Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Edith stood before the washstand in her chambers, scrubbing the stubborn chocolate stain that had set into Mr. McTaggart’s shirt.
Earlier that morning, when Gracie had tipped over her mug at Mr. McTaggart’s table and splattered the front of the garment, Edith insisted on bringing it back to Aldmist Fell to clean.
“I do my own wash, lass,” he had argued, but while he was readying the sleigh to bring them back to the castle, she had shoved the shirt into the picnic hamper and carried it inside Aldmist Fell before he could stop her.
“Stubborn Scot,” she grumbled to herself.
Holding up the shirt to check her progress, rivulets of water ran off it and splashed into the basin.
From the worn places in the fabric, it was clear his method of doing laundry probably involved the stream outside his house and pounding his clothes against a rock.
It was fortuitous he planned to find a wife once she and the Thornes returned to England. Mr. McTaggart needed one.
A hurried knock sounded at her door, but before she could respond, it flew open, and Gracie bounded into the room. “They’ve arrived. Lavinia and Pearl are here.”
Forgetting her manners, Edith squealed with delight and dropped the shirt into the basin. She dried her hands on a cloth, then bustled from the room to greet her dear friend.
Gracie raced her down the curved staircase, their slippers making a pitter-patter sound against the stone.
“Helena took them to the drawing room,” Gracie said.
“And Lord St. Ambrose and Mr. Mason?”
“They went off with Sebastian.”
It was just like Lord Thorne to orchestrate a private moment for his wife and her sisters. He was a good man.
Gracie linked arms with her as they crossed the foyer. “I think the men are in the billiards room. Do you want to greet them first?”
Edith shook her head. It had been months since she’d seen Lavinia, and although she held nothing but gratitude for Lord St. Ambrose, she didn’t share a close connection with him.
Her friend spotted her the moment she crossed the threshold and shot from her chair to meet her. “Edith!” They embraced, holding on to each other for a moment. When they drew apart, Lavinia’s smile stretched across her pretty face.
“Your hair is down, and you’ve discarded the spectacles. How lovely you are. I think Scotland agrees with you.”
Edith scrunched her nose. “It is beautiful, but it isn’t home.”
“Please, don’t tell me you miss the soot and noise. I’ll never believe you.” Lavinia’s blond brows arched slightly. “Why, if you never returned to London, I would not be surprised.”
“Hmm.” Edith offered a bland smile. It seemed Lady Thorne had been bending Lavinia’s ear.
Once she and Lavinia were alone, she’d set her straight on the matter of Mr. McTaggart and remaining at Aldmist Fell. She had made a promise to watch over Gracie, and she wouldn’t abandon her young charge for any reason, especially not for a man. Surely, Lavinia knew her better.
Lavinia turned toward the modestly dressed young woman seated beside Lady Thorne. “Pearl, come meet my dear friend, Edith.”
Edith held up a hand as Lavinia’s younger sister scooted to the edge of the settee. “No, please don’t rise on my account. You must be fatigued from your journey.”
Pearl stood anyway, coming forward with a bright smile on her cherubic face while Gracie scrambled to take her vacant spot on the settee.
“I am only tired of sitting,” Pearl said.
With her chestnut hair and soft features, she looked nothing like her elegant older sisters, more adorable than stunning. She took Edith’s hands in hers.
“What a pleasure it is to meet you at last. Lavinia has been on pins and needles the entire journey in anticipation of seeing you again.”
“Pins and needles?” Edith’s gaze shot toward her friend. It wasn’t like Lavinia to be anxious about anything.
Lavinia gave an almost imperceptible shrug as she returned to her seat. “Helena was just telling us that Gracie has an eventful stay planned for us: ice skating, caroling—”
“And roasting chestnuts,” Gracie interjected.
Lavinia smiled indulgently at her and patted her lap. “We shall have a wonderful holiday with you in charge, dearest. Now, do come here so I may snuggle with you.”
The young girl popped up from her seat and rushed to her sister, throwing her arms around her neck. “I’m happy you’ve come.”
“How could I stay away?”
As Gracie settled onto Lavinia’s lap, Pearl and Edith took their seats. They spent the next half-hour listening to Pearl share anecdotes from their journey from Haslemere, where Lord St. Ambrose and Lavinia had stopped to collect Pearl and her husband before continuing to Aldmist Fell.
Lavinia laughed at all the right moments and hugged Gracie or kissed her cheek from time to time, but the way her gaze darted toward the doorway every few minutes alerted Edith that her friend was not as carefree as she pretended.
When the men joined them and Lavinia’s spine stiffened, it became clear something was amiss.
Perhaps a lover’s quarrel between her and Lord St. Ambrose?
In Edith’s experience, the two typically agreed on everything except the question of marriage. Lord St. Ambrose was dogmatic about wanting Lavinia for his wife, yet Edith’s friend adamantly refused to comply with his wishes.
“One does not marry his mistress without great cost to his reputation and livelihood,” Lavinia often insisted.
Edith believed her friend underestimated Lord St. Ambrose. While he was gentle with Lavinia and her loved ones, he possessed an air of danger. Only a fool would court his displeasure.
When he looked at Lavinia, however, his face softened, and his hazel eyes shone with love. “Have you had enough time with your sisters?” he asked. “Perhaps you would like to rest before supper.”
She aimed a sleepy smile at him, dispelling any notion that they were out of sorts with one another. “It will never be enough time, but a short rest sounds lovely.”
Lady Thorne stood. “Allow me to show you to your rooms.”
Side by side, Pearl and Mr. Mason followed the baroness and her husband from the drawing room. Mr. Mason walked with a limp, supporting his weight with a cane, yet otherwise, one wouldn’t know he had lost a leg only a year ago.
Lavinia gathered Edith into another hug. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured. “We will talk more later.”
Edith returned her embrace before surrendering her to Lord St. Ambrose. He smiled. “It’s good to see you, Edith. You are looking well.”
She performed an awkward curtsey. “Thank you, milord.”
Once the guests retired to their assigned chambers, Edith returned to her room to finish scrubbing Mr. McTaggart’s shirt.
She managed to remove the stain at last, though the garment had seen better days.
In fact, a glance into his wardrobe had revealed that the few shirts he owned had all seen better days.
It was a wonder he didn’t freeze to death in such threadbare garments.
She draped the shirt over the washstand to dry before turning her attention to her next task.
The picnic hamper needed to be returned to the kitchen, and she wanted to thank Mrs. McTaggart for baking her favorite cake, especially since her son had ordered her to do it.
The woman must have the patience of a saint, although Edith was wise enough not to speak ill of Mr. McTaggart.
No mother liked to hear her son disparaged, even if she wished to box his ears herself on occasion.
Edith took the servants’ staircase instead of marching through the main pathways of the castle with the large hamper. As she reached the servants’ area, a voice blared out, causing her to jump.
She couldn’t understand a word the woman was shouting in Gaelic, but the tone was clear. She was in a temper.
“Finella! Finella McTaggart, you lazy girl! Get in ‘ere before I skin you alive.” A loud clatter came from the kitchen, and Edith hastily turned to go back upstairs. “Oh, it is just you, Sassenach.”
Edith cringed at the scorn in those words. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered Mr. McTaggart’s mother red-faced, dusted in flour, and glowering in the corridor.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, ma’am. I only meant to return the hamper and thank you for the delicious fare.”
The older woman’s mouth puckered. “Well, I have no time for gabble.” She stormed back into the kitchen.
“Gabble? Me?” Edith frowned, taken aback.
She believed she was speaking perfectly clearly; after all, she had been told her King’s English was impeccable.
Madam Montgomery catered to gentlemen and ensured her girls spoke properly, and Lavinia had continued to tutor Edith even after they had retired to Chelsea.
Determined to make her gratitude known, she followed the woman into the kitchen and came up short.
Every surface was covered in flour, water bubbling over the side of a large pot on the woodstove, and a teetering stack of pans hung off the edge of a counter. Most notable, however, was how empty the massive kitchen was; Mrs. McTaggart had no help.
Placing the hamper on the floor out of the way, Edith hurried to grab two towels from beside the stove to remove the pot from the burner. “Was there an accident?”
“Knowing the lass’s pa, I’d wager it must of been an accident.” Mrs. McTaggart snorted. “No woman with her wits about her would lie with yon Gregory McTaggart on purpose.”
Edith choked down a laugh. “Pardon?”
The woman snatched a knife from the counter and wrestled with a plucked and beheaded chicken, beginning the arduous task of cutting it up. She shot Edith a dark look.
“Did you no’ listen to anythin’ I said, Sassenach? I’ve a meal for six that willna cook itself. I cannae stand ‘round jabbering when my help has run off and another is sick in bed.”
“Oh, dear. You’ve no one to assist?” Without waiting for a reply, Edith grabbed an apron from a peg on the wall and donned it. “Tell me what needs to be done.”
Mrs. McTaggart grunted, and Edith could barely keep a straight face. Like mother, like son, apparently. The woman muttered something in Gaelic, and when Edith stared in bemusement, Mr. McTaggart’s mother sighed. “You need to stay out of the way. I cannae have you underfoot.”
The scent of baking bread on the verge of burning filled the kitchen. Edith grabbed the same towels she’d used for the pot and pulled the golden loaves from the oven. “I won’t be underfoot. I know my way around a kitchen. Just tell me what you need, and I can do it.”
“And how do you know your way ‘round a kitchen, lass?”
Edith placed the loaves away from the stove to cool. “That was my job at the brothel. I cooked and cleaned to earn my keep.”
Mrs. McTaggart’s knife thwacked against the cutting block. “The brothel? In the name of the wee man! You worked in a brothel?”
Heat seared Edith’s face, and she ducked her head, too humiliated to look at the other woman. “I thought Mr. McTaggart would have told you.”
“My Fergus is no’ loose wit’ his tongue.
” Mrs. McTaggart wiped her hands on her apron and then stalked toward her.
Edith braced for a reprimand, but the woman’s hands were gentle on her shoulders.
“What happened, lass? No woman chooses that sort o’ life unless she has no other choices. Dinnae be ashamed.”
Edith blinked back the unexpected tears blurring her vision. “I lost my position as a seamstress, and all my family was buried. I had no place to go, but Lady Thorne’s sister took me in. She convinced the madam I could be of service in the kitchens. I swear, I was never…one of her girls.”
Mrs. McTaggart frowned. “It wouldna matter one way or another to me, Mistress Gallagher. If the menfolk took better care o’ their lasses, no’ one would be without a choice of where to go. How did you land on the streets?”
Edith squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head.
She wasn’t as ashamed of living at Madam Montgomery’s house of ill repute as she was about wasting her virtue on Jimmy Gibb, silver-tongued devil that he was.
Her mother had warned her away from men like him, but her mother had been dead for two years when Jimmy came sniffing around her skirts.
Without anyone to care about her, Edith had been lonely. And stupid.
Mrs. McTaggart’s light touch at Edith’s chin caused her eyes to fly open. The older woman’s green gaze radiated kindness and warmth, her smile encouraging. “Well, never you mind about that, Mistress Gallagher. You’ve put it behind you, and there it should stay.”
Edith tentatively returned her smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
As quickly as Mrs. McTaggart’s gentleness appeared, it vanished, and she returned to her task. “I willna refuse your help now that I kin you can cook. The potatoes need peeling the rest o’ the way. You can find a knife over there.”
Edith followed the direction of her nod and discovered a bowl of potatoes and a knife beside it. “Yes, ma’am.”
They worked in companionable silence for the next hour. Once Edith had the potatoes on to boil and Mrs. McTaggart had prepared the chicken for frying, the cook dismissed her. “You should dress for supper, lass. I can handle it from here.”
As Edith placed the apron back on the peg, Mrs. McTaggart called to her. “I’m sorry for earlier, Mistress Gallagher. I was a bit frazzled when you found me.”
Edith shrugged and smiled. “I didn’t notice.”
The kitchen at Aldmist Fell was one of the few places she felt at ease and capable. In truth, she was more suited to work at Mrs. McTaggart’s side than to dine with nobility.
“Thank you for allowing me to help. It was good to be in the kitchen again.”
Mrs. McTaggart tossed a leg and thigh into the heavy iron skillet on the stove, intent on her task. “I was happy to have you. You’re a good woman.”
“For a Sassenach?” Edith teased.
“For anyone, lass. Didnae forget it.”