“No, I’d rather stay and watch you. I have nothing else pressing.”
“Very well. Shall we leave now? Or work on the invitations?”
He arched an eyebrow and laughed. “Afraid I’ll back out? I won’t, Viola. I’ll take care of those tonight when I return from supper.”
“You are going to write them on your own?”
“The invitations will be formally engraved, of course. I’ll send a sample to my grandmother first thing in the morning. She will have them done in London and sent out for me. Is there anything else that needs to be done here?”
She shook her head. “No, I suppose there isn’t. Nothing urgent, anyway.”
“Good, I’ll walk you home.”
It did not take them long to gather the last of the supplies Viola needed from his larder, and then head off to the vicarage. “I’m back, Mrs. Bligh,” Viola said, entering through the kitchen. “As you see, I have brought an assistant.”
“Your lordship!” Mrs. Bligh bowed and began to fuss with the ties of her apron. “Shall I prepare tea and refreshments for you in the–”
“No, we shall be working in here,” he said, tossing her a grin. “Kindly ignore me. I am determined to help Miss Ruskin.”
Viola grimaced. “I could not shake him off, Mrs. Bligh. He insists. So we shall put him to work on the game pie I told you about.”
“Oh, dear. Are you sure about this, my lord?”
He nodded. “Quite.”
“Well then, I shall not intrude. The chicken is plucked and quartered, just as you asked, Miss Viola. I have dusting I can be doing while your father naps…unless you wish me to stay.”
“No, his lordship and I have it all in hand. He cannot get into too much trouble while he is up to his elbows in flour.” She turned to him. “You’ll be more comfortable without your jacket. You’ll also need to roll up your sleeves. I’ll give you an apron to protect your elegant waistcoat. Wouldn’t want it to get soiled.”
Mrs. Bligh regarded him in bemusement. “Are you really going to cook, my lord?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bligh. Do not look so alarmed. I shall surprise you both, for I am quite adept. We often had to fend for ourselves on the battlefront. Miss Ruskin, I am at your service. Tell me what to do.”
Viola laughed. “Mrs. Bligh, we must make a note of this and perhaps order a commemorative plaque put up in our kitchen.On this spot Viscount Ardley cooked a game pie for his subjects this day of Our Lord, 20thof June, 1823. What do you think?”
The older woman chuckled. “I think you had better get started on the pie or you shall never get it done in time for supper.”
“Right,” he said, removing his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat before taking the apron and putting it on.
Viola scooted behind him to tie it properly, then helped him to remove his cufflinks. She then tucked them into the pocket of his jacket along with the stickpin he had left on his cravat. “You should not be so casual with your finery. That stick pin looks expensive.”
“It is.”
She tossed him a stern, schoolmistress look as she now helped him roll up his sleeves. “I am not a little boy, Miss Ruskin,” he said in a husky murmur. “Quite capable of tending to this myself.”
“I know, my lord. But it is faster if I help you out.” She then donned her apron and expertly tied it behind her. Her sleeves were only elbow length so there was no need to roll them up. “Give me a moment to set out the bowls, knives, and other implements.”
He helped her when she attempted to lift a massive pan onto her stove. “What are you doing?”
“I need to put the chicken on to brown. Would you chop up those onions? Those will go in with the chicken.”
He nodded and set about the task. In the meanwhile, she added oil to the pan. While it heated, she took out a glass jar which appeared to hold a blend of spices. She rubbed this blend onto the chicken and then tossed the chicken parts onto the skillet. Breasts, legs, and thighs landed with a sizzle and a release of steam that smelled wonderful as it began to permeate the room. She then grabbed the onions he had cut up and tossed them in the pan. “All right, next will be the potatoes and carrots.”
He peeled them, surprising her with his deftness. But he’d learned to be good with a knife during his war years, and carving up a potato was much easier than fighting off an enemy soldier looking to stick his bayonet into you.
She tossed those in, then handed him apricots and figs while she lifted out a pot of honey and another jar of spices that smelled exquisite as she opened the lid. Once those were tossed in, she stirred them in with the chicken to blend them thoroughly. When the chicken was sufficiently browned, she removed it and began to carve it into little pieces to separate the meat from the bone. “You are surprisingly good with that knife, Viola.”
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one with carving skills.
