Chapter Four
After her humiliation of being caught crying by Mr. Thorncroft and the handsome gardener, Rose made her way to the kitchen to meet with Mrs. Blythe. When she entered, she was greeted by the usual bustle of the kitchen staff. They all stopped at the sight of the lady of the house to bow and curtsy.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Please don’t stop your work.
” Rose breathed in delightful smells of freshly baked bread, simmering stews and roasted meats, and the fresh herbs one of the kitchen maids was chopping at the butcher block in the corner.
“I’m only here to speak with Mrs. Blythe.
Is she in her office?” She plucked her bonnet from her head, instantly warm in the hot, steamy kitchen.
“Yes, Lady Rose.” Their head cook, Mrs. Eliza Carter, stepped out from behind the stove. “She asked me to send you in when you were ready.”
Rose had always felt more at home in the kitchen than in her father’s formal dining room.
Mrs. Carter had been with the family since before Rose was born, coming with Lady Wentworth when she’d married.
Between her and Mrs. Blythe, they’d practically raised Rose after her mother died, filling the cold manor with warmth and affection her father never provided.
Eliza Carter had thick hair that had turned a lovely shade of silver, which she wore in a twisted braid on top of her head, though tendrils always escaped, clinging to her damp skin.
She possessed a rosy pink complexion and bright, expressive blue eyes.
Her jolly sense of humor permeated the kitchen and the food she made.
“Thank you. I’ve been out for a stroll in the gardens. It’s such a lovely day.”
“I hope you had your bonnet on.” Mrs. Carter was always on her about her bonnet.
God forbid Rose got any more freckles. But she didn’t actually mind the woman’s fussing.
She’d spent many days down here as a child, doing her schoolwork or reading while the competent staff prepared meal after meal.
They’d all doted on Rose, making her feel loved.
Even if her father was cold and distant, she had never felt unwanted or in the way. Not in the kitchen anyway.
“I did indeed wear my bonnet,” Rose said. “Most of the time.”
“Dear me, child. Those freckles. And the ball coming up now? You must protect your skin.”
“I will be wearing a mask at the ball.” She gave Mrs. Carter a cheeky grin.
“Dear me, I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?” Mrs. Carter laughed, a bubbling gurgle of a sound that warmed Rose’s heart.
The kitchen returned to its lively routine, with kitchen maids chopping vegetables and kneading dough. An errand boy ran in and out, collecting a basket to take to the village. Scullery maids positioned at the wash area scrubbed dishes while gossiping quietly to each other.
Pots, pans, and utensils hung on hooks along the walls, their polished surfaces catching the light.
Pewter serving dishes were stacked on open shelves, ready to carry meals upstairs.
A dedicated corner of the kitchen was reserved for baking, with rolling boards, bins of flour, and racks of cooling tarts, cakes, and loaves of bread piled high upon the counter.
Adjacent to the kitchen, the larder, kept cool by thick stone walls, housed hanging cured meats, cheese wheels, and baskets of root vegetables.
Rose didn’t care for it in there. The hanging flesh of animals did not appeal to her whatsoever.
In fact, she couldn’t stand the thought that they’d once been living creatures. It was simply too sad to think of.
She bade them farewell and headed down the narrow hallway to Mrs. Blythe’s office.
At the doorway, she paused, observing Mrs. Blythe at her perfectly polished desk.
The room had only one small window, but it let in lovely light this time of morning, which illuminated the gold streaks in the housekeeper’s light brown hair.
Rose wasn’t entirely sure why, but the space smelled of lemons, a scent she associated with the woman who ran their household with love and attention to detail.
Her desk was always neatly organized, with a leather writing pad and inkstand, quill pens, blotting paper, and ledgers.
Small drawers contained account books, receipts, schedules, and notes.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves held rows of leather-bound ledgers, inventory books, and manuals for household management.
A board on the wall displayed the staff rota, menus for the week, and lists of duties for each servant.
Small pins or hooks held keys to storerooms and other secured areas, labeled with brass tags.
When she was small and her governess had required a break, she would stay with Mrs. Blythe in her office.
To keep Rose occupied, Mrs. Blythe would let her look through books with depictions of flowers and herbs, which the housekeeper had drawn herself and labeled.
It was only a hobby, Mrs. Blythe had told her and served no real purpose, but Rose had adored each and every one regardless.
Now, Rose knocked softly, and Mrs. Blythe looked up from her sums. “Oh, dear me, I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry to startle you. I’ve come to go over the party details. And the ball.”
Mrs. Blythe nodded, shutting her ledger and placing it inside a lockable cabinet beneath the desk, where she kept payroll records and other sensitive documents.
“Of course, Lady Rose. May I get you a cup of tea?” She gestured toward the small tray with a teapot, teacup, and a tin of tea leaves on a side table.
“No, thank you.”
“Have you thought about a theme for the ball?” Mrs. Blythe asked, settling into her cushioned chair behind the desk. “I had no idea your father would bring it back and am worried about time to plan properly. We shall have to be clever.”
“Yes, it was a surprise to me as well. Do you think a prison theme would go over well?”
Immediately sympathetic, Mrs. Blythe cocked her head and gazed at her kindly. “What’s troubling you, my lady?”
Rose sighed, looking down at her hands. “Father’s upset with me about my failure during the Season, and he’s arranged for me to marry Baron White.”
“What? No.”
“Father wishes to marry Mrs. Blackwell. But she will not agree unless I’m out of the way.”
Dead silence, followed by a draining of all color from Mrs. Blythe’s cheeks. “We feared as much.”
“Yes. It’s unfortunate.” Rose flapped her hands in front of her face, trying not to cry. The last few months had been so difficult. If only the Season had gone better.
“He’s much too old for you.” Mrs. Blythe flinched. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me for saying so.”
“It’s all right. The truth is the truth. No one else wants me. As you know, I sat alone at every ball.”
Mrs. Blythe opened her mouth as if to share something but seemed to think better of it. Instead, she pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Baron White cornered me one night in Mayfair’s garden.
If it had not been for my quickness and a sharp nudge of my elbow into his ribcage, I may have been ruined.
When I told Father what had happened, he didn’t care.
In fact, he told me he’d sent Baron White out to find me.
I should have known then that it was Baron White he’d chosen for me to marry.
I’ll be engaged by the end of the summer. ”
“I shall ask Thorncroft to put the gardeners on high alert,” Mrs. Blythe said. “The servants inside will keep close watch on you as well.”
“I appreciate it, but it doesn’t matter one way or the other. I’m to be married to him by the end of the year. I shall have to move away to live with him. It will break my heart to leave all of you.”
“I’ll be praying for a miracle, Lady Rose.”
They left that subject alone and dove into the plans for the party and ball. They spoke at some length about the activities and menu for the weeks they would have a full house, then moved onto the masquerade ball.
“Your father wants invitations sent out to roughly a hundred guests from London and the surrounding areas here in the countryside. It’s shorter notice than I’d like, but since it’s the end of the summer, hopefully people will be delighted at the prospect of getting out of the city.”
“Father told me my mother was good at choosing themes.”
Mrs. Blythe’s voice softened as she shared her memories.
“Oh, yes. Lady Wentworth was the most inspiring hostess. There was the Moonlit Sea Soiree—guests were encouraged to wear sapphire or aquamarine. The women were all so lovely. Then one year we had a Venetian Carnival. Your mother hired harlequin dancers for the entertainment, and Mr. Thorncroft put together candlelit gondola rides on the pond.”
“How marvelous.”
“Yes, it was. She had a Harvest Masquerade one year and The Emerald Court Ball another.”
“What about the last one? Do you remember much of that night? Father said the theme was a night of a thousand stars.”
Mrs. Blythe didn’t answer for a moment, clearly gathering herself, the pain of grief obvious in her eyes. “Your mother adored the constellations. She was forever looking up at them through her telescope.”
“I remember Mummy’s dress. It was silver and lavender, right?”
“That’s correct. Her lady’s maid, Lizzie, spent a month on it, working long hours. It was a masterpiece.”
“My governess let me look just for a moment from the banister. Mummy looked like a princess.”
“She was the most beautiful one there,” Mrs. Blythe said.