If she was going to be duchess here, she was going to have to do something about the lack of servants, the degenerate state of the entire place, and the food––most definitely, the food.
Suddenly, Higgins appeared in front of her. Birdie jumped in her seat.
“Higgins.” She pressed her hand on her racing heart. “You gave me a fright.”
“I have brought the beer, Your Grace,” the man said.
“Thank you, Higgins, but I won’t be needing it.”
He set the tankard down in front of her regardless and remained standing next to her chair.
“Is there anything else, Higgins?” Birdie asked.
“The carriage is here, Your Grace.”
“Send it away.”
He shuffled away, nodding. “Tell it to stay.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but it was good enough. The coach wasn’t leaving today, for sure.
Something occurred to her. “Higgins. May I have one moment?” she called after him.
He tilted his grey head the other way.
“I want to ask you something,” she said loudly and slowly.
Higgins nodded.
“What happened to His Grace?” She pointed to her face.
“The face?”
“Yes.”
“The war, Your Grace.”
Of course.
“Waterloo?”
He nodded.
“How terrible.”
Higgins shuffled away, muttering. “He’s the only one who survived.”
Birdie wondered whether he’d meant that metaphorically. Either way, the man must have scars inside as well. No wonder he was rather antisocial.
“Higgins, what about dinner?” she called after him. She didn’t want to have to spend a second evening in that frightful kitchen, cooking away on her own.
“There’s haggis in the village,” he mumbled.
“Don’t we have a cook?”
Higgins shook his head.
“Who’s been cooking all along?” Birdie pressed on. “You?”
