A Lord Apart Page 9

  “He didn’t bring her flowers or nothing,” said Kitty. “Is this a hat?”

  “I still think he’ll wed a grand lady from London,” said Betty. “Daughter of a duke or some such thing. With bride clothes from the very best places. And a dresser who knows all the tricks.”

  “But not too grand to teach you,” replied Kitty.

  “I’ll make sure she takes to me.”

  The two girls straightened, each holding a large hatbox.

  “Lord Macklin’s a dab hand at matchmaking,” said Tom.

  “The old lord?” said Betty. “I wouldn’t think he’d take an interest.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  The girls turned to look at him. “How’d you come to work for him?” Betty asked. “And what d’you do anyhow? Nobody belowstairs can figure.”

  “I make him laugh, mostly. I think he’s lonely since his wife died.”

  “Don’t he have any family?” asked Kitty.

  “He does, but he says his children are right busy. He’s taken me on like one of them court jesters, I reckon.”

  “A what?” Betty frowned up at him.

  “I saw one in a pantomime in Bristol,” Tom went on. “They dance around with bells and make jokes.”

  “You do that?” Betty gaped at him.

  Tom looked contemptuous. “’Course not. But I’m not like anybody he’s ever known, see. He’s curious.”

  “You like being treated that way?”

  “I don’t mind. He’s kind about it. And I get to see and do a mort of things I never would have otherwise. I’ll move on after a bit.”

  “Where?” asked Kitty.

  Tom shrugged. “Wherever I like. America maybe.”

  “It’s full of wild Indians! And panthers.”

  “What a load of nonsense.”

  “There are!”

  “Not in New York or Boston, which is where I’d land.” Tom looked speculative. “Maybe I’d go and look for the wild Indians.” He eyed the hatboxes. “You know there’s no papers in them boxes, right?”

  “We have to look everyplace,” Betty replied. She and Kitty exchanged a glance and giggled.

  They set the boxes down and opened them. Unsurprisingly, they contained hats, which the two girls promptly donned. Betty grinned from under the wide brim of a confection adorned with ribbons, feathers, and artificial flowers. A similar hat, with the addition of a stuffed bird perched on top, fell down over Kitty’s nose, covering her forehead and eyes. “Whoever owned this ’un must have had a head like a pumpkin,” she declared.

  A footman passed by, returning for another trunk to haul downstairs. “What the deuce are you doing, Betty Fancher?” he said.

  “Just checking boxes, Ned. As ordered.”

  “Dressing up ain’t checking.” Ned glared at Tom. “Being led astray by a vagabond, more like.”

  “Don’t be daft,” answered Betty. “He’s just a lad.”

  “He’s big enough to help carry, instead of larking around with you. If he wants to help, that is.” The footman’s tone suggested deep doubt.

  “I don’t mind,” said Tom amiably. He moved to join Ned.

  “I can’t get this off,” cried Kitty. “Somethin’s stuck.”

  Betty set her hat back in its box and went to assist. She tugged at Kitty’s hat.

  “Ow! Ow! Ye’re tearing my hair out by the roots.”

  Tom and Ned stepped closer. “It shouldn’t ought to stick,” said Ned. He grasped the brim and yanked.

  Kitty shrieked.

  Ned let go as if the hat had burned him and jumped back.

  “Lemme see,” said Tom.

  “As if you’d know anything,” said Ned.

  “Sit down,” Tom told Kitty.

  “I can’t see,” she moaned.

  “Here.” Betty guided her over to a trunk and eased her down.

  “Now then.” Tom bent over the offending hat. He ran nimble fingers over the surface, peering beneath silk flower petals and lengths of ribbon and the feathers of the bird. “Ah.” He reached, pulled, and withdrew a hatpin from the crown—eight inches of steel with a small golden ball at one end and a lethal point at the other. “Wait,” he said. Further probing turned up another pin, just the same. “Try now,” he said.

  Kitty raised her arms and gently pulled. The hat came off, revealing her red and tearful face. A folded sheet of paper fell onto the floor.

  “That was clever,” said Ned. He gazed at Tom with new respect.

  Kitty shoved the hat at Betty, who set it back in its box. Tom showed Kitty the pins before handing them to Betty so she could replace those as well, and then he picked up the fallen page.

  “All papers to go downstairs,” said Ned. He took the paper and dropped it into a nearby box waiting to be carried down.

  “That was worse than a panther,” said Kitty, smoothing down her hair.

  Seven

  In the kitchen of Rose Cottage, Kitty held up a small, brown oval. “What’s nutmeg?” she asked. Her pointed face creased in a grin. “Could be a lass selling roast chestnuts. Getcher nuts from Meg in Market Square.”

  Penelope smiled. “It’s a spice,” she replied. “To flavor food.”

  “And that one needs to be grated,” added Mrs. Hart. She handed Kitty the proper utensil.

  Kitty held the nutmeg in one hand and the bit of perforated metal in the other, looking back and forth.

  “Rub it across,” said Mrs. Hart. “Here. I’ll show you.” She demonstrated the grating process. “All of it, mind. We don’t want any waste.”

  The small, sturdy lady who came in half days to cook at Rose Cottage was a fanatic on this point. Penelope admired her iron frugality, particularly because it never compromised the luscious taste of her dishes.

  Mrs. Hart put half a cinnamon stick in the mortar. “If you’d like to pound this out to a powder, miss,” she said to Penelope. “Though I can easily do it.”

  She never quite believed that Penelope wanted to learn to cook with her own hands. Eventually, she’d convince her. Penelope took up the pestle and began to pulverize the cinnamon. Sweet scents wafted through the room.

  “Ow!” cried Kitty. “This dratted thing bit me.” She held up a bleeding finger.

  Penelope watched Mrs. Hart restrain her impatience. Kitty was clumsy in the kitchen, from lack of ability or lack of experience, Penelope wasn’t sure which. She knew Mrs. Hart often snatched an assigned task away from the girl and did it herself. Not when Penelope was present, since she knew Penelope wanted Kitty to learn. But she’d heard other exchanges. Their cook was a much better practitioner than teacher and struggled to endure mistakes, her professional pride warring with her natural kindness.

  There was a delay while Kitty’s finger was bound up, and then a muttered argument when the girl insisted she would keep on grating the nutmeg. Mrs. Hart very much wanted to take over, but at last she gave in. Kitty went back to it with exaggerated care.

  Some minutes later, Mrs. Hart poured the prepared spices into a sieve with a pound of sugar. “Now we sift these together, miss.” She held the sieve over the worktable and tapped the edge. “They should be well mixed, so the flavors are spread through the dough.”

  Sugar and spices rained down in an aromatic mélange.

  “You can fetch three eggs and break them into that little bowl,” Mrs. Hart said to Kitty. The cook kept sifting as Kitty obeyed. “Watch for bits of shell,” she added.

  On several occasions, Kitty had left a few when she cracked eggs. She peered into the bowl and fished some out. Penelope was glad to see that she didn’t use her bandaged finger.

  “Do you have that rosewater, miss?” asked Mrs. Hart.

  “Yes, it’s here.” Penelope held up the bottle she’d procured at the farm where she bought milk and eggs. The farmer�
��s wife had a notable stillroom as well.

  Mrs. Hart nodded approval. “Pour a bit in with the eggs, and beat them.”

  “How much?” Penelope asked.

  “Just a dollop.”

  Penelope hesitated, added a splash, then a bit more, before starting to beat the mixture.

  The back door opened. Foyle looked in, then retreated with a disappointed expression. Penelope had noticed that her manservant hung about the kitchen when Mrs. Hart was here alone, but never when Penelope was having a lesson. She suppressed a smile and kept beating.

  Mrs. Hart added her sifted ingredients to a large mixing bowl of fine flour and stirred it all together. She gestured with her wooden spoon, indicating that Penelope should put in the eggs, which she did. They were stirred in.

  “Bring over our melted butter, Kitty,” said the cook. “Carefully now.”

  The young maid used a corner of her apron to grasp a saucepan on the hob, carrying it as if the liquid butter might leap out and burn her at any moment. She set it on the worktable with visible relief.

  “Perhaps you could pour some in the bowl, miss,” said Mrs. Hart with a sigh in her voice.

  Penelope wrapped a cloth around the hot handle and picked up the pan. “All of it?”

  “No, miss. We want just as much as will make it a good thickness to roll out. Perhaps half at first.” Penelope poured. The cook stirred. “A bit more,” she said. “There, that’s it.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Penelope. The dough looked the same to her.

  “By the feel.”

  “May I try?”

  Mrs. Hart handed over the spoon. Penelope stirred, trying to memorize the texture. She wasn’t certain she succeeded.

  The cook molded the dough into a loaf shape. “We’ll let it sit for a little while before we roll it thin. Then your Shrewsbury cakes can be cut it into whatever shapes you like.”

  Kitty’s eyes brightened. “Goats?” she asked. “Or lions?” She clapped her hands. “We could make them like Jip and Jum.”

  “The dogs may not come in as models,” said Penelope, earning a grateful glance from Mrs. Hart. They were of one mind on the dogs’ place in the household—outside, charming as they were. Kitty held to the other side of the issue and couldn’t be trusted to heed the rules.

  “You can cut them,” said Mrs. Hart, forestalling disappointment. “Whatever shapes you like.”

  Penelope nodded. A beaming Kitty went to fetch the rolling pin and a paring knife, only to be diverted by a knock at the front door.

  “I’ll go,” said Penelope.

  “I should do it, miss.”

  “Never mind.” Forestalling argument, Penelope went out and opened the door. Lord Whitfield stood on her threshold, looking powerfully athletic in a blue coat and buff riding breeches. Penelope was suddenly conscious of some streaks of cinnamon on her apron. She could feel that the heat of the kitchen had caused her hair to droop about her ears.

  “Good day, Miss Pendleton,” said Daniel. He’d expected to be greeted by the maid and to ask if her mistress was free. Perhaps these social conventions made no sense in such a small dwelling. Should he have sent a note asking to call? He hadn’t really considered, he’d been so eager to see her.

  Clearly he’d chosen an inopportune moment, because Miss Pendleton had flour on her nose. Daniel felt a nearly irresistible impulse to pull out his handkerchief and wipe it off. But he stayed his hand. She wouldn’t like that. Better to ignore the smudge. Instead he took a folded sheet of paper from his inner pocket. “One of the shelves in that wardrobe collapsed. We have another flood of paper, I’m afraid. But this conveyance was caught in a crack at the back. My great-great-grandfather bought Rose Cottage about a hundred years ago.”

  “Really?” Her blue eyes lit in the way that always shook him as she took the page, opened it, and began to read. “What crabbed handwriting.”

  “Shall we go in?”

  “Oh, of course.” She moved back, and Daniel followed her into the parlor. She sat down, all attention on the document. He took the armchair. There was a spot of flour on the back of her hand as well. She looked utterly charming in an apron. The house smelled sweetly of spice.

  “It doesn’t say why he bought the cottage from this Addison.”

  “No. I expect the opportunity simply arose. My great-great-grandfather extended the estate in several directions. He was a notorious nipfarthing. Spent every penny he could scrape together on land.”

  She nodded and read on to the end. “I don’t see how a transaction in 1713 can have anything to do with me.”

  “No,” he replied, carefully not looking at the smudge on her nose.

  “Still, it’s a step along the way in solving our mystery.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it does tell us that the cottage wasn’t part of your ancestral heritage, which would make it easier to give away, I imagine.” She looked pleased with that idea.

  “A good point.”

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “The—?”

  “You keep looking at me sideways.”

  “You have flour on your nose,” Daniel admitted.

  “My nose?” She swiped at it, merely spreading the smudge. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

  “It’s more embarrassing to know it was there all this time. Is it gone now?”

  “Not quite.” Daniel got out his handkerchief and offered it to her.

  Miss Pendleton rubbed off the smudge. “Thank you.” Handing back the square of cloth, she seemed to notice her apron. “Oh.” She stood, untied the strings, and set it aside. “I was having a lesson with Mrs. Hart this morning.”

  “Mrs. Hart?”

  “The kind neighbor who comes in to cook for us.”

  “Ah.”

  A burst of Kitty’s giggles came from the kitchen. “That’s daft-looking, that is,” she said.

  “We were making Shrewsbury cakes.”

  “You were?” Daniel asked.

  Something in the question seemed to annoy her. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m not a grand noble. I have a small household to run.”

  “I didn’t mean…” Daniel cast about for words. “That chocolate cake you served on our first visit was as fine as anything my cook makes at Frithgerd.”

  Miss Pendleton gave him a rueful look, then burst out laughing. “Your cook did make it. It was in a hamper of food you had sent over when I arrived.”

  Her eyes crinkled up when she laughed. Humor lit her face in a way that made the whole room seem brighter. She didn’t laugh nearly enough. He joined in. “That’s why the taste was familiar.”

  “That sort of cake is beyond my skills so far. I’m starting smaller.”

  “I’m very fond of Shrewsbury cakes,” he insinuated.

  “I’d offer you some, but they’re not baked yet.”

  “Perhaps I could help.” He’d never had any interest in cooking before, but this entrancing young lady had altered his views on a number of things.

  “You?”

  He waited, and then enjoyed seeing her realize that she’d used the same incredulous tone he’d employed. She smiled at him. Daniel’s pulse began to race. What a fool he’d been to think her wan and sylphlike. She…glowed.

  “Certainly Lord Whitfield,” Miss Pendleton said. “I’ll find you an apron.” She picked up her own, put it on, and led him to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Hart dropped a scandalized curtsy at their entrance. “My lord.”

  “Lord Whitfield is interested in how Shrewsbury cakes are made,” said Miss Pendleton as she walked into the pantry. Her teasing tone clearly shocked the cook.

  The young maid, oblivious, pointed at some blobs of dough lined up on a metal baking tray. “Mine are a right mess. Mrs. Hart’
s going to roll them out again so’s I can make another try.”

  “We don’t seem to have a fourth apron,” said Miss Pendleton, reemerging. “You could have mine.” Her eyes brimmed with humor.

  “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you,” replied Daniel, trying to conceal his relief. Unsuccessfully, her expression told him.

  “We can’t have flour on your fine coat.”

  “We won’t be getting any flour on his lordship,” said Mrs. Hart firmly. With the air of a long-suffering parent marshaling her brood, she added, “Give me those, Kitty.”

  Kitty gathered up the blobs and passed them over. With a few deft strokes, Mrs. Hart rolled the dough out flat.

  “We can each cut the shapes we like,” said Miss Pendleton. “You must give us our own bits of dough to work with, Mrs. Hart.”

  The cook rolled out more and arranged three, not four, stations along the kitchen table. She distributed small paring knives, then stepped back to check the brick oven in the side of the fireplace.

  “I’ve ordered the closed stove,” said Miss Pendleton as they lined up to address the dough. “It should be here in a week or two.”

  “That’ll be grand, miss,” replied Mrs. Hart. She seemed uncomfortable with her ill-assorted staff.

  “Knives at the ready,” said Miss Pendleton. She held hers upright, like a fencing foil. Kitty giggled.

  “Is it a race?” asked Daniel.

  “An artistic competition. Mrs. Hart will judge which of us does best.”

  “Not me, miss,” said the cook, holding up her hands, palms out.

  “Well, we’ll fight for the prize among ourselves.” Miss Pendleton waved her knife in a little flourish. “And begin!”

  They bent over the dough. Daniel decided he’d make scalloped edges with a circle inscribed in the middle. He’d had some Shrewsbury cakes like that once. But the plan was more easily imagined than done. This wasn’t like drawing. The blade tended to drag the dough out of shape. His scallops were unsatisfactory. He glanced to the side. Young Kitty was frowning over more incomprehensible blobs. Miss Pendleton was cutting simple stars. Neat, straight lines were clearly a good idea, Daniel realized, as he watched her set her knife, cut, and then push sideways, easing the dough apart. He wished he’d thought of that. He noticed a smudge of flour on his coat sleeve.