Flustered, Kate ushered everyone in and carried the tureen to the kitchen. Kitty and Mercurio followed, carrying baskets of food.
“Do we need to send plates to the friends you left at home or will they be along later?” Kate set the bounty on the kitchen table and tabulated what serving platters and utensils were needed. Hostess duties had been ingrained since childhood.
“They're rewriting a script and drinking themselves under the piano,” the slender Mercurio replied with a dismissive gesture.
“They have bread and cheese, if they remember to eat.” Kitty made himself. . . herself. . . at home in the kitchen, taking bowls from a cupboard. “Don't let them know you have a pianoforte or they'll be here in a minute. The one in the Hall is out of tune.”
“So is this one, I fear. We haven't had reason to play in a long time.” Kate gave up sorting people out and just followed her training.
“We'll test it after dinner. I'm salivating over the mushroom stew. Apparently some local cultivates them so we know they’re safe?” Kitty picked up the heavy tray of platters and tureens to carry them into the dining room.
“Mrs. Young grows them for extra income. We all do what we can and trade as needed. I haven't seen a feast like this in years.” Not since her father's death over a decade ago, as far as Kate could recall. Life had been hard since the war.
Without servants, they'd been eating in the kitchen. The service door between kitchen and dining room was buried behind racks for outerwear. They had to carry trays through the parlor, where Jacques and Othello were testing the old pianoforte.
The major had vanished. So had Rob and Lyn, for all that mattered.
Trying not to be too concerned, Kate emptied her tray on the sideboard. Her guests exclaimed in enthusiasm over the candelabra, the flowers she'd hastily arranged, and the table settings she had left stacked until she knew how many guests they'd have. If she'd had servants. . .
Their guests didn't appear to care. They helped themselves to plates and began filling them while chattering faster than Kate could follow.
Kate cornered Jacques the instant he joined his guests in the dining parlor. “What have you done with the major and the children?”
He frowned, trying to recall. “Wine and ale were mentioned. They vanished shortly after that. We brought a few bottles with us.”
“The major does not usually drink.” Kate fretted, knowing he used clockworks to fight his urge to indulge. “I meant to have the children eat in the kitchen.”
For a moment, Jacques' usual stoic expression was replaced with a glimpse of sadness. Then he shrugged and returned to insouciance. “Perhaps he fears we are a bad influence. Or they're patrolling the grounds for your intruder.”
“More likely, he's taking apart a clock, but Rob and Lyn must be starving by now. I'll leave plates for them on the stove.” Sympathetically, she took his arm and led him to the buffet. It had to be difficult being ostracized for not fitting into society’s roles.
By the time she had plates ready for the children, Fletch arrived with pitchers of. . . ? What could he have found?
“Mulled cider,” he announced, slamming the pitchers on the table. “My father's recipe.” Without a word of explanation, he took Rob and Lyn’s plates from Kate and carried them to the kitchen.
“How did he do that?” Jacques whispered.
“Cellar,” Kate whispered back, amazed that Fletch had learned his way around so thoroughly.
The cider had fermented by now, so she couldn’t serve it to the children. He wouldn’t have had brandy or any other alcohol to mull it. He’d most likely watered it down when he heated it and added whatever old spices he’d found down there, perhaps thrown in some dried apples. In small quantities, it shouldn’t cause drunkenness.
Without regard to any form of decorum, her guests settled themselves at the table and began an argument over the value of mushroom stew. Perhaps they'd been raised by wolves.
Suddenly uncertain of her role in this unusual company, Kate was about to flee and see that Rob and Lyn were settled, when Fletch returned. He pulled out a chair at the head of the table and, with an elegant bow, seated her in it, as a gentleman should. She stared at him. Who was this uniformed squire and where had he been these past days? Or months.
“As there seems to be no order to this meal, shall I serve you a sample of everything or do you have preferences?” he asked courteously.
She wasn't at all prepared to respond. “Not the mushrooms,” fell off her tongue without thinking. She’d had bad experiences with mushrooms in the past and had developed a distaste for them.
By the time he returned with both their plates, she'd recovered some of her muddled brain. Major Fletcher was large and imposing in his brass-buttons and starched linen, but it was his thoughtfulness that confused her. It might be simpler if he growled. “Thank you. The cider was an excellent thought. I didn’t think to bring up the blackberry wine.”
He yanked an empty chair to her end of the table and sat down at her right. “I tried that rot and poured it down the drain. It's vinegar.”
“It's old,” she admitted.
“I noticed. If your friends liberated the wine from the Hall's cellar, it's most likely vinegar as well. Cider seemed safest.”
Kate studied her table of eccentric guests and smiled faintly. “If anyone can drive the Hall’s ghosts screaming back to their graves, Jacques’ jolly company will. He’s lonely. Be happy for him.”
