Chapter Eight - Gnash #3
“Quite right,” said Rosamund, a genuine smile on her face.
She crossed to the table with the intention of sitting opposite him. However the doors on the far side opened revealing a plate laden Rowan who stared at her in shock before rushing forward, “My lady, allow me.”
He dropped the plates on the table before quickly moving to pull out the chair at the head of the table for her.
She looked to Corvin who only smiled back at her cheerily.
It did not feel right, to sit at the head of the table, so instead she continued to move towards the seat opposite Corvin.
In a panic Rowan leapt forward to pull out this seat instead, pushing it in before Rosamund could.
She sat with a bit of a thump as the chair hit the back of her legs.
“We did not know you would be here for breakfast,” said Rowan quickly, “can I make you up a plate my lady?”
She looked down the table at all the food, meats, breads, potatoes and felt suddenly ravenous. The thought of eating had made her sick the past few days, managing only to have a few bites of the bread they brought her. Now, she wanted to throw everything she could see on her plate.
“I think I can manage myself,” she said politely, lifting her plate.
“It’s no trouble my lady,” said Rowan, also reaching for the plate initiating a small tug of war which he eventually won.
Satisfied with his victory he buzzed around the table filling the plate with something from every platter.
Rosamund looked over at Corvin with raised eyebrows who chuckled to himself as he gently dipped his spoon into the boiled egg in front of him.
It was not the usual custom for servants of the household to dine at the same table as the family, but she remembered that her father’s Seneschal had often joined them for meals.
As Rowan finished piling her plate up the doors which she suspected led to the kitchens clattered open again.
There was the patter of tiny, booted feet, and the huff of someone exerting themselves, and suddenly Gnash was to her right, lifting a wooden stool up onto the chair which he then clambered onto.
Once seated, he proceeded to reach forward for a plate of sliced oranges to no avail.
Taking pity on him, Rosamund reached forwards and held out the plate to him, expecting him to take one, but instead he took the whole plate.
She watched in fascinated horror as he stuck a slice into his mouth and proceeded to make sucking and gnashing sounds as he devoured the orange.
“Here we are my lady,” Rowan placed the now overflowing plate in front of her.
Rosamund looked down at the plate, “Rowan, how much do you think I can eat?”
He blanched, “Apologies my lady. I just. Well. You haven’t been eating much recently, and, well, I thought perhaps you might be hungry, my deepest apologies my lady,” he stepped forward to lift the plate, “I can do better.”
Rosamund immediately snatched the plate away and one of the sausages would have gone careening to the floor if a small green hand hadn’t reached out to skewer it on a finger.
With delight, Gnash forced the sausage into the same space as the orange, and he munched on both.
She turned her attention back to the panic-stricken Rowan and smiled encouragingly, “No this is great. I just, might not eat it all.”
Rowan immediately stood up straighter, “Very good my lady. If there’s anything else, anything at all then-.”
The doors to the kitchen burst open and the red-faced housekeeper came bustling into the room with a trolley, “that bloody aga is on the fritz again. I’m telling you, ever since that big dumb idiot stuck his boots in one of the ovens to dry it’s never been the same. When he gets back, I’m going to-.”
When Mrs Hawthorn finally looked up from her trolley she let out a cry of delight, and in a far less broad accent cried, “Lady Rosamund, so wonderful to see you,” her eyes clocked the plate in front of her, “and you have your appetite back too, how wonderful,” she clasped her hands together, “we were quite worried you see.”
“I’m sorry to have worried you Mrs Hawthorn,” she said genuinely, but the housekeeper waved a hand dismissively.
“We’re glad you’re here now,” she said firmly, “can I get you something to drink dear?”
Rosamund felt a growing warmth spread over her as she looked at the beaming face of Mrs Hawthorn.
All of them, the normalcy of the moment, their kindness, it eased the storm in her.
Though there was also a growing guilt and embarrassment at how she had treated them.
Whatever animosity she might hold for their master, it was not fair to take it out on them.
“A tea would be wonderful Mrs Hawthorn.”
The housekeeper looked pleased and turned to her tea things. However, no sooner had she lifted the pot than the main doors to the dining room clattered open. Rosamund jumped, the sausage she had been attempting to skewer flying from her plate, again to be caught by the waiting hands of Gnash.
And Dorian swept into the room.