Chapter 8
The low chime of the dinner bell echoed through the corridors as Dorothea stepped out of her bedchamber.
She paused a moment, smoothing down the soft folds of her jonquil gown, the muslin fabric glinting under the flickering sconces.
She knew Dominic might not want her company tonight—he so often didn’t—but she still took care with her appearance. For herself. For him.
No matter how he tried to keep her at arm’s length, she saw flickers of the man he had once been—warm, teasing, attentive. They were rare and fleeting, but she clung to them all the same.
Sniffling softly, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her nose. The cold still lingered, but her nap had done wonders for her aching limbs and heavy head. With each step towards the dining room, anticipation built inside her, lifting her spirits despite her persistent cough.
But it shattered the moment she stepped over the threshold and found the long dining table lit and laid—but empty.
Dominic wasn’t there.
Before she could even form a question, Wright approached from the far end of the room, his hands clasped behind his back and an apologetic expression shadowing his features.
“My lady,” he began, “Lord Warwicke has chosen to dine at his club this evening.”
Dorothea faltered. Her smile arrived late. “I see,” she said, the words hollow in her throat.
Wright motioned towards the glittering display of silver and porcelain. “The cook has prepared a fine feast for you, my lady.”
The thought of sitting alone at that vast table, surrounded by empty chairs and echoing silence, made her chest constrict. “I believe…” she hesitated, then straightened her spine. “I believe I shall take my dinner in the kitchen tonight.”
Wright studied her for a moment, his gaze softening. “As you wish, my lady. Would you care for an escort?”
She shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. I know the way.”
Turning quickly before her composure cracked, Dorothea made her way to the servants’ staircase tucked behind a tapestry. The cold iron banister was rough beneath her fingers, and the stairs creaked with age, each step uneven and narrow.
As she reached the bottom and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of pots, hiss of boiling broth, and hum of voices wrapped around her like a comforting shawl.
Servants moved swiftly, assembling plates, washing dishes, and bustling about their duties.
Near the hearth, Mrs. Dawson stirred a pot with such vigor that it sloshed dangerously near the rim.
“I need the vegetables!” she called over her shoulder, her tone brisk.
A young maid rushed forward, cradling a bowl. “I have them, ma’am.”
“Well then, put them on the plate,” Mrs. Dawson replied, stepping back and wiping her hands on her apron. “This meal should’ve already been halfway up the stairs by now.”
Dorothea cleared her throat and stepped forward. “That won’t be necessary.”
Mrs. Dawson turned, surprise flickering across her face before softening into something more knowing. “Lord Warwicke isn’t joining you, is he?”
Dorothea’s lips pressed into a tight line. “I’m afraid not.”
Mrs. Dawson’s expression faltered, then recovered. “Well, no matter. Come, sit. You’re always welcome here.”
“Thank you,” Dorothea murmured, moving towards the round wooden table nestled in the corner.
Mrs. Dawson followed with a steaming bowl of soup and set it in front of her. “Did he give a reason, at least?”
“He’s dining at his club.” Dorothea picked up her spoon and stirred the broth absentmindedly.
Mrs. Dawson gave a disbelieving snort and sat down beside her. “That’s not much of a reason, if you ask me.”
A sharp voice interrupted from the other side of the kitchen. “Lady Warwicke did not ask you, Mrs. Dawson. And frankly, she ought to reprimand you for such impertinence.”
Dorothea looked up at the housekeeper. “It’s all right, Mrs. Cameron. I prefer honesty between us.”
The housekeeper raised a brow, then turned to the room. “Very well. The rest of you are dismissed.”
The bustle ceased instantly. With quiet bows and curtsies, the servants slipped out, leaving the kitchen still and intimate.
Mrs. Dawson leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I had a husband once who thought farming was more important than me. So I killed his favorite chicken and served it for supper,” she said. “I told him that he would get a similar fate if he continued to ignore me.”
Mrs. Cameron gasped. “You did no such thing!”
Smirking, Mrs. Dawson asked, “Or did I?”
“Henry was a good man,” the housekeeper insisted.
“That he was,” Mrs. Dawson admitted, “but I needed to make a point.”
Mrs. Cameron rolled her eyes. “Lady Warwicke will not be killing any chickens.”
Mrs. Dawson laughed. “No, but she can do other things to catch her husband’s attention.”
Dorothea set down her spoon, her voice tentative. “How… how does one flirt with one’s husband?”
Mrs. Cameron looked bewildered. “Don’t ask me. My husband has been dead for twenty years.”
Mrs. Dawson perked up. “Fortunately for you, I am a master of flirtation. I have been married three times.”
“Three?” Dorothea repeated, eyes wide.
Mrs. Dawson waved her hand. “Hardly my fault they kept dying. Now—flirting. It’s all in the attention. Look at him when he speaks. Ask questions. Laugh at his jokes, even the bad ones. Make him feel like the only man in the room,” she advised. “Here, try it on me.”
Dorothea straightened in her seat and met the cook’s gaze. “How are you faring?”
“I am well,” Mrs. Dawson replied with a nod. “Do you come here often?”
“I do. Do you like… rocks?”
Mrs. Dawson blinked. “I do like rocks.”
“Good. Because there are boulders of them in the gardens,” Dorothea quipped with a smile.
Mrs. Dawson stared at her for a long moment, then turned to Mrs. Cameron. “Did she just make a rock joke?”
Dorothea winced. “Was it that bad?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dawson said plainly. “But worse—my dear, you haven’t blinked once since you started.”
Dorothea blinked rapidly. “Better?”
“Now it looks like you’ve got dust in your eyes.” Mrs. Dawson sighed. “Oh, dear. We’ve got work to do.”
Dorothea slumped back in her chair, her shoulders sagging. “I am hopeless, aren’t I?”
Mrs. Dawson leaned forward, shaking her head emphatically. “No one is hopeless, my lady,” she said. “Though—if I may be candid—while people might enjoy a well-timed rock joke, perhaps we keep those to ourselves.”
Dorothea’s lips twitched, but it was quickly overtaken by a sudden sneeze that she barely managed to catch in her handkerchief. “Excuse me,” she murmured, dabbing her nose. “I’m still fighting off this cold. It doesn’t seem eager to leave me.”
Mrs. Dawson immediately pushed up from her seat, her expression turning from amused to concerned. “You need tea,” she declared. “A nice strong brew with a generous spoonful of honey. Maybe even a slice of lemon.”
“The doctor already gave me something,” Dorothea replied. “A little laudanum, just to help me sleep. I might pour a bit into my tea and head to bed early tonight.”
Mrs. Dawson paused, glancing pointedly at the barely touched bowl on the table. “You should eat something first. You’ll need strength if you’re feeling unwell.”
“I appreciate the thought,” Dorothea said, “but I’m not hungry.”
With a frown creasing her brow, Mrs. Dawson stepped closer and pressed the back of her hand gently to Dorothea’s forehead. “You’re a little warm,” she said. “Not feverish, but warm enough to worry me. Should I fetch the doctor?”
“That won’t be necessary, truly. But I thank you for your concern.”
Mrs. Cameron spoke up. “I’ll send a servant up to your bedchamber to light a fire. The last thing you need is to catch a chill on top of that cold.”
Dorothea pushed back her chair and rose. Her body felt heavier than usual, the exhaustion not just physical but emotional. “I’ll be fine. I think I just need more sleep than usual.”
Mrs. Dawson nodded with a sigh of acceptance. “Very well. I’ll see that the tea is brought up to your room straightaway. With honey. And no rock jokes,” she added with a wink.
“Thank you,” Dorothea responded. She glanced around the kitchen, the warmth of the hearth and the fading clatter of earlier activity lingering like the memory of a conversation. “And I’m sorry about dinner.”
Mrs. Dawson waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, pish-posh. Don’t trouble yourself. The staff will be positively thrilled to enjoy such a fine spread. Nothing here will go to waste, I assure you.”
Dorothea managed a genuine smile then, touched by the kindness that surrounded her. “I appreciate you,” she said, looking between them. “Both of you.”
Mrs. Dawson lightly touched Dorothea’s sleeve. “Before you go,” she started in a conspiratorial whisper, “do ask Lord Warwicke if he has a favorite chicken.”
Mrs. Cameron let out an exasperated huff. “Good heavens, Mrs. Dawson. I truly doubt Lord Warwicke has even noticed the chickens.”
Dorothea let out a genuine laugh, the first in what felt like days. “Goodnight,” she said, then turned towards the hall, the warmth of the kitchen following her into the shadows beyond.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon as Dominic stood before a heavy oak door, his hand suspended midair, knuckles poised to knock—but unmoving.
He stared at the door, willing himself to act, yet something held him back. Why had he come here? What was he hoping to hear?
Before he could summon the courage, the door swung open with a creak. His uncle, tall and white-haired with a few black streaks, stood on the threshold.
“Did you intend to knock at some point,” he asked dryly, “or simply haunt my doorstep like a brooding ghost?”
Dominic let his hand fall to his side, offering a wry half-smile. “I was debating.”
The older man’s mouth lifted at one corner, deepening the creases in his wrinkled face. “Come in, then. You look like a man in desperate need of a strong drink and sturdier counsel.”