Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What are you doing?” Adrian mumbled to no one in the dead silence of his study, where he had sequestered himself for the foreseeable.
He tossed his quill onto his desk, blobs of ink splattering across correspondence that had been crossed out and rewritten so many times that it was not worth sending. Leaning back in his chair, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
I am not sick, so why do I feel as if I have a fever?
His mind was mush, any attempt at getting on with his duties thwarted by the inability to think of anything but Valerie: her kiss, her fingertips running through his hair, her fingernails clawing at his back; the sound of her pleasure, the eagerness with which she kept surrendering to him, and the brazen touch of her hand against the front of his trousers.
“This is bloody hopeless,” he muttered, and promptly got to his feet.
But that was about as far as he managed to get, for even though the boys had been returned to the orphanage, the castle still had not been restored to his control. Not in the way he was used to, at least.
He could not wander where he pleased, in case he bumped into Valerie and ended up doing something he might regret.
He could not retire, for the hour was too early.
He could not find peace in the library, where he would only think about Valerie more.
Nor could he imbibe at his leisure with Richard because he had been stupid enough to send his friend away out of…
what? Embarrassment? Insecurity? Worry that Richard might woo Valerie and take her to bed before Adrian could?
I should have just explained that I was helping that vexing minx. In truth, though it had been years since he had done so, Adrian could have used Richard’s advice about how to handle the fairer sex. Rather, how to push a woman away, when all he really wanted to do was have her as close as possible.
Plucking a cup of long-cold tea from the desk, Adrian wandered over to the door that led to the snowy outside and opened it wide.
He leaned in the doorway and sipped the drink, a smile forming upon his lips as he noted the bulky, strange shapes that crowded the rose gardens opposite. The last remnant of the boys who had brought such liveliness to the castle.
Surely, I do not miss it?
“I must be losing my mind,” he murmured, drowning the words with another sip of tea.
Yet, continuing to gaze out at the snow-blanketed world that glittered beneath the molten glow of late afternoon, a pang of unease caught him under the ribs. A sneaky punch of feeling that he feared might leave a deeper scar than any he wore upon his body.
Perhaps, it was not about what he missed, but what he would miss when it was gone. Not the noise and mischief of the boys, but the easy, secretly pleasing, sometimes jarring presence of the woman who had somehow made herself at home in his castle.
The carriage will be fixed by Christmas Eve. She will leave… and I will be alone again.
He waited for the relief to come at the prospect of his resumed solitude, the cold winter air seeming all the colder when it did not.
“You know I adore your cooking, Mrs. Leggat, but this has to be for children,” Valerie urged, while Esther stifled a chuckle and Kate pretended to wash some spoons, though the older woman had been washing the same spoon for the past five minutes.
The cook mustered a haughty snort and began to untie her apron at the perceived insult. “If a child is eating it, then it’s food for children!” she retorted. “I don’t know of any child—orphans, no less—who’d turn up their nose at pheasant in aspic! They ought to be grateful for what they get.”
Esther had to excuse herself, her hand clamped over her mouth as laughter slipped between her fingers. Valerie could not have agreed more, but she had to be diplomatic, or her entire party would fall to pieces before it had even begun.
“The boys relished your marzipan creations,” Valerie said, changing tactic. “Might you do more of those? Indeed, it should be the most festive array you can think of. Every little thing you have always wanted to make for a Christmas feast!”
“Roast goose, perhaps?” Kate interjected with a subtle wink to Valerie. “A few of those, and servants to slice. People could eat whenever they please—a buffet of sorts.”
The cook physically recoiled. “A buffet? I’ve never served a buffet in my life, and I don’t mean to start now. Nothing will be warm, nothing will taste as it should; it would be utter chaos.”
“You serve breakfast every day,” Kate replied. “That is technically a buffet, and the eggs are always warm and delicious. Besides, Mrs. Leggat, this is a party. There are always refreshments being served in such a fashion at a party.”
Valerie clasped her hands together, figuring it would not hurt to beg since everything else had failed.
“Remember, Mrs. Leggat, this is for those dear boys who so enjoyed your marzipans and your stories. I remember Isaac saying how envious he was of the roast goose that other children get to eat at Christmas.”
“And David talked of the crispy, buttery potatoes that he had seen the merchant’s family eating last Christmas,” Kate added, so seamlessly and earnestly that Valerie could not tell if the merchant was made up or not.
“The plum pudding with the brandy, too,” Valerie agreed. “He asked me what my family enjoy at Christmas, and I told him of the golden parsnips and the buttered leeks—oh, and the oranges and sweet Christmas pies and candied fruits.”
Huffing out a breath, rather like an angry bull in a summer field, the cook pursed her lips and stared at the other two women as if she did not know whether to shoo them out of her kitchen or consider their suggestions.
“Well, I don’t know where I shall get geese with such little notice,” Mrs. Leggat muttered, after a short while. “And I shall be chained to this kitchen day and night if I’m to make the sweets as well as the savories, and I hardly have the time or kitchen maids to spare for the task.”
Valerie’s eyes widened, sensing a ‘but’ in the woman’s reticence.
“But,” the cook continued, “if I don’t take this opportunity while I have it, I might never make food for a party again. It has been so many years since I provided a feast for the season. I was a slip of a thing back then, little more than a girl.”
It took the utmost discipline for Valerie to keep a smirk off her face and a snort out of her nose, for there was no possible way that the cook had been a young woman the last time there was a Christmas celebration at Blackwall.
Mrs. Leggat was at the tail end of her forties at least, in the midst of her fifties at most.
Kate, however, clearly felt no such compulsion to play along.
“I was a young woman, Mrs. Leggat. You had two children almost grown.” She paused.
“But I remember how magnificent you were, whirling around the kitchens like a dancer, conjuring up the most delicious food I have ever tasted. I still dream of those sweet tarts with the lattice on top. The ones with the currants and apples?”
A pinch of anxiety tightened Valerie’s throat.
The cook had been in a bad mood anyway after the departure of the boys, made worse by Valerie insinuating that the food she had been planning would be no good at all.
Correcting the older woman’s version of the past could well tip her over the edge, making her refuse to do anything for the party at all.
And they had been so close to winning her over to a more… informal feast, too.
Still, at least fighting with the cook had helped to take Valerie’s mind off what had happened in the carriage.
To her surprise, Mrs. Leggat suddenly burst out laughing, her hands reaching behind her to retie the strings of her apron.
“I forgot you were there, Mrs. Mullens! Goodness, but it does feel like I was nothing more than a girl back then. You think you’re a grown woman when you’re five-and-twenty, five-and-thirty, certainly at five-and-forty, but it’s not until you’re fifty that you realize how young and na?ve you still were.
” She cast a bright smile at Kate. “Those were my Christmas pies. You really remember them?”
“I can’t forget them,” Kate replied. “Whenever this time of year comes around, and Christmas creeps closer, I can’t forget any of the parties and gatherings and balls we used to have here.”
The cook nodded, her smile fading. “Now, it passes like any other week.”
Listening to the shared past of the two older women, hearing the bittersweet tone of their voices and seeing the soft reminiscence on their faces, Valerie did not know if she should intrude.
She could only imagine how glorious the parties must have been at Blackwall Castle, though the vibrant visions were tinged with the shadow of everything Adrian had revealed to her about his mother.
But he did say that he was certain it had been her favorite time of year. And I know it must have been his, too.
“This year will be different,” she said decisively.
“We shall concentrate our efforts on the party, of course, but… do you think we might bring that cheer to this castle, too? A smaller feast for the household on Christmas Eve, perhaps? And… I know I saw some holly and ivy in the gardens. We could make wreaths and garlands!”
She braced for the other two to tell her that it was a foolish notion that would end in trouble, not at all expecting the girlish shrieks that squealed from the pair of them.
“There are bows and decorations somewhere,” Kate urged, clapping her hands together. “Oh, where on earth did they end up? I shall have to enlist the footmen to hunt them down.”
“There is bunting in the cellar!” Mrs. Leggat joined in, enthused.
“And the gardener would be glad to pick out the perfect yule log. Some mistletoe, too, though not where any maids and footmen might cross paths. Laurel is essential. Rosemary, for the scent. And I shall have to make a twelfth night cake, more elaborate than anything those bakers in Blackwall can make.”
At that, Valerie’s buoyant heart began to sink, a heavy stone dropping from her chest into her stomach where it sat uncomfortably.
By Twelfth Night, the eve before Epiphany, five days into the new year, she would not be there anymore.
She would be in Scotland to continue her mission, or she would be on her way back, empty-handed, with no choice but to face the fate she had been running from.
Either way, she would not be at Blackwall Castle, amongst these lovely people.
Chances are, I will never see Adrian again…
“Miss Wightman?” Kate’s gentle voice yanked her out of her heavy thoughts.
Valerie blinked. “Hmm?”
“Are you well?” Kate reached out to rest a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. “You seemed sad for a moment.”
The cook frowned. “I expect she’s missing her own family. Can’t wait to get back to them, no doubt.” She mustered a small smile. “I always spend Christmas morning at church with mine. Oh, the grandchildren will be pleased as anything to get to attend this party!”
“Yes… I was just thinking about my siblings,” Valerie half-lied, though the two things—needing to leave and wanting to stay—were entwined.
“They would enjoy a party. We usually attend the church in the nearby village, and we always walk back the long way; the hills look so pretty in the winter. Afterward, we have a little feast, and then we spend the afternoon playing or reading or telling stories.”
A flicker of something like suspicion flitted briefly across Kate’s face as she eyed Valerie, but she said nothing.
Instead, she nodded and gestured to the door where Esther had departed.
“It has just been the two of us for years, but we have our traditions. Mostly, we’ve been here for Christmas Day.
We go to church, we return, we spend most of the day in the drawing room, and eat whatever Mrs. Leggat happens to have left for the servants. ”
“I never leave you all without,” Mrs. Leggat confirmed with pride in her voice. “Now, shall we divide and conquer? I ought to start making the pastry—how many sweet pies do you think? Five-hundred?”
A cough of shock knocked the rest of Valerie’s troubled reverie out of her head. “I do not think we will need quite so many! Perhaps, a few large ones?”
“Yes, large ones…” The cook nodded thoughtfully. “Still, I’ll need pastry for the pheasant pies too. My grandchildren love a pheasant pie, before you say anything, and those boys ate three helpings when I made it for them.”
Laughter bubbled up in Valerie’s throat. “Well then, while you are making your delicious pastry, I shall retire to my chambers to make a list of what we shall need.” She glanced at Kate. “Might you see what decorations can be found?”
“Of course, Miss Wightman.” Kate smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes, which gleamed with a mild sadness. “I shall put everything I find in the old ballroom. Do you know where it is?”
“I think so,” Valerie replied and moved toward the door.
This party was to be her saving grace, diverting her mind from the thrill of the carriage journey, the confusion of what it meant, and the haunting repetition of Adrian’s warning—do not ask too much, do not ask too much.
She might be leaving soon, but that did not mean she could not leave her mark upon Blackwall Castle and its offspring of a town. Indeed, she intended to soak up every bit of joy and festive merriment from this party, for it might be her last chance to simply be herself, enjoying every moment.
A shudder ran through her as she hurried out of the kitchens, her mind whispering a dreadful realization, Next year will look very different indeed.