Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Oh, darling, that’s was a good try, but it is not quite right,” Jane told Reuben softly, gently nudging his hands aside.
The kitchen smelled of warm butter and yeast and the particular sweetness of vanilla that clung to everything when the cook had been baking since early morning.
Jane had always loved that smell. It lived in the oldest part of her memories – images of her mother's kitchen, flour-pale countertops, the sound of a wooden spoon against earthenware.
Of course, that was long her mother had warped into someone she didn’t recognize – a woman utterly devoid of motherly instincts because she had traded them to become agreeable with her husband.
long before it had become a sport for her parents, demanding more and more from her, punishing her when she failed.
The pain remained, even years later, even though she was no far away from them, but still, ever so often, she would crave the smell of warm biscuits and long for her mother’s gentle voice, guiding her with precise instructions.
She pushed the thought away. That was not why she was here.
Jane had relegated herself to the kitchens because she needed to not think about Thomas, for a while, and as it turned out, Reuben was an excellent remedy for that particular ailment.
In a bid to run from what was gradually becoming a serious problem, she had thought of an activity that would require manual work and focus.
Moments after an idea had surfaced in her mind, she was at Reuben’s room, smiling as she asked him if he would like to spend the afternoon doing something fun with her.
Now, the child stood beside her at the long kitchen worktop, a linen apron three sizes too large tied twice around his middle, his dark curls already dusted at the temples with flour. He watched her hands with total concentration as she demonstrated how to press the dough flat with her palm.
“Like this,” she told him gently. “Not too hard you're not trying to punish it. Just... suggest that it take the shape you want it to take. Persuade it.”
Reuben nodded, his expression full of determination as he pressed his own small portion of dough with both hands. Jane could tell by his furrowed brows just how much effort he was putting in hopes of doing it correctly.
From the other end of the worktop, the cook – Lucas, a man Jane had learned shortly after meeting had the softest heart beneath his rough exterior – watched them with visible amusement.
But along the edges of his expression lay a slight wince, which Jane knew was a sign that he was quietly suffering because he ceded control of his domain and was trying – and failing – to make peace with it.
“The biscuit cutters are to your left, Your Grace, when you're ready,” he offered, nonetheless still as kind as ever
“Thank you, Lucas,” Jane smiled at him. “We'll be sure to keep our messes as minimal as possible – and we’ll tidy up afterwards. I promise.”
However, Jane knew, even as she said it, that this was an overly optimistic promise. Afterall, things had not been going her way recently.
She had woken that morning with the feel of Thomas' hands on her waist, his mouth still warm against the memory of her throat.
She could still smell him, feel his smile pressed to her lips, no matter how she wished she did not.
Jane had lain in her bed staring at the canopy for a considerable amount of time before she accepted that she would not be able to simply think herself into a state of calm.
Two nights ago, in that locked drawing room at Penelope's ball, she had made a series of decisions that had felt, in the moment, like the only logical thing she could go, given the circumstances she had found herself in.
And when the morning light dawned on her, the choices she had made felt as though she had brought herself to the edge of something steep and realizing, belatedly, how high up she was.
She needed to be sensible. They had – she counted carefully – less than a month remaining of their agreement.
Four weeks, perhaps slightly fewer, before their three months concluded and whatever amicable arrangement they had built dissolved back into separate lives.
She had understood this from the beginning.
She had accepted it as the terms. She was not the sort of woman to revise an agreement because things had become inconvenient.
She was also not the sort of woman who stood naked in locked rooms at her friends' homes, so apparently, she was revising a number of things about herself.
What terrified her the most about that moment was how good it had felt – and therein lay the problem. She had gotten lost, swept up by his words and his charm and had acted immensely recklessly. This could no longer continue, or else she was bound to meet a disastrous end.
Now, Jane was doing what she could to avoid Thomas, which had gone better than she had expected it to on the first day, but she could not trust that luck would remain on her side. Which was one of the reasons why she was hiding away in what might be the last place he might have hoped to find her.
Reuben tugged her sleeve and she blinked, looking down at his expectantly open face.
“Right,” she said, shaking her head in hopes of casting thoughts of her husband aside. “The cutters. Shall we make usual round ones? Or – oh, there's a rabbit one.”
She held it out to him with an excited grin. “What do you think?”
He pointed at the rabbit decisively, looking just as excited as she was. Jane’s heart thrummed with quiet and deep fondness and she nodded, pushing the rest of the cutters aside.
“Excellent choice, sir,” she approved, and pressed it into his hands. “Let us begin, then.”
The next twenty minutes passed pleasantly.
The warm weight of the kitchen settled around her – the low heat from the ovens, the smell of the butter browning in the pan where Lucas was preparing the glaze, Reuben's determined concentration as he pressed the cutter into the dough with both hands.
He was doing what he could to be careful, which made Jane happy to see.
He was so young, yet so thoughtful and deliberate. It made her believe that he would be just fine, regardless of how things would happen later.
Jane watched him lift the cut piece and examine it, turning it over with careful scrutiny, painting a picture of a scholar reviewing important documents. She pressed her lips together in an effort not to laugh, inhaling deeply with her eyes closed, before she looked down at him.
“Very fine work,” she told him gravely. “I believe that is the finest rabbit biscuit I have ever seen.”
He looked up at her, quiet satisfaction written across his small face, and she felt her chest compress with something soft and aching that she didn't know quite what to do with.
She picked up the small flour bowl beside her – intending to dust the worktop before rolling the next portion – but her reach was slightly wider than she had calculated, and her elbow caught the rim, and a good handful of flour lifted into the air and settled directly across Reuben's nose and forehead.
A perfect white dusting, precise as powder, deserving of awe in any other situation. Reuben went very still, his eyes wide as he gazed up at her.
Jane pressed her lips together again, not sure what to do or where to do. Lucas made a small strangled sound at the far end of the worktop and Jane felt immensely apologetic towards the man.
Then Reuben blinked – once, slowly, like an owl – and the corners of his mouth curved upward, and a laugh came out of him, high and bright and entirely unguarded.
Jane felt the sound go straight through her and saw there was no use in restraining her own laughter, permitting her lips to set free a burst of giggles.
“Oh, that was an accident,” she pouted, failing completely to sound serious as she fumbled about, searching for a napkin. “I am so sorry, darling. Here – let me –”
Reuben plunged both hands into the flour bowl before she could finish her sentence, his eyes glittering with mischief.
“Wait –” was all she managed before he brought his hands up and deposited a spectacular cloud of flour directly into her face.
She gasped and was given the honour of tasting it against her wishes– dry and starchy on her lips. She blinked through the haze of white and found Reuben watching her with an expression of absolute delight, already reaching for more.
“Oh,” Jane said, “I suppose that is how we are doing this, then. All right.”
She grinned and grabbed a handful herself.
What followed could not, by any honest accounting, be described as tidy.
Lucas retreated with commendable speed to the far corner, positioning himself behind the bread oven, and made sounds of protest that became increasingly theatrical and increasingly ignored.
The kitchen maids pressed themselves to the wall near the door, vibrating between horror and laughter.
Jane's hair came partly down, and Reuben's apron had gone from white to a more complex white with a touch of texture in the colour, and they were both laughing, properly laughing, helplessly, as she cornered him near the stove and he shrieked.
He turned around, undoubtedly looking for a momentary shield with his ammunition clenched loosely in his fists.
Suddenly, the shriek tapered off, causing Jane to looked up, gasping almost instantly. Thomas stood in the kitchen doorway, impeccably dressed, as always – or he had been, until approximately two seconds ago.
Before the last of Reuben's flour, thrown in the chaos of retreat, had caught him squarely across the front of his white shirt. It clung there in a pale cloud, spreading slowly across the fabric.
The kitchen went silent immediately, as the gravity of the situation settled upon the onlookers. Every staff member in the room went rigid and Lucas, from behind the bread oven, made the face, clearly already preparing to receive an order of dismissal, effective immediately.
Reuben stared at his father, concern and hesitation clouding his features.
Meanwhile, Jane’s eyes were still stuck to Thomas’ shirt, disappointed in herself when her mind wondered, traitorous and entirely unbidden, about the shirt coming off.
She nearly scoffed, as this was exactly the kind of thoughts she had come here to avoid, and she felt her face heat underneath the flour already on it.
After what felt like eons, Thomas peered down at his shirt, then slowly raised his gaze as the silence extended.
Jane opened her mouth – likely to apologize, to explain, to offer some diplomatic framing of the situation – but Thomas had already moved, stepping to the worktop, reaching past Reuben for the flour bowl, and upending a careful, measured handful directly onto the top of Reuben's head.
Reuben's expression sifted through shock, disbelief, and then a joy so complete it seemed to light the room from the inside.
The kitchen was stuck with an uproar as the maids gave up their composure entirely, and Lucas made sounds that Jane suspected were laughter very sternly disguised as disapproval.
Reuben grabbed flour with both hands and went after his father, who looked as though he was out of his depth but committed to seeing his decision to enrol in this war through.
Jane stood in the middle of it all with flour in her hair and her heart doing something complex and foreign in her chest, as she watched Thomas – serious, rigid, overworked Thomas – use the kitchen worktop as a shield against his six-year-old son's assault.
They were approaching her side of the kitchen again, still laughing as they added to the mess, she fully intended to make them both help in cleaning.
Thomas was going to throw a handful of his swiftly acquired ammunition, but Reuben stopped suddenly, placing himself between Jane and his father, shaking his head slightly.
Then he parted his lips and said quietly, his voice small and almost rough,
“Don't throw it on Jane.”
The words landed like a stone into still water.
Thomas froze instantly, the corners of his smile faltering slightly as he stared down at his son who had just addressed him for the first time in three years.
Hurt flashed through his eyes and Jane wished she could console him, unable to fathom how he felt in that moment but sure that it very likely was a bittersweet thing to go through.
Thomas did not remain perturbed for long, regaining control in moments as he stared down at Reuben with bright eyes. The child was still staring up at him, his stance defiant and protective, completely unaware of what he had just given to his father.
Is that so,” Thomas nodded sagely, and his voice steady as he reached for the flour bowl. “Then I suppose I'll just have to throw it on you instead.”
Reuben shrieked and fled behind Jane, gripping her skirts, and the chaos resumed, and Jane stood in the middle of it with flour on her face and tears she had absolutely no intention of shedding threatening to spill.
So, she laughed, because it was that or weep, and she was not ready to do the latter in Thomas' kitchen with his son's hands fisted in her dress, and hoped that they would be able to clean up this mess somehow.