Chapter 16
MARY WAS OF COURSE WHOLLY UNAWARE HOW MUCH THE NATURE of kitchens would change over two hundred years.
One supposes she might have thought it an American eccentricity, this desire to be where the chickens were plucked, the dough kneaded, and soup set to boil.
Annabel, when she wasn’t writing at one end of the marble worktable, would read to Mary from one of the novels in the library.
They’d started with Annabel’s personal favorite, Pride and Prejudice—while Mary peeled onions, chopped carrots, and plucked feathers.
Only twenty pages in, she had to know whether Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy would marry—in fact, refused to make supper until she did.
“But it might ruin it for you, to know how it ends,” said Annabel.
“Ruin it for me?” said Mary. “No one’s ever read me a book in my life. No amount of knowin’ can ruin that.”
But it was William, the “English” cousin, who’d carefully explained to her that when he was in America, he found that no matter how big a house, every party ended up in the kitchen, no matter how small.
The only exception was if there was dancing, though he confessed to knowing some kitchen dance parties, which he considered the best.
“Dancin’ in the kitchen! Now I’ve ’eard it all.”
The truth was that the kitchen was the one room in Kidlington House that felt most like home to the travelers, with its good smells, warm hearth, and Mary sometimes whistling while she worked, which, momentarily at least, eased their anxiety.
In fact, they’d never had a home or hearth quite like it, growing up with their share of microwaves and frozen dinners, boxed mac ’n’ cheese, and bagel bites.
There was cafeteria life at college, cold cheeseburgers and limp fries, fry sauce, prepackaged salad, and ranch dressing from a giant pump.
Cassie and Billy had never needed comfort food more. And Mary delivered every time.
On the seventh day of their captivity, which is what Billy and Cassie called it, Billy was the first to bathe and dress for dinner at the Gidding-Wedmore’s. He came into the kitchen, hopping while trying to pull a second tall boot on, his hair more problematic than usual.
“Mary, do you maybe have something . . . to tame this unruly mop?”
Mary was glad to be of service. She pulled a tin down from a high shelf, pried off the lid, and held it out to him. Billy took a scoop in his fingers, smelled it, and recoiled.
“Beef suet, sir.” Mary shrugged. “Serves the purpose.”
Billy shrugged too, and worked it through his hair.
“The mop is tamed, sir!”
He held up his greasy fingers. Mary handed him a rag to wipe them.
“Mary. Can I ask you something?”
“Course ya can.”
“Well, just between us, you know, I was wondering, that is, if you think a guy like me could have any kind of future in a place like this.”
“So, ’ere you are, all fancy with yer Oxford education, askin’ me?”
“I am. Asking you.” Billy finished rubbing his hands and handed the rag back. “And to be totally honest, I wasn’t the best student, let’s just say.”
“But I bet ya learned all sorts a things. That ain’t no small feat. Shows ya got somethin’ goin’ fer ya.”
“Not very much, truth be told. I think I might be a little bit . . . feckless.”
Mary peeled a beet with a knife. “Well, I guess the future’s a bit like a game o’ dice, innit? Can’t say for certain wot’s gonna ’appen. Now, James and me, we’ve ’ad our share o’ losin’, but every day we wake up, still breathin’, with birds singin’ to us? Why, that’s like rollin’ sixes every time.”
“Hmm. I never thought of it like that.”
“Just find somethin’ that suits ya down to the ground. ’S all you need.”
Billy nodded and buttoned his coat. “Do I look all right?”
“Ya look like a right fine young man.”
“Fake it till I make it?”
“Ooh, I like that, sir.”
He started to go but turned back. “Thank you, Mary.”
She sighed heavily.
“What? Is something wrong?” Billy said.
“It’s just that, well, in truth I’m not a Mary at all. ’S only wot the Gidding-Wedmores called me, ’avin’ always ’ad a Mary. And before that I was Alice, as that family ’ad a Betsy o’ their own.”
“Wait, so it’s Betsy, or Alice?”
“Oh, whichever ya prefer.”
“Well, which do you prefer?”
She shrugged. “’S not my place to say.”
“Well, I’m saying it is.”
Mary thought about it. “Truth is, I s’pose I like Mary fine. Best o’ the three, now that I think about it.”
“Mary, then,” said Billy, “if that’s what you like best.”
Mary beamed and grew an inch.
***
Upstairs in the Peach Blossom bedroom, three dresses were laid neatly on the bed for Cassie to choose from.
She had on the mint-green silk, hair done up, and admired herself in the dressing table mirror.
Annabel sat on the bed in a blush gown that flattered the color in her cheeks.
She fingered the satin of the dress closest to her, nervous.
She wasn’t sure how to talk to Cassie about the daunting task they faced, the fitting in.
She didn’t want to frighten her any more than necessary; tensions were high enough.
But she needed to convey that things were different now, until they found a way back.
It had been fine when it was fun and games, but this was a serious business, with near and far-reaching consequences.
They’d need to win the trust of those who mattered and do it deftly.
This, being their first social event since being stuck in the Regency world, would be a sort of second coming out, a chance to get their story straight and prove themselves worthy of the company.
They’d already agreed to say that their plans had indeed changed, and they now expected to remain at Kidlington House for the foreseeable future, without offering details. The less said, the better.
Annabel didn’t know where to begin the conversation with her sister. She wasn’t used to giving Cassie advice. And Cassie wasn’t used to taking any.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Cassie, preempting her. “About our options.”
“Okay, good. Me too.”
“So, D’Evercy’s with that Harriet girl . . .”
“They’re not betrothed,” said Annabel.
“She’s got her claws so into that guy, Annabel.” Cassie perused the jewelry options laid out on the dressing table.
“Right. You’re probably right.”
“Oh, she will eat you alive.”
Annabel didn’t want to be quite as quick to judge. “She did send us the desk.”
“Which was a total bust, by the way.”
“She didn’t know. What if she’s trying to be nice?”
“Don’t be na?ve, A-bel.” She held a necklace to her chest. “Women like that always have an ulterior motive. I know that, because I am that.” She tried to fasten the necklace. “This is an area where I have a tad more experience.”
Annabel stood and fastened the necklace. “This is true.”
“Anyway, I was gonna go for the other guy, the friend guy. Warnaby?”
“Warnaby? But he and Fanny—”
“Are they betrothed?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then the guy’s fair game. I pick him.”
Annabel admired her pluck, but thought Warnaby about as unlikely as D’Evercy was for her.
“So, definitely not Billy?”
Cassie blew a pfft from her lips. “I’ve pretty much had the Billy experience. Plus, he’s not exactly a ‘young man of large fortune.’”
“True. And we should probably call him William.”
“William can take care of William. I’m taking care of me.” Cassie adjusted her boobs. “But I need more cleavage. The stays are crazy uncomfortable. I miss my push-up bra.”
“Cleavage isn’t so much the point.”
“What is then, the point?”
“Well, wit and charm?”
Cassie rolled her eyes. “Trust me. Cleavage is always the point.”
Billy walked in, pulling at the crotch of his tight pants. “I’m kinda getting used to these, but what if you get a boner or something?”
Cassie looked at Annabel. Case closed. She looked back at herself in the mirror, a hand on her silk-clad stomach.
“I swear I’ve gained five pounds since we got here.” She cupped her boobs and pushed them up. “At least I gain weight in my boobs.”
“God,” said Billy. “If I could gain weight in my dick, I’d be totally down.”
“Actually,” said Annabel, “flesh and curves in a woman are a sign of wealth and make her more desirable.”
“Huh. That requires a rethink,” said Cassie.
Mary popped her head in. “Visitor fer Miss Blake.”
Cassie looked to the door, hopeful. “And so it begins. Thank you, Mary.” She started out the door.
“Oh, no. The other Miss Blake.”
They all looked at Annabel, who seemed genuinely surprised.
“Be my guest,” said Cassie, swallowing her pride with an arm extended.
***
Nicholas Bickles, Esquire, of Bickles & Dunston, stood in the foyer with his hat off and a Lady’s Weekly magazine in hand.
“Such serendipity!” he said, bubbly. “Another piece fell through, so we were most delighted to receive your chapter—a fresh, engaging story from an unknown but promising writer!”
He took the liberty of opening the folded and stitched magazine to her piece. “And such a titillating first installment! A waltz, on the very first page! How daringly delicious.”
He handed it to Annabel, who looked at it, dumbstruck.
“We took you at your word,” said Bickles, “that you wished it to be published.”
“Yes! Of course. That’s why I sent it. It’s just so soon. So fast.”
“We are a weekly magazine, after all.” He tapped the open issue in her hand. “Received Tuesday, set Wednesday, proofed and printed Thursday, out to booksellers yesterday!”
“Oh my,” said Annabel, reading the words out loud—“What You Wish For, by Elliot Price-Bennet, Chapter One.” She was overwhelmed by the thrill and pride of seeing her name for the first time in print.
“I wanted to deliver it myself and meet ‘the author,’” Bickles said with a wink. “Quite a clever pen name, really! And when I knew you to be a friend of Miss Lackington’s, I understood that no lady of your rank would wish to be called by her real name.”
Annabel was listening but couldn’t really hear. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You need not speak, only write. For we need the next chapter by Tuesday.”
“This Tuesday?”
“Our readers will be desperate to know what becomes of a woman who waltzes!”
“Right.”
“I’ll send a messenger in the afternoon, if that suits. And of course, arrange payment per installment, right away.”
“You have no idea what this means to me. Thank you, Mr. Bickles.”
When he took his leave, Annabel shut the door behind him, clutched the magazine to her chest, and waltzed a step or two herself. She was a writer at last.