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Authors: Jane Feather
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rather if, he did meet such a woman? His eyes drifted towards the closed door. Then he shook his head again in a gesture of mild exasperation and reached for the ale jug to refill his tankard.
Harriet fought to concentrate on the business in hand as she met with Cook and the housekeeper, discussing the various merits of a baron of beef versus a boar’s head for the Christmas table and the need for calves’-foot jelly for Great-aunt Augusta, who would insist upon it even though she barely touched it. “Oh, and we must make sure to have plenty of your cheese tartlets for Lord Howarth, Cook. You know how much he likes them.”
“Oh, aye, right partial to ’em, he is,” Cook said with a complacent smile. “And there’ll be partridge pies an’ veal and ham for the shooting-party lunch.”
“Have the children been down yet to stir the puddings?” Stirring the Christmas puddings was a childhood ritual, and Harriet remembered how it had felt to stand up on a high stool at the massive kitchen table, struggling with the great wooden ladle to mix the bowl of candied fruits, nuts, eggs, suet, flour, and whatever else Cook had decided to add, her nose tickling with the powerful fumes of the brandy that was slurped in at every turn. Nick had always sneaked a finger around the edge of the bowl to taste the mixture when no one was looking. The brandy had always made him choke. She gave herself a mental shake.
“They’ll be down this afternoon to do that, an’tomorrow afternoon when the cake and that fancy bouchedenoel, or however them Frenchies call it . . . can’t think what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned Christmas cake.” She sniffed. “When they’ve been iced, the children can come and decorate them. I’ll be making the marzipan today.”
“I know you will achieve your usual magic, Cook.” Harriet checked the last item on her list. “I think that’s all, unless you have any questions.”
“No, that’ll do for me, my lady.” Cook brushed off her immaculate starched white apron. “I’ll be back to me kitchen now.” She bobbed a curtsy and rustled out.
“Will you be able to manage without Doris, Mrs. Sutcliff?”
“It’s to be hoped we won’t have too many young ladies without their own maids,” the housekeeper replied.
“Well, I’m sure I can manage without Agnes waiting upon me all the time, so if there are any, you may send Agnes to them.” Harriet nodded a pleasant dismissal, hoping to cut off any objections from the housekeeper, who looked as if she were ready to launch into a catalogue of complaints.
“Well, if you say so, m’lady.” Mrs. Sutcliff inclinedher head in a stiff curtsy and sailed from Harriet’s parlor.
Harriet leaned back in her chair and exhaled with relief. That was the worst of the morning’s tasks taken care of. She could safely leave the management of the household to those who understood it best. It was purely for form’s sake that she involved herself at all. She glanced at the clock. It was almost ten, nearly an hour since she’d left the Earl in the breakfast parlor. He would be expecting her in the Long Gallery. Great-aunt Augusta would not arrive much before noon. So what was she waiting for? She rose and headed for the door.
The Earl was ahead of her in the Long Gallery, standing with his hands clasped behind him, examining a portrait of a gentleman in a cartwheel ruff, a gold slashed doublet, and skintight hose that left very little of his masculinity to the imagination.
“The first Earl Devere,” Harriet said, coming to stand beside him.
“A remarkably well-endowed gentleman,” Julius observed.
Harriet gave an involuntary chuckle. “He definitely has something of a peacock’s strut about him. I’m sure he thought himself God’s gift to the female sex.”She ought to have ignored the inappropriate comment, but she’d had the same thought many times. “Family history has it that he was a pirate, a bandit, an all-round scoundrel, who
Harriet fought to concentrate on the business in hand as she met with Cook and the housekeeper, discussing the various merits of a baron of beef versus a boar’s head for the Christmas table and the need for calves’-foot jelly for Great-aunt Augusta, who would insist upon it even though she barely touched it. “Oh, and we must make sure to have plenty of your cheese tartlets for Lord Howarth, Cook. You know how much he likes them.”
“Oh, aye, right partial to ’em, he is,” Cook said with a complacent smile. “And there’ll be partridge pies an’ veal and ham for the shooting-party lunch.”
“Have the children been down yet to stir the puddings?” Stirring the Christmas puddings was a childhood ritual, and Harriet remembered how it had felt to stand up on a high stool at the massive kitchen table, struggling with the great wooden ladle to mix the bowl of candied fruits, nuts, eggs, suet, flour, and whatever else Cook had decided to add, her nose tickling with the powerful fumes of the brandy that was slurped in at every turn. Nick had always sneaked a finger around the edge of the bowl to taste the mixture when no one was looking. The brandy had always made him choke. She gave herself a mental shake.
“They’ll be down this afternoon to do that, an’tomorrow afternoon when the cake and that fancy bouchedenoel, or however them Frenchies call it . . . can’t think what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned Christmas cake.” She sniffed. “When they’ve been iced, the children can come and decorate them. I’ll be making the marzipan today.”
“I know you will achieve your usual magic, Cook.” Harriet checked the last item on her list. “I think that’s all, unless you have any questions.”
“No, that’ll do for me, my lady.” Cook brushed off her immaculate starched white apron. “I’ll be back to me kitchen now.” She bobbed a curtsy and rustled out.
“Will you be able to manage without Doris, Mrs. Sutcliff?”
“It’s to be hoped we won’t have too many young ladies without their own maids,” the housekeeper replied.
“Well, I’m sure I can manage without Agnes waiting upon me all the time, so if there are any, you may send Agnes to them.” Harriet nodded a pleasant dismissal, hoping to cut off any objections from the housekeeper, who looked as if she were ready to launch into a catalogue of complaints.
“Well, if you say so, m’lady.” Mrs. Sutcliff inclinedher head in a stiff curtsy and sailed from Harriet’s parlor.
Harriet leaned back in her chair and exhaled with relief. That was the worst of the morning’s tasks taken care of. She could safely leave the management of the household to those who understood it best. It was purely for form’s sake that she involved herself at all. She glanced at the clock. It was almost ten, nearly an hour since she’d left the Earl in the breakfast parlor. He would be expecting her in the Long Gallery. Great-aunt Augusta would not arrive much before noon. So what was she waiting for? She rose and headed for the door.
The Earl was ahead of her in the Long Gallery, standing with his hands clasped behind him, examining a portrait of a gentleman in a cartwheel ruff, a gold slashed doublet, and skintight hose that left very little of his masculinity to the imagination.
“The first Earl Devere,” Harriet said, coming to stand beside him.
“A remarkably well-endowed gentleman,” Julius observed.
Harriet gave an involuntary chuckle. “He definitely has something of a peacock’s strut about him. I’m sure he thought himself God’s gift to the female sex.”She ought to have ignored the inappropriate comment, but she’d had the same thought many times. “Family history has it that he was a pirate, a bandit, an all-round scoundrel, who
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