ve read in the papers, his Grace has traveled much this past year. That can’t have been easy, being apart.”
“We lost a baby last March,” Sophia blurted out, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Forgive me for being so familiar, but being that you are a midwife, I thought perhaps—”
“No apologies, please.” Mrs. Kettle reached for her hand and gently squeezed before releasing her. “I’m so sorry to hear. The loss of a child
is never easy.”
“Afterward everything became strained. We’ve never quite recovered.” Sophia looked into her lap, tracing the seam of her glove with her index finger. “I don’t know how things will turn out.”
Mrs. Kettle’s eyebrows went up. “He would not have learned gentleness or sensitivity from his father.”
“No, he wouldn’t have, from all I’ve heard.”
A long moment of silence passed, during which myriad emotions passed across Mrs. Kettle’s face. “I’ll never forget the looks of bewilderment on those boys’ faces the day he took them away after their mother’s funeral. Even now that memory haunts my dreams. I knew if their lives were anything like what the duchess suffered in the first years of her marriage, they’d be forever changed. The duke might have boasted the finest address in Mayfair, but there were nights when that house saw more depravity than the lowest of dockside bawdy houses.”
Sophia felt as if she might be sick. She’d known Claxton hadn’t told her the worst of it. She supposed now she could at least imagine.
“It must have been terrible for you and Mr. Kettle to lose the duchess and the boys all at once, and likewise for the boys to lose you. Claxton told me that sometimes he snuck away to visit you and Mr. Kettle at Camellia House.”
Mrs. Kettle’s gaze held hers unwaveringly. “Then you also know that after his father found out about those visits, he terminated our employment and boarded up the house.” She laced one of her wrinkled hands over the other and sighed. “Not long after, we learned Vane had disappeared. Run away! His father’s investigator came here looking for him, and I told the man all for the better, that if that dear boy came here, no, thank you very much, I wouldn’t be so kind as to let him know.” She rocked back into her seat. “He thought I was a horrible woman, but what did he know of the duke and his cruelties? From the time Vane was sixteen, we never saw him again. Until yesterday.”
Sophia nodded jerkily. “He seems to believe that he changed in such a manner that he couldn’t come back. That he no longer belonged here because he isn’t the same person. I think also, in some way he believes his mother would have been disappointed with the life he lived and the man he turned out to be.”
