Chapter 10
When Owen woke up that morning last thing he expected was to be slipping into his kitchens in the middle of the night.
He had not anticipated doing so with the lady he had sworn to keep his distance from.
He knew that it was for the best to keep portions of himself and his life separate from Beatrice, for no good could come from him staying by her side, but he could not help himself.
What he had expected to be a hobby of hers quickly revealed itself to him as a talent, and he wanted to see more of it.
And so, he stood hip to hip with her by the ovens, allowing the warmth from the burning logs to caress them.
The room smelled of sugar and remnants of their dinner, and Beatrice had already set to work, making two separate stations for them.
She pointed to the simpler one, the area where fewer impliments were collected, with an outstretched arm.
“That one is yours.”
He took his place and looked at the ingredients before him.
He was quite ashamed to admit that he had never used anything of this sort in his life, and so the sight of two white powders, butter, and milk, was unnerving.
He had been confident when he asked to join her, but now that he was here, he did not feel as assured of his abilities.
“You look terrified,” she giggled. “Fear not, I will help you.”
Owen looked at what surrounded Beatrice, and he hardly knew what some of the things were.
He knew that her sweets were intricate, but he had incorrectly thought that she had done it with very simple ingredients.
She had already set to work, and when Owen looked down, he realized that she had given him a list, along with detailed instructions.
He began by mixing butter and sugar with a spoon. Thankfully, he was a muscular man, for it proved more difficult than he expected. He beat them with a spoon, only to turn and see that Beatrice had already finished the first few steps in her own process.
“How long should I stir this mixture?” he asked.
“As long as you please. The more you combine them, the finer the texture will be.”
And so, he continued.
“How long have you been doing this?” he continued as he stirred. “Baking, I mean.”
“Since I was a little girl,” she explained as she measured some rosewater carefully.
“My parents, they– well, they were not always happy with one another, nor with me. There were moments when the walls of my home rocked, and the only way to avoid the clamor was to hide away in the kitchens. I was fortunate to have a cook who took pity on me. I learned everything from her, and eventually I began to try new things too.”
Owen listened to her story and wondered if anyone else knew of her familial struggles. He wondered why she trusted him enough to tell him, too, because it was usually something that brought great shame upon a person.
“I am sorry,” he comforted. “Having met your parents, I did not expect such discord to exist.”
“What did you think of them?”
“If I am being honest, I did not like them very much. Your father gave me the impression that he did not consider your happiness a priority and your mother did not seem to care about what you wanted at all. They were both pleased that you were going to marry a duke, but as for how you felt about me and the match we made, they s struck me as being rather unfeeling and callous.”
“That is because they are,” she laughed sadly. “You can continue with the recipe now; it looks good.”
He added some lemon zest, and then added the flour, kneading until a pliable dough formed.
“Your mother seemed different today, though.”
“She always is, when my father is absent. She is more of a mother to me, and I appreciate that greatly, but I do wish that she was able to treat me that way when my father was present, too.”
“Well, not all people deserve children, even if children all deserve parents.”
“You sound as though you are speaking from experience.”
“Indeed, I am,” he nodded, rolling out his dough.
“My father was a cold man, and he had great expectations of me. Every Duke of Pantheris is expected to be better than the last, and if that means surpassing perfection then that is what must be done. Nothing that I did was ever good enough, and yet I could not hate him.”
“Because you knew that he was doing it out of love,” she mused, assuming correctly.
She leaned over to help him, and when her fingers brushed against the back of his hand, he felt her warmth. She looked up at him with a kind smile and then handed him a glass to cut out the shapes.
“I forgot to write this, but you must lightly prick them all with a fork. It helps them to bake evenly.”
Owen did so and then prepared the tin. Beatrice, meanwhile, was only halfway through hers. She was making intricate petals from sugar paste, and though he had felt that he worked enough with his simple biscuits, he had a sudden urge to assist her.
“Might I try?” he asked.
“It is fiddly. Your hands are rather large, so you may struggle.”
“I most definitely will, but I would like to try all the same.”
She nodded, handing him some paste and showing him how to build the petal. As expected, his hands made it harder to shape something so delicate, but he persisted. Beatrice giggled at his efforts, but there was no malice in it.
“You are doing well,” she said gently. “When I first made these, I grew so frustrated that I was tempted to throw them across the kitchen. I could not seem to make them do what I wanted, and it angered me to no end, but now I find something soothing about it. Everything else around me ceases to exist, and I can simply create.”
“I have never had something like that.”
“How is that possible? You have the entire world to explore, and you can do almost anything you please. Do you truly mean to tell me that you have never found something that brought you pleasure?”
“Indeed. It is as I told you, I was expected to be perfect. The ideal duke would not fritter away his time enjoying himself. He must serve, and that is what I have done.”
“Then I look forward to seeing the village, for it must be flourishing under your care.”
“It is my pride and joy. We shall see it tomorrow, if you like.”
She faltered slightly, looking at the sweets in front of them.
“Might we go in two days?” she asked. “I would like to make baskets for the people, and include some treats, and I require time to do that.”
“As you wish,” he agreed, finishing the first flower that he had deemed worthy. “Is this to your standard?”
She took it from him, admiring it.
“It is excellent. You seem to have a natural talent for this!”
There was a flicker of pride inside him, contentment that he had succeeded. She placed it onto one of the sweets and then placed the tray of his biscuits into the oven.
What followed was the longest few minutes of his life.
He knew to wait for a slight change in color, and so he stood next to the oven watching intently.
Beatrice laughed softly at him every so often, and he understood that he was being ridiculous, but he dreaded the thought of burning them after all his effort.
Thankfully, they did not burn. They were brought from the oven, and then began another agonizing wait while they cooled. While the biscuits were still warm, he took one and snapped it in half, offering part to Beatrice. She took it from him gratefully, and they ate their pieces.
“It is precisely as I said,” she nodded. “You have a talent. I cannot quite believe that I am saying this, but you are welcome to join me whenever you please. You are a worthy assistant, indeed.”
Owen thanked her, but he knew that he could not hold a candle to her.
He had followed her instructions, and accepted her help, while she had done everything alone.
She was the one who had memorized everything, and had practiced until she had achieved greatness, and he could not understand why her parents did not think it was brilliant of her to have done it.
“We ought to sleep,” she said, yawning. “It is terribly late.”
“You do this often, do you not?”
“Indeed, but I do not have to awaken early like you do. I assume that you have things to do in the morning?”
“I am to see a friend, yes, but he has seen me in some terrible states. If I am tired, he will not question it.”
All the same, he knew that they needed to sleep. His wife was clearly exhausted and given all the changes she had been dealing with he did not blame her. They placed their goods to the side, for the servants to eat in the morning, and left for bed.
He walked her to her door, their hands brushing against one another as they walked. He did not pull away; he did not want to.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said softly.
“Goodnight, Beatrice.”
She smiled, lingering in the doorway before walking inside. He could not take his eyes off of her.
The following morning, Owen was certain that he could smell sugar on his fingertips still, and when he wandered through the household, he could smell biscuits in the air.
It was new for him, and he appreciated the change greatly.
Mrs. Forsythe passed him, and he swore that he could see her chewing thoughtfully and discreetly.
“Might there be any left?” he asked. “Stanton would appreciate them, I rather think.”
“Indeed, I shall fetch them for you. The staff have asked me to give you their thanks, too.”
“They are most welcome. It would seem that they shall have sweets more often now.”
And so, when he met Lord Stanton, he was not empty handed. They took their drinks, and then Owen presented his friend with the treats. Stanton looked at him with uncertainty and then bit into one. In an instant, a smile spread across his face.
“You have changed already, Pantheris.”
“It would appear so. Who would have thought that I would spend my nights in a kitchen, rather than a gentlemen’s club?”
“This wife of yours is having a good effect on you. I knew I liked her when I saw her.”
“I fear that I thought the same. I want to say that she aggravated me, especially given the circumstances, but when I look back on the day I met her, I cannot help but think that I knew then and there that she should be my wife.”
“And now she is,” Stanton reminded him, chewing.
“And now she is.”
“As for the lady that almost was?”
“She is well. Beatrice and I will see her soon, and I already have the matter of her finances in hand. She will be well taken care of.”
“Very well,” he replied before taking another bite of a biscuit.
Owen wondered what his friend was thinking, for they did not have the sort of bond where they kept things from one another. He was tempted to ask him directly, but he knew it was best to continue as normal and if Stanton had something to say, he would eventually tell him.
“We are to visit the village tomorrow,” Owen continued. “The people will like her, I think, especially if she brings them sweets as good as these, and–”
“Does she know?”
Owen fell silent, his blood turning cold. He comprehended instantly in what way his friend’s mind turned and sought to stamp out the conversation before it truly began.
“No,” he replied. “I have not told her, and if all goes well, she will never learn of it.”
“Surely you understand that she will find out eventually. She deserves the truth.”
“If she finds out of her own accord, I will tell her what happened, but until then I do not want her to hear a word about it. She likes the household, and knowing such a tragedy happened within will only ruin it.”
“And is that, your wife’s impression of the household, the only reason you keep this old story to yourself?” Stanton asked pointedly.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You are keeping it from her because you do not wish to discuss the matter. The last thing that you want to do is tell her something so awful, but it is better that she hears it from you than from people in the village. Believe me, someone will say something.”
“Of course they will not. What sort of person would want to mention something so terrible on a happy occasion? They will only wish to greet her and accept the gifts. It shall not go any further, and I will not allow it.”
But his friend was not so convinced, and Owen could see that Stanton wished to argue.
He also knew that there was a chance, however small, but that changed nothing.
He was not going to tell Beatrice what happened all those years before, because no good would come from it.
All that it would do was make him vulnerable to judgment, acknowledgement that what happened had been his fault.
It was a risk that he could not take, and so he would not mention it.
“You cannot push her away forever. You are already failing at it by spending your nights in the kitchens with her.”
“How do you know we baked at night?”
“Well, it is either that or you were restless, and in any case that would be because of your new wife.”
He cursed his friend for being so perceptive.
“I am only spending time with her. There is nothing wrong with that, given that we are married.”
“No, I am pleased about it, but you cannot have it both ways. If you wish to keep your distance, then do it. If you want to form an attachment, then that is even better, but do not lead her to think you want one when you truly want the other. It is not fair.”
Owen thought about that as he traveled home.
Beatrice had not kept anything from him and seemed to view their union as a sign to trust him deeply and completely, and he wished that he could do the same for her.
It was what she deserved, but he could not provide it for fear that she would only turn him away, disgusted with the person he once was.
When he returned, it was time for dinner.
Beatrice greeted him in a blue gown, one that he had chosen specially.
Her new gowns had been a gift from him that he had not thought much of.
He simply knew that her clothing was not fit for her status, and so he ensured that changed, but it clearly meant the world to her.
She twirled, asking him what he thought with a bright smile, and he told her nothing but the truth.
She looked lovely, and he was pleased that she liked the frock so much.
And yet, as they ate, doubt circled once more. He liked her very much, trusted her too much, and no good could come from that.