Chapter 9
The kitchen was warm with the oven fire when Eloise came down.
Clara was already at the worktable with her sleeves rolled, her hair pinned more tightly than usual, kneading dough so fiercely that one might have believed Clara was irritated with the task.
Eloise, however, was sure the bread dough was merely subject to Clara’s frustration about other things.
“You are early,” Clara said, without looking up.
“I will always be early now.” Eloise set her gloves aside and crossed to the table, where a cup of tea sat steaming. “It will keep me from being trampled by the larger guests of the household.”
“That would be the Marquess.”
“It would.”
Clara gave the dough another firm push. “That man eats like he purchased the food.”
Eloise giggled. That had become their routine over the past several days, one Eloise had come to value more than she expected to when she first wandered into the kitchen.
She came down before the children woke. Clara poured a second cup of coffee without being asked.
They talked while the bread rose, the porridge simmered, and the rest of the house slowly gathered itself to begin the day.
That day, the topic of conversation was the esteemed Marquess, who had arrived the previous day.
“His valet wants a separate tray,” Clara said. “Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“Demanded it yesterday. As though we are running an inn.” Clara slapped the dough onto the board with more force than the dough required. “More eggs gone. More tea. More bread. Everything more, since he arrived.”
“That is what happens when an extra adult comes to stay.”
“One extra adult with three trunks and an opinion about everything,” Clara muttered, and Eloise laughed into her tea before she could stop herself.
“And how is Logan managing all this disturbance?” Eloise asked.
Clara’s hands stilled on the dough for the length of a single breath. Then she resumed kneading, with rather more energy than before. “He is about as useful in a kitchen as a cat in a rowboat.”
The words were sharp. Her voice was not.
Eloise had learned to notice the difference, just as she did then.
She said nothing about it, however, because some things in that kitchen were understood without words.
And because she felt certain that Clara would deny any softness in her tone when she spoke about Logan.
A small carved wooden spoon hung from a nail near the hearth, fine work, the handle shaped, sanded, and polished until the grain of the wood caught the firelight. It had not been there the previous week.
Eloise had noticed it the morning it appeared and had said nothing then either. But she glanced at it then. Clara silently followed her gaze for half a second, made a small sound in her throat, and turned back to the bread.
Neither of them mentioned it. But the silence confirmed what Eloise had not asked or stated. Logan had given it to Clara, and the gift was far from mere kindness in intent.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Logan appeared in the doorway, carrying a basket of laundry with a resigned expression.
“Good morning,” he said.
“You are in the wrong room,” Clara said.
“I thought this was the kitchen.”
“It is.”
“Then I am in the right room.”
“Not for long, if you keep talking.”
Logan set the basket down and leaned against the doorframe. “You wound me.”
“You recover quickly.”
Eloise hid her smile behind her cup. Logan caught it anyway and pointed at her with mild accusation. “You are on her side.”
“I am on the side of people who speak sense,” Eloise said.
“I have been ambushed,” Logan said, seemingly to himself.
Eloise raised her eyebrow.
“You have volunteered to do chores again?”
Logan made an exaggerated face but nodded.
“I do what is needed.”
Clara smirked.
“I am sure it does not hurt that such chores keep you out of the path of a certain, newly arrived guest.”
Logan nodded vaguely as he glanced around the kitchen, and at the bread and flour on Clara’s sleeves. “Has anyone seen the Marquess this morning?”
“Yes,” Clara said.
“And?”
“He is still breathing.”
“That is unfortunate,” Logan said gravely, and Eloise laughed under her breath.
Clara’s mouth twitched before she suppressed it. “He was at the table before dawn. Freshly dressed.”
“He appears determined to be admired,” Logan said.
“Then he can do it somewhere else,” Clara said, and pointed at the doorway with her spoon. “If you are finished loafing, carry that basket to the laundry and stop pretending you are helping.”
“I am helping.”
“You are standing.”
“I am standing while prepared to help.”
“That is a remarkable distinction.”
“It is a noble one.”
Clara looked up at him then, and for a moment the kitchen went very still. “A fool, yes,” she said, flatly, and Logan’s mouth moved as though he meant to smile. Eloise looked away to give them both a moment.
She rose and set her cup down. “I should go wake the children.”
At the door, Eloise paused and looked back. “Thank you,” she said. “For the tea. For not making me feel like an intruder.”
Clara grunted. “Do not get sentimental before breakfast.”
“I shall do my best,” Eloise said, and left before the smile on her own face became too obvious to ignore.
The dining room was warmer than she expected, though not in temperature.
Lawrence had already taken his place at the table when Eloise arrived with the children an hour later, freshly groomed and perfectly composed, speaking to Mrs. Maggie with one hand resting easily on the back of his chair.
The footman near the sideboard wore a warm, charmed smile.
Lawrence rose the moment he saw them.
“Miss Beauchamp.” His smile was warm. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, my lord.”
Duncan came in behind her, guarded as always. Maisie hovered close to Eloise’s side, and Lawrence’s gaze moved over both children with open pleasure.
“Ah. There are my young ones.”
Duncan went rigid. Maisie retreated half a step and gripped a fold of Eloise’s skirt.
Lawrence noticed and smiled wider. “Children are always shy in the mornings.”
There was nothing sharp in it. He had risen for them, smiled at them, made no demand that they perform any greeting they did not wish to give.
He bent toward Duncan and offered his hand.
Duncan did not take it. The marquess’s smile faltered for the briefest moment and then recovered.
He reached out instead and ruffled the boy’s hair.
Duncan went stiff as a board.
“There,” Lawrence said, pleasantly. “That is better.”
He turned to Maisie next, crouching to bring himself level with her in a gentle and unhurried manner. Maisie pressed further behind Eloise’s skirts and did not emerge.
“Still shy, I see,” Lawrence said, straightening, and glanced toward Mrs. Maggie with easy good humor. “They have been told I am not to be feared, I hope.”
“Children form their own opinions,” Mrs. Maggie said with a bland, calm expression. It was meant to be pleasant and unreadable, but Eloise choked back a laugh, knowing perfectly well there was meaning in her sharp gaze.
“Yes,” Lawrence agreed, sounding more amused than offended. “They do.”
Eloise kept her own face calm. The children are merely tired, she told herself firmly.
Yesterday’s arrival unsettled their routine, and I have spent enough time in a household full of guarded silences that I am beginning to manufacture suspicion where none exists.
Lawrence had done nothing that any reasonable observer could object to.
He had been warm. He had been patient. He had not pushed.
And yet the children remained as careful around him as they had been the moment he stepped from his carriage. She knew that caution in a child rarely appeared without some reason behind it. But what could the reason be? How well could the children know the marquess?
Lawrence turned his attention to her once the children had settled at the table. “Miss Beauchamp. I have heard wonderful things about your work with the children.”
“That is kind of you to say, my lord.”
“It is true.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please, sit.”
“What are the children reading at the moment?” Lawrence asked, over eggs, bread and fruit.
“A history of the border counties,” Eloise said. “And Duncan has just begun some simpler Latin.”
“And the mathematics? How does Duncan progress?”
“Very well, my lord. Though he dislikes admitting it.”
“Then I think he is probably improving a great deal,” Lawrence said. Duncan’s posture shifted, caught between offense and reluctant interest.
“And Maisie’s drawing? Does it show any promise?”
“A great deal, I think. She has a good eye for shape, even if her colors are occasionally fanciful.”
Lawrence smiled and turned his attention back to Duncan. “What subjects do you prefer, then? Beyond the mathematics you will not admit to enjoying.”
Duncan said nothing, so Eloise answered for him. “Maps. Anything requiring logic.”
“Ships,” Duncan said suddenly, before he could stop himself.
Lawrence’s expression brightened. “Navigation, I imagine.”
Duncan did not answer.
“Very much so,” Eloise said, filling the silence gently.
“That is not surprising,” Lawrence said, lightly. “A naval household is never far from the mind, I should think.”
The sentence sat oddly in the room. Eloise noticed it. The children, she thought, noticed it too, though neither said anything. Lawrence carried on as though he had said nothing of any consequence.
When breakfast ended, Eloise rose with the children and led them toward the schoolroom, while Lawrence remained behind in conversation with Mrs. Maggie and the footman.
Duncan was quiet the entire walk, which was unusual enough that she noticed it immediately.
Once the schoolroom door was closed, she turned to him. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” He did not look at her.
“Duncan.”
“Nothing.”
She waited. He stared at the window, his jaw set, for a couple of minutes. “How long is that man staying?”
“I do not know,” Eloise said honestly.