“This is Papa’s blackberry jam,” Katy informed Arabella. “He makes the best blackberry jam in all of England.”
“He cooks jam?” There was such an odd look of surprise on her face that a laugh escaped him.
“Not only that,” Philip replied and leaned against the table behind him, crossing his arms and legs. “I also bake bread and am an excellent cook in general. I am also an excellent blacksmith. My grandfather happens to be Scotland’s best blacksmith. Hence my accent, you may have noticed.” He grinned as he rolled his ‘r’s.
“Ah. Yes, I did. You have a slight burr.”
“But what I am best at, really, is inventing. Like this.” Philip pushed the sugar pot towards her. Set over it was a metallic contraption with wires that suspended a spoon.
“What is it?” The girl leaned forward, and a blonde lock of hair fell into her face.
He blinked and tore his eyes away from her temple, where tendrils of fine blonde hair curled above satin–smooth skin. He had an odd urge to tuck it behind her ear.
“Guess.”
She tilted her head to one side as she studied the contraption. “I am not sure. It may have something to do with dispensing the sugar.”
“Exactly! Precisely!” He watched her flush, which pleased him. “It’s a ‘sugar-dispenser’. Watch.” He wound up a mechanism on the side, turning a small handle, and the spoon jumped into motion. It dipped into the sugar, came up again with a pile, jerked to the side, dropping half of the sugar on the table, and dumped the remaining into the teacup that Philip quickly pushed forward.
“How extraordinary!” She bent forward and tipped a finger at the device.
“Of course. I just need to figure out a smoother motion, in addition to getting the spoon to stir in the teacup! It should be possible. Imagine this, if we also had a ‘milk–dispensing device’ that pours the right amount of milk into the tea, everything synchronised with a water–boiling device where the tea leaves steep, so all you’d have to do is place an empty cup under the machine, and it creates your perfect cup of tea — can you see it?” His excitement was that of a giddy little boy, willing her to understand.
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes widened. Was that admiration? He felt inordinately pleased.
“Well, that would be quite an invention indeed. One day I might attempt it. But mymagnum opusis going to be something quite different, something utterly brilliant, something splendidly —”
“Papa,” Katy interrupted. “We were going to talk about employing Miss Weston as our governess.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat again. “But first, let’s have tea. Call in the others, if you please, Katy.”
Katy went off and returned with Robin and Joy. Suddenly the kitchen was filled with cheerful chatter, laughter, and then smacking, chewing, and slurping.
Fudge, his children were like little animals indeed, no manners whatsoever. Not to mention himself! Greeting his guest half-naked. Entertaining her in the kitchen. With both his elbows on the table, he bit off a large chunk of his bread — next time he ought to use a little less salt — slathered it with his best blackberry jam — it really was delicious — when he noticed something odd about the girl. Philip Merivale’s mind was busy enough as it was, with one half constantly occupied with his current invention, whereas the other tried to fit pieces of a puzzle together. What, exactly, was it about the girl that didn’t quite fit? A vague memory niggled at him.
“Joy, wipe your mouth on the napkin, not your sleeve,” he said. “And, Robin, don’t wind up the sugar-dispenser so much, it’ll break the spring.” But Robin wasn’t listening. The boy let go of the sugar dispensing machine so that the spoon plopped the sugar onto the table. He watched Miss Weston with wide eyes. As did Katy and Joy. Katy’s hand motion was frozen mid-air, and Joy’s mouth dropped open, revealing a mass of half–chewed bread.
Frowning, Philip turned to see what had caused such reaction.
Miss Weston sat as straight as a ramrod, not touching the back of her chair. She stirred in her teacup, tapped the spoon noiselessly against the rim to clear off all liquid and set it aside in the saucer. Then, with two fingers, she lifted the cup, her pinkie sticking into the air. Her cup touched her lips, and she never even bent her head, nor her back. After a minuscule, soundless sip, she set the cup down again. She broke off a tiny piece of bread and with the tip of the knife, dabbed some butter on it. Then she ate it. The entire procedure she repeated in the same fashion, minus the spoon.
A memory stirred deeply in Philip. Of a drawing room in a ducal mansion and a woman who drank tea exactly like her. With manners insufferably high in the instep.
“You are a lady.” It broke out of Philip’s lips.
Miss Weston froze for a fraction of a second, then set down the cup carefully into the saucer. “Of course I am.”
“I mean, you are a lady–Lady.” This cryptic remark sounded like an accusation, and devil a bit, it was. Philip pushed back his chair. “Of quality.” He swallowed. “A noblewoman.” He narrowed his eyes.
She did not reply. But when he saw that she set her lips firmly and that she grew slightly white around her mouth, he knew he was right. God’s teeth. The woman was as blue-blooded as he was a hot-blooded blacksmith.
Philip set his cup down so hard that it must’ve cracked.
He was entertaining an aristocrat at his kitchen table.
This wouldn’t do at all.
Chapter 3
