"What happened, happened," Princess Florentina put in. "Let us not rehash the gruesome details. Ultimately, this story has a happy end, and as Lady Evangeline says, it is a splendid one indeed." She got up. "Having come to the conclusion that the marchioness is very much alive, and that the marriage is valid, and that there is a child to boot, may I remind everyone that tonight is Christmas Eve, and we have other guests in the house? Pull yourself together, Atherton. Fathers are made every day; it really is not such big a matter. Regardless of the familial matters here, guests need to be seen to. I insist they should not be neglected."
ChapterSixteen
Everyone was dancingand singing and making merry. The Christmas fire crackled and roared within the hearth, its glowing embers casting a warm and inviting light upon the guests, for the footmen had painstakingly brought in the Yule log the night before, making sure it remained ablaze for the duration of the festivities. Under the fragrant boughs of the mistletoe, kisses were exchanged. The pinnacle of merriment was achieved when Lindenstein had pressed a kiss on Rose's lips, laughing, for both had been caught standing unwittingly underneath the mistletoe. Rose's face had been scarlet, yet she'd laughed along. As the evening advanced, the guests gathered for a spirited round of parlour games, the merriment echoing through the manor.
Mira, however, had slipped away during a particularly boisterous game.
She'd wanted to talk to Kit, but he was surrounded by men talking to him. He had appeared dazed for the first few hours, refusing to let go of her hand, but then Evie had taken her by the arm and insisted that she join them in the snapdragon game. Raisins were set alight in a shallow bowl of heated brandy, and the idea was to catch them out of the blue flames and into the mouth without burning oneself. This was done amidst much hilarity and giggles.
Mira's head was aching, and she sought silence.
As she stepped out into the hall, a group of young people descended the staircase, announcing their intention to play a round of blindman's buff.
As she had done earlier, Mira slipped into the corridor behind the servant's door, but this time she went down the stairs.
She found herself in the servants' hall and the adjoining kitchen.
It was well past midnight, and the scullery maid was still doing the dishes. The silver plates, cutlery and crystal goblets would be polished to perfection in the light of day tomorrow.
Monsieur Petit, a highly proficient French cook who ruled strictly over his domain, was sitting in a chair, fanning himself.
When he saw Mira, he jumped to his feet. "Milady! Is there anything you need?"
"No, no. I was merely..."looking for the kitchen,she’d been about to say. The kitchen had always been the heart of the house for her, a source of comfort. The essence of home.
She could not explain this to the cook, of course, as she remained standing awkwardly about the room, taking in the tables overloaded with half-empty dishes and copper pans. "Do you need any help?" she finally offered.
The cook's face was a study in horror. "Help? Milady wants to help? You can help by leaving the kitchenvite vite."
"It's just that… would you let me stay here for a while, please?"
He frowned. "Can't sleep, perhaps? Would you like a glass of warm milk?"
"No, thank you. Dinner was quite excellent. I particularly enjoyed the snails."
"They are a specialty of my country, milady," the cook boasted.
"They were delicious. I was wondering..." She hesitated. "If you might have any fairings mayhap?"
The cook flared his nostrils. "Milady. I can offer you marzipan confections, sugar plums, charlotte russe, meringues, baba au rhum, apricot ices, syllabub, trifles, mince pies, and Christmas pudding, no, I take that back, I cannot possibly offer Christmas pudding because it will be served tomorrow after Christmas dinner. But isn't that enough? Do you have to have those, what do you call them, fairings? I have never heard of these fairings you speak of."
Mira described them to him. "They are simple ginger biscuits. Sometimes they are sold at the maid fairs in Cornwall, hence the name fairings."
"Ah. You mean simple biscuits of the kind eaten by the lower classes. I used to eat them as a child. I have not made them for decades. I consider them too lowly to be served on a marquess's table."
"You'd be surprised," Mira muttered. She thought for a moment. "Do you have eggs? Flour? Sugar?"
The cook confirmed.
"Ginger?"
He frowned. "We do not. I have used up the ginger for the various cakes and puddings for tomorrow."
"Well, instead of ginger fairings, it would have to be plain sugar biscuits, cut into shapes," Mira muttered. "I would be happy to make them myself."
"Out of the question, milady. I am overworked and have a Christmas dinner to prepare for nearly a hundred guests tomorrow, and I cannot have my kitchen disturbed by guests who have taken it into their heads to make commoners' biscuits in the middle of the night. I beg you, milady, be content with a few mince pies. I am a very busy man."
"I understand, indeed I do," Mira replied. "You have worked wonders this evening, monsieur. The dinner was delicious, and I have no doubt that you will surpass yourself tomorrow."
