Arabella blinked. “But you dismissed me, sir.”
“Bah. It would be unfair of me to put the entire brunt of the blame on you, when it was my children who nearly managed to burn down the house and my life’s work.” He searched for words. “I — it means a lot to me, my work. I can’t bear anyone to touch it. Least of all see it burned.” One corner of his lip quirked upward.
“Is it all gone?” Miss Weston wrung her hands.
“No, it is salvageable. Most of it is still here. I will have to redraw some diagrams, however.”
“I apologise, sir. You’re right in that children always need supervision.” She hung her head.
He cleared his throat. “Well. You are never to let them out of your sight from now on.”
Her knuckles whitened as she clutched her satchel. “So you’d really like me to stay?” Her voice quivered.
Philip nodded. “If you please. My children will never forgive me if you leave. Just don’t allow them to burn down the house again.”
“Oh.” Colour flooded her cheeks again. She sighed with relief.
“I will find a safer place for my work, far away from any fire.” He piled his arms full of papers and books and went to the door. Arabella stepped aside to let him through. He nodded at her.
She gave a wobbly smile. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered.
He gave a curt nod. Dash it if those enormous eyes of hers weren’t welling up again. Dewdrops in a summer morn. Philip shook himself.
If his thoughts continued in this vein, he’d end up writing poetry instead of calculations.
Chapter 11
Arabella stayed up until past midnight writing down everything she remembered from the seminary. The schedule, curriculum, and materials they’d used in each of the four years she’d spent there. Using this as an inspiration, she drafted a different schedule for each child, for each had different needs. She’d drafted an entire lesson down to the minute. She’d never be caught unprepared from now on. It filled her with a sense of purpose that was strangely satisfying.
Arabella chewed on the tip of her quill. All of them needed regular breaks and walks outside in the fresh air. She wanted to incorporate outdoor lessons that involved what nature had to offer. Identifying trees, bushes, flowers, birds, collecting leaves, sketching them with pencil, coal, and watercolour. Her mind buzzed. They needed time for quiet reading, drawing, and individual work. The list of materials that she needed grew.
Arabella leaned back, rubbing her eyes. The candle had burned down to a flat blob of wax and would fizzle out soon. It was time for bed.
What a day it had been. Her heart had stopped when Mr Merivale had stormed into the parlour, wrath sparking out of his eyes when he saw her holding the burning parchment.
Had he thought she’d burned them on purpose? She’d felt humiliated when he dismissed her.
Then he’d changed his mind. He’d been right that it had been her responsibility to supervise the children at all times. Arabella vowed she’d never give him reason to reprimand her again.
Then she remembered that tomorrow was probably going to be a different story entirely.
For it was her turn to cook.
Arabella knew nothing about cooking. She’d never even seen their cook at Ashmore Hall actually cook. She somehow whisked culinary miracles out of thin air that not only tasted wondrously good, but that looked like works of art. Lobster Rissoles, Roast Quarter of Lamb, Charlotte Russe, Neopolitan cakes, Vol-au-vent of pears…. Her stomach grumbled.
“It can’t be that difficult,” she told herself before she dropped off to sleep.
Arabella gotup before everyone else at dawn. She slipped into the kitchen and stared at the iron stove with misgiving. The day Katy interviewed her had been the first time she had seen a real kitchen — from the inside. She had no idea what most contraptions were used for. She was a duke’s daughter. She shouldn’t be doing this. It didn’t befit her station, her breeding, her sense of what was appropriate. Besides, she had no clue where to begin.
“I can do this,” she muttered. People had been cooking since time immemorial. One needed a fire, and — something to cook with.
She looked around. First. Make a fire. That was all well and good, but how? She’d never had to make a fire in her entire life. Even at Miss Hilversham’s Seminary they’d had a maid to do it for them. Everything had been done by servants. They’d dressed her, fed her, turned down the bed, pulled up her stockings, cleared out the chamber pot…
Arabella swallowed. That had been, so far, the most unpleasant act. Earlier, she’d taken her chamber pot outside and, holding her nose with two fingers, she’d poured it into what she hoped was the right place to deposit this stuff. Terrible, to think that one’s job was to do this on a daily basis. Yet some servants had to do that.
But back to the business at hand. Fire. Cook.
How?
