She saw an odd device lying on the mantlepiece and picked it up. It wasn’t a tinderbox, which her maids used. Tinderboxes were a small, round metal box that contained tinder and flint and somehow, if used correctly, it would produce a spark that created a fire. The device she held in her hands was different. There was no lid to take off, and it did not seem to contain any tinder, though — she peeked into a crack in the box — it did seem to contain flint. She held it in her hand, clueless. What was she supposed to do with it? Was this one of Mr Merivale’s inventions? It seemed to have a spring. She pressed down on the sides and — it created a spark! Arabella nearly dropped it.
It took her several tries, and finally, she managed to light a candle with Mr Merivale’s odd tinderbox.
When the fire finally burned in the stove, she stared at it, a feeling of awe suffusing her. She’d just made a fire!
Next, she would cook breakfast. Her eyes fell on the basket of eggs by the window.
An hour later, Philip and the children entered.
“Breakfast is ready.” Strands of hair stuck to her sweaty temples, and her shoulders hurt. She’d never felt so exhausted.
“Ah! Wonderful.” Philip rubbed his hands and sat down. “I see you have made —” He stared at the yellow gob on his plate. “Kedgeree.”
Arabella hoped it was edible. She’d wanted to make an omelette but had forgotten to add some grease to the pan. Once she’d figured out how to do it, she’d found the act of cracking eggs into the pan so oddly satisfying that she’d gotten carried away and added too many eggs, a dozen or so, with some shell as well. The mass quibbled in the pan, and she’d had no idea how to turn it into a uniform, smooth thin omelette like the cook at Ashmore Hall had produced. Watching the Merivales clean up their plates, she concluded they didn’t seem to mind overly much.
Mr Merivale spooned some of the egg mass into his mouth. “Quite excellent,” he said, then took a big gulp from his cup. “Pray, Miss Weston, are you in love?” he asked in a casual, jesting way after he set down his cup.
Arabella’s cheeks burned. “Of course I’m not! Why would you say that?”
“You do know what they say about cooks who put too much salt into the food?” His lips quirked with amusement.
“I know no such thing. What are you talking about?”
“A lovelorn cook oversalts the soup.” Mr Merivale grinned. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“Never heard of this proverb.” Arabella tugged at a strand of hair that had come loose. “It’s nonsense. You must’ve made this up.”
Her discomfiture seemed to amuse him. “It’s a German proverb. The reason being when one is in love, one doesn’t pay too much attention to the amount of salt one adds to the soup. One of my comrades, who had ties to Germany, liked to tease us with it when we spooned our soup from our tin cans. It’s because our cook kept oversalting our food. Alas, he didn’t make it through the war.” He stared broodingly at nothing in particular.
Arabella noted that the light, teasing cheer dissipated quickly as a shadow fell across the table. She racked her brain.
“‘Give neither advice nor salt, until you are asked for it.’” she finally shot back. “English proverb. It is most sensible.” She was pleased with herself.
He quirked a smile at her. “Very proper and moralising, Miss Weston. I must say, I prefer to imagine you in love.”
“Have you ever been in love, Miss Weston?” Katy asked.
All pairs of eyes were on her. Mr Merivale lifted his eyebrow in anticipation. She could not blush a deeper shade of red, and so she shrugged with a laugh.
“Of course I have.” She spooned her eggs stoically. “Everyone falls in love eventually. It’s part of the human condition.”
“Is it?” Mr Merivale propped his head in his hand on the table and studied her with interest.
Katy’s eyes brightened. “Oh, do they? Because I can’t ever imagine falling in love. Ever. Not like Papa and Mama were in love.”
Arabella threw him a curious look. Now it was Mr Merivale’s turn to flush. He cleared his throat loudly. “How on earth did we end up talking about this?”
“You started it. We were talking about salt.” Now it was Arabella’s turn to enjoy his flustered demeanour.
“Very true,” he muttered and shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“Or how about this one.” Arabella began to enjoy herself. “Salt is good for the mind, the spirit, and gives one joy of life.”
“That’s a good one.” He nodded appreciatively. “Haven’t heard that one yet.”
She grinned. “That’s because I just made it up.”
“Very well done, Miss Weston.” He threw her an appreciative look that made her feel fuzzy inside.
