Chapter 4
The first meal in the new house was a venison stew whose meat was tougher than any law case Ralph had ever chewed on.
While Ralph and Helena—or rather, Finch—had unpacked their trunks upstairs, the scullery maid had dusted the dining room so that it might be used by the new master and mistress.
Small as it was, there were still eight seats at the table, and despite the impracticality of it, the servants had set Helena’s plate all the way at the foot of the table.
From his distant seat, Ralph could see that Helena was no fonder of the stew than he was, but since the straw-haired maid was hovering by the door, he made no comment on the dining disappointment.
She would surely relay any criticism to Cook, and it would not do to antagonize the mistress of the kitchen on their very first night at the new residence.
It was apparent that Helena felt no obligation to initiate a dinner conversation, so Ralph put in a valiant effort to discuss the countryside roundabout. After a few rejoinders of “indeed” and “just as you say,” the topic petered out like a weak vein of silver.
Ralph cast about for another topic of conversation. “How would you feel about receiving visitors tomorrow, my dear?”
“Visitors?” Helena seemed to be immediately on her guard. “But who? We know no one here.”
“The steward tells me that Lady Compton will certainly wish to make your acquaintance. This is Compton property here, you see. Sir Anthony owns the manor house on the hill. I expect they will ask us to dine eventually.”
Helena blinked. In her former life as the daughter of a duke, Ralph was certain she would have sailed like a meteor above Lady Compton’s social sphere, but as a lowly solicitor’s wife, she was now doomed to orbit lesser stars.
“I do not think I will be ready to receive anyone for at least six months,” said Helena wanly. She glanced down at the black lace adorning the black sleeves of her black day dress. “Pray make my excuses to Lady Compton.”
Ralph folded his hands and tapped the index fingers together. As the maid had left the room, he was now free to speak candidly. “And who shall I say you are in mourning for?”
Helena opened her mouth, flushed, and then shut it again.
Ralph cleared his throat. “It is a bit of a predicament, you see. I can’t very well explain that you’re in mourning for your late betrothed when you are newly married to me. It would precipitate the very scrutiny that we came to Carham to avoid.”
Helena picked up her spoon and toyed with the gelatinous stew. “What are you suggesting then?”
The table was too long to examine whether her eyes were brimming with tears, but from the quaver in her voice, Ralph suspected it might be so.
His face softened and his voice took on a note of appeal.
“I do not mean that you must cease grieving altogether, but for both our sakes, perhaps it could be for a fictitious brother of yours rather than a flesh-and-blood brother of mine?”
It was a reasonable enough request, but Ralph soon had cause to regret the utterance of it.
Helena’s spoon slipped from her grasp with a faint clatter.
She clasped her hands across her bosom as if stilling the beating of a heart that felt too much.
“Pray excuse me.” Rising to her feet, she vanished from the dining room, leaving Ralph to mutely listen to the staccato of her feet hurrying up the stairs.
Ralph sighed, inwardly cursing his own ham-handed ineptitude.
Of course, it was too soon to ask such a thing of her.
He had treated his own sister Maud with much more delicacy when she had suffered a bereavement.
He ought to have known better than to wind his fingers in Helena’s heartstrings and tug at them.
The maid came in and bobbed a curtsy. “An’ are ye done here, Mr. Aldine?” She offered a decanter of port. Ralph did not care to speculate when the bottle had been opened, although the fact that the house had been recently let gave him some hope that the drink would still be palatable.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied, taking a glass of the fortified wine.
Leaning against the back of the chair, he sipped the drink to sweeten his disappointment.
“Patience,” he murmured to himself. “Patience.” Rome was not built in a day, and neither would be Helena’s trust. He must be as gentle as a dove, as wise as a serpent.
..and as slow as a tortoise in his approach.
But one thing he promised himself—Helena would smile again.
And if God granted him the honor, her smile would bloom for him.
When Helena awoke the next morning, she found to her delight that she was lying on a feather mattress of the softest down rather than on one of the straw pallets that adorned the beds of wayside inns.
She let herself luxuriate in the bedclothes for a few moments, enjoying the soft winter sunlight filtering in behind the lace curtains.
She could almost imagine herself in London again with plans for afternoon shopping and an evening at the theater.
The creak of an opening door yanked her out of her reverie, and she instinctively pulled her bedclothes up to her chin. “Oh! Finch, it’s only you. How you startled me!”
Finch huffed and laid out Helena’s other black day dress.
Obediently, Helena swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood beside the wardrobe.
She winced as Finch pulled the laces tight in back.
The cut of the front was much tighter than was comfortable.
“Could you loosen it a little?” she implored.
“Not unless it’s let out, my lady,” said Finch, lips pursed. “You’ll be needing to order some new clothes, I’m thinking.”
Helena swallowed. She had no idea what sartorial resources the village of Carham offered.
Would she need to travel south to Berwick-on-Tweed or north to Edinburgh?
The thought of jolting back and forth for half a day on a carriage seat was exhausting.
Perhaps Finch could go in her stead? But then, she would need to obtain some pin money to give to Finch.
Would she have to ask for it from Mr. Aldine?
Did he have full control of her settlement now, or was she able to withdraw money on her own?
Where did one withdraw money in a place like this?
Her golden eyebrows crinkled in perplexity.
Oh, how she wished Geoffrey had been well enough to explain everything to her properly before she had been bundled into the coach and banished to Scotland!
It was late morning by the time Helena went downstairs to the parlor.
Mr. Aldine was nowhere to be seen, and as they did not have a carriage at their disposal anymore, she could only conjecture that he had gone walking.
Her face flushed, remembering their disagreement from the night before.
No doubt he remembered it too. Would he bring it up when she saw him again, or would they paper it over with a false show of forgetfulness?
The fact that they only had one parlor was disconcerting.
Would they be forced to sit there together in awkward silence every evening?
Helena advanced hesitantly to the dining room, hoping to see a sideboard with some breakfast on it.
The room was as bare as an orphanage cupboard.
Giving a faint sigh, Helena sat down at the foot of the table, the seat she had occupied last night before fleeing to the safety of her room.
How long would it be before the servants noticed she was downstairs?
There was no long case clock in the hallway to chime the hour. It had never occurred to Helena before how much of a luxury it was to hear the time from every room of her childhood home. The undefined minutes dragged by interminably.
“Lawks, Mrs. Aldine!”
Helena jumped in her chair as the mousy scullery maid bobbed a curtsy.
“I dinna ken ye were awake, ma’am."
Helena immediately sensed the absent “my lady” that used to ornament the lips of her servants. “Yes, I am awake,” said Helena. “I would like some coffee and a sweet roll.”
The girl gawked like an errand boy in front of a sweetmeat shop. “I can ask Cook.” She disappeared.
It was not an altogether satisfactory response.
Helena waited for another score of minutes before the girl came back bearing a plate with toasted bread and a cup of something that was decidedly not coffee. She grimaced at the weak tea, feeling her stomach start to unsettle itself at the prospect of drinking it.
“Cook says we dinna have any coffee in th’ scullery,” the serving girl offered cheerfully. The thick brown toast that was clearly not a sweet roll did not merit any explanation.
“Perhaps Cook will be going into the village today to procure supplies,” commented Helena, her voice tinged with hope.
“I ken she micht be,” said the girl, her deep accent starting to wear on Helena’s coffee-deprived nerves. “She said that when ye’re guid an’ ready, she’ll wait upon ye this morn for th’ dinner menu.”
Helen picked up the thick bread gingerly and took an exploratory bite.
It was certainly no French patisserie, but it had a wholesome taste and a strong nutty flavor.
She looked up. The dining room was long but so narrow that even though Polly was standing against the opposite wall, Helena could still see the freckles on the scullery maid’s nose, which meant the scullery maid could inspect her just as easily.
Dismayed by the discomfort of being scrutinized, she swallowed the bite of bread and cleansed her palate with the lukewarm tea. “Thank you, Polly.”
A few seconds passed, and she realized that her tone had not carried enough weight to indicate dismissal. She tried again. “Please tell Mrs. Jenkins that she may wait upon me in the parlor in half an hour for the menu planning.”
At this, petite Polly bobbed a curtsy and disappeared out the dining room door. Helena exhaled in relief. She almost wished for Ralph’s company so that she would not be forced to endure this inquisitive domestic alone.
The bread took nearly half an hour of hearty chewing to consume.
Helena found herself growing more and more disgruntled at the quality of tea she had received, both the taste and the temperature.
Were they unaware in Carham of how to brew a strong English cup, or was Mrs. Jenkins purposely sending shoddy work into the dining room?
By the time Helena stepped into the parlor which adjoined the dining room, her imagination had concocted a half dozen reasons why the cook hated her so. She wanted nothing more than to commence—and conclude—the interview with Mrs. Jenkins. And what is more, she had no idea what to say.
The cook at Geoffrey’s London house was adept at the most fashionable meals.
Creams, sauces, ragout, venison, veal, fish—the dear fellow was divine at it all.
Helena had no idea how menus were constructed or approved.
Did Geoffrey really tell the man what they wanted on the table every day?
She had always assumed that Cook came up with it on his own!
Mrs. Jenkins, bustling into the parlor, was no sweeter looking than when Helena had met her on the previous day. The bristles on her chin reminded Helena of a wild boar, and Helena felt sure that before the conversation was over, she would be darting into a thicket to avoid being trampled.
“I hope ye had a pleasant sleep, Mrs. Aldine,” said the cook, her voice rumbling like the belly of a hungry giant.
“Oh, quite,” said Helena, realizing as she said it just how insipid those two words sounded. Seated on the settee, she felt the presence of the larger woman looming over her like a dark cloud.
“An’ have ye decided on th’ menus for th’ week?”
Helena’s stomach flipped over. Apparently, she was going to be required to do all the culinary thinking instead of just putting the seal of approval on a fully formed gastronomical experience.
“I am new to the north country.” Helena faltered. “What are your specialties here?”
“Ye’ll be wantin’ to try our ham an’ pease puddin’ stotties.”
“Oh, indeed?” The idea of pease pudding did not sit well with Helena’s insides, and she had no idea what a “stottie” could be. “Perhaps a chicken and mushroom fricassée?”
Mrs. Jenkins’ eyes narrowed. “An’ what would a ‘fricassée’ be meanin’?”
Helena took a deep breath. She had never made the dish herself although it was one of her favorites. “It has a white sauce on the chicken and mushrooms.”
“An’ how is th’ chicken cooked?” Mrs. Jenkins’ bristles grew even more defined on her tone as well as on her chin.
“I am...not sure. Surely you have a book of recipes?”
“From my mam, an’ from her mam before her. An’ there isn’t any sich recipe as a ‘fricassée’ inside it.”
“Perhaps just any dish with chicken and mushrooms then,” Helena conceded wanly.
“An’ for tomorrow?"
Helena was too frightened to venture the full title of one of her other favorites, le jambon de Westphalie. “Perhaps we might have some ham?”
Mrs. Jenkins grunted. It was impossible to tell whether she was pleased with or affronted by the question. “An’ what does Mr. Aldine like an’ dislike?”
Helena goggled at the cook. Of all the questions about menus, she had not anticipated this one.
A second’s worth of hurried reflection told her that she had no knowledge of what Mr. Aldine might or might not enjoy on his dinner plate.
There was one thing about him that she did know, however: “Mr. Aldine is very accommodating, and I am certain that he will be content with whatever is served.”
It was true, she reflected, as the cook departed with only a faint approximation of a curtsy.
Mr. Aldine seemed to greet all circumstances with equanimity.
If he could handle their disagreement over her mourning clothes without raising his voice and embrace the prospect of raising another man’s child with composure, it could hardly be supposed that he would become angry over an unfortunate cut of meat.