Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The kitchen at Wyndham Hall was my favorite room in the house, though I suspected my sisters would be horrified to know it.
While they spent their mornings in the newly redecorated morning room debating wallpaper samples with Mr. Boucher, I found myself drawn to the warm, bustling heart of the household.
Mrs. Fletcher had welcomed my interest in menu planning with the sort of pleased surprise that I was prepared already for such a task. This morning found us seated at the large wooden table, surrounded by recipe books, market lists, and the comfortable clutter of a working kitchen.
"Now, for tomorrow's dinner," Mrs. Fletcher said, consulting her notes, "I thought we might try that lamb recipe your aunt was so fond of. The one with rosemary and early potatoes."
"That sounds perfect. Will we need to send to the village for anything special?"
"The butcher should have what we need, and the garden's providing lovely herbs now that someone's been tending them properly." She gave me a meaningful look. "We won’t have much longer with the cold weather coming on but you never know. Amazing what a bit of attention can do for growing things."
I smiled, thinking of the morning I'd spent helping Mr. Brooks rescue plants from the frost. "Indeed it is."
"Mind you, it's not everyone who'd think to roll up their sleeves and work alongside the plants. Shows good sense, if you ask me."
Before I could respond, the kitchen door opened and Mr. Brooks appeared, carrying what looked like correspondence and wearing the sort of expression that suggested he'd been dealing with complicated matters.
"Mrs. Fletcher," he said, then paused when he saw me. "Mrs. Tynsdale. I hope I'm not interrupting?"
"Not at all," I said, though I was aware of a sudden shift in the atmosphere—the way Mrs. Fletcher's face brightened and Mr. Brooks seemed to relax slightly as he stepped into the warm kitchen.
"Just going over menus," Mrs. Fletcher explained, already moving toward the pantry. "And trying to convince Mrs. Tynsdale that she needn't apologize for taking interest in her own household."
"Sound thinking," Mr. Brooks agreed, settling his papers on the far end of the table. "Though I suspect she has little to apologize for in any case."
Mrs. Fletcher returned with a plate of what appeared to be small, golden biscuits still warm from the oven. She set them in the center of the table, then placed a particularly perfect specimen directly in front of Mr. Brooks.
"There," she said with obvious satisfaction. "Your favorites. Though I don't know why I bother—you'll eat them too quickly to properly appreciate my handiwork."
Mr. Brooks picked up the biscuit with what I could only describe as reverence. "Mrs. Fletcher, I've been properly appreciating your handiwork since I was seven years old. I'm not likely to stop now."
"Seven years old?" I asked, intrigued.
Mrs. Fletcher beamed. "Oh yes, he's been coming round this kitchen since he was barely tall enough to reach the table. Scraped knees, torn clothes, always hungry and usually in some sort of trouble."
"Mrs. Fletcher," Mr. Brooks protested mildly, though he was smiling.
"Don't you 'Mrs. Fletcher' me, young man. I remember when you were more mud than boy, trailing through here with grass stains on your good clothes and explanations that would make a storyteller proud."
I found myself leaning forward with curiosity. "You grew up not just around here, but here here, close, then?"
"I did," he said, his expression softening with what looked like genuine fondness. "And a better place to grow up there could never be."
"He was always underfoot," Mrs. Fletcher continued, clearly enjoying herself. "Forever getting into scrapes with the local lads, climbing trees he had no business climbing, fishing in streams that were supposed to be off-limits."
"The streams weren't off-limits," Mr. Brooks corrected. "They were merely... discouraged."
"Same thing, as far as your poor mother was concerned. The number of times I've cleaned scraped elbows and bandaged cut fingers at this very table." She shook her head with mock severity. "And the stories I've heard about where those injuries came from—each one more unlikely than the last."
"My explanations were perfectly reasonable."
"Perfectly reasonable, he says." Mrs. Fletcher turned to me with obvious delight. "Once he told me he'd torn his shirt climbing a tree to rescue a cat, when everyone in the village knew he'd been racing the Burtons boy down the river bank and caught his sleeve on a bramble."
"There might have been a cat," Mr. Brooks said with dignity.
"There might have been a unicorn, too, but that didn't make it true."
I watched this exchange with growing fascination. There was an ease between them that spoke of years of familiarity, a warmth that went far beyond the typical relationship between a steward and household staff.
"And were you always so... creative with the truth?" I asked.
"I was always creative with explanations that would minimize maternal concern," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"A fine distinction," I said, trying not to laugh.
"Indeed it is. Mrs. Fletcher understood the necessity of such discretion—didn't you, Mrs. Fletcher?"
"I understood that boys will be boys, and mothers will worry themselves sick if they know half of what their sons get up to." She gave him a fond look. "Though I must say, you've grown into a fine man despite all my early predictions."
"Your predictions?"
"Oh, I was certain he'd end up either in jail or Parliament, with such a talent for persuasion. Turned out I was half right."
I looked between them with confusion. "Parliament?"
Mr. Brooks shifted slightly in his chair. "Mrs. Fletcher has an... expansive view of local governance."
"Local governance nothing," Mrs. Fletcher said with a sniff. "You've got the sort of mind that could manage anything, if you set it to the task."
"I'm perfectly content with estate management."
"Content, yes. But capable of more, if circumstances required it."
There was something in her tone that suggested layers of meaning I wasn't quite grasping. But before I could pursue the matter, Mrs. Fletcher was back to her favorite subject.
"Of course, he was always bright as a new penny. Even as a lad, he could solve problems that confounded grown men. Remember the year the mill wheel broke, and none of the adults could work out how to fix it?"
"I had some ideas," Mr. Brooks said modestly.
"Some ideas, he says. You redesigned the entire mechanism and had it working better than it ever had before. And you couldn't have been more than twelve."
"Closer to fourteen, I think."
"Old enough to know better, young enough not to care about impossibilities." Mrs. Fletcher turned to me. "That's been his way ever since—see a problem, find a solution, make it work better than before."
"Impressive.”
Mrs. Fletcher agreed. "Though I sometimes wonder if his talents aren't wasted on estate management alone."
"I find estate management entirely fulfilling," Mr. Brooks said firmly, though there was something in his voice that suggested this was a conversation they'd had before.
"Fulfilling, perhaps. But is it challenging enough for a mind like yours?"
"Mrs. Fletcher, you flatter me."
"I speak truth, and you know it. Always have, even when truth wasn't what you wanted to hear."
I watched this exchange with growing interest. There was clearly a deep affection between them, but also something else—a hint of concern, perhaps, or frustration on Mrs. Fletcher's part.
"Have you always worked here?" I asked her.
"Twenty-three years come Michaelmas. Started as a kitchen maid when I was barely sixteen, worked my way up to cook. Your aunt was a good mistress—fair, reasonable, never asked for anything impossible."
"And you've known Mr. Brooks all that time?"
"Longer. His family and mine have been connected for generations. My late husband worked for his—" She paused, glancing quickly at Mr. Brooks, who had gone very still.
"Worked for his father," she finished carefully. "In various capacities."
"I see." Though I didn't, really. There was something about their exchange that felt incomplete, as though important information was being deliberately omitted.
"The connections between families run deep in the country," Mr. Brooks said, his tone carefully neutral. "Everyone knows everyone, often going back several generations."
"It creates a sense of continuity," Mrs. Fletcher agreed. "Children growing up alongside each other, taking over family responsibilities, maintaining traditions."
"Is that what happened with you?" I asked Mr. Brooks. "Following family tradition?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"His father would be proud," Mrs. Fletcher said warmly. "Seeing how well he's managed, how respected he's become. The responsibility sits well on his shoulders."
"Responsibility often does, when one is raised to it properly," Mr. Brooks replied, though there was something almost wistful in his voice.
"Were you always intended for estate management?" I asked.
"I was raised to understand land and its stewardship," he said carefully. "The specific application of that knowledge has evolved over time."
Mrs. Fletcher made a sound that might have been disagreement, but when I looked at her, she was busying herself with clearing the tea cups.
"It must be satisfying," I said, "to work land you've known since childhood."
"It is," he agreed, and this time his voice carried unmistakable sincerity. "There's something to be said for understanding a place in your bones—knowing how the seasons affect each field, which tenants need encouragement and which need guidance, where improvements will be most effective."
"And the challenges? What do you find most difficult about estate management?"
He considered this seriously. "Balancing competing needs, I suppose. Tenants require certain considerations, but the estate must remain profitable. Improvements cost money, but neglect costs more in the long run. Traditional methods may be comfortable, but innovation is often necessary."
"Spoken like someone who thinks in the long term," I observed.
"One must, in this work. Decisions made today affect not just this year's harvest, but harvests a decade hence."
"Exactly what I mean," Mrs. Fletcher said, returning to the conversation. "Always thinking ahead, always seeing the bigger picture. It's a gift, that kind of perspective."
The kitchen door burst open and James, the younger footman, appeared looking harried.
"Mr. Brooks, sir, there's a situation with the Thornfield boundary that requires your attention. And Mrs. Tynsdale, your sister is looking for you—something about fabric selections that can't wait."
I sighed, recognizing the imperious summons. "I suppose I should see what crisis has developed in my absence."
"Probably the catastrophic discovery that two shades of blue don't complement each other as expected," Mr. Brooks said with a slight smile.
"You're not far wrong," I replied, rising from the table. "Mrs. Fletcher, thank you for the lovely conversation. And for the education in local history."
"My pleasure, ma'am. Estate management suits you as well, you know.”
As I made my way toward the door, I heard Mrs. Fletcher's voice, pitched low but still audible: "You should tell her, you know—she'd understand."
"Mrs. Fletcher—"
"I know, I know. None of my business. But secrets have a way of complicating things, especially when they don't need to be secrets in the first place."
I paused at the door, curious about this exchange, but James was waiting and Victoria's summons brooked no delay.
As I left the kitchen, I found myself wondering what kind of secret might exist between Mr. Brooks and Mrs. Fletcher—and why she seemed to think I would understand whatever it was they weren't telling me.
The conversation lingered in my mind as I made my way to face whatever decorating crisis awaited me. There had been something almost familial in the way Mrs. Fletcher spoke to Mr. Brooks, an intimacy that went beyond the usual relationships between household staff and estate stewards.
And then there was her comment about his father, the careful way she'd edited her words, the sense that there was more to their connection than simple professional association.
But whatever the truth was, it was clearly not mine to know. At least, not yet.