“I would like to help you, Agnes,” she said, surprising herself just as much as the cook.
Agnes blinked. “Help me?”
Esme opened her arms. “I am at a loss for occupation and the hours are pressing heavily upon me.”
The ageing cook did not exhibit much sympathy. “There is danger in a kitchen,” she said flatly. “’Tis all too easy to cut or scald yourself. I would not see you come to harm, milady.”
“But Frida is often in here.” Esme folded her arms, not willing to be so easily dissuaded.
“Indeed, she is. And I was most put out about it, when first she came.” Agnes threw her the ghost of a smile. “If you are so intent on staying put, you can cut this into rounds.”
Esme had no idea what that meant, but she walked forward and accepted the serrated pastry cutter with an outward show of nonchalance.
Agnes rolled her sleeves above her elbows, displaying forearms made strong through years of chopping and stirring. “Do you know what to do?”
Esme eyed the misshapen pastry and took a guess. “Of course.”
“Put the tarts on here.” Agnes banged a tray down beside her. “You can stud them with raisins from the jar.”
Glancing about her, Esme nodded. This had been a mere whim, but now she was beginning to enjoy herself. The pastry was soft and malleable beneath her fingers, the raisins were plump and juicy. She stole a handful whilst Agnes was turned away.
The cook grunted with effort as she pulled something from the oven, wafting steam away from her face.
“’Tis hotter than hell in here.”
Esme giggled; she couldn’t help it. No one had spoken to her so bluntly since her sister Isabella got married.
“It must be a blessing in the depths of winter,” she suggested.
“Aye, and a curse on a hot summer’s day.” Agnes pushed her long plait out of her way and surveyed Esme’s handiwork. “A decent effort,” she admitted.
Esme dipped into a short curtsy. “Why, thank you.”
The cook’s face was briefly transformed with a genuine smile of amusement. “I never thought I’d see Lady Esme de Neville with flour on her nose.”
“Have I?” Esme reached to her face with alarm.
“’Tis all over your cheeks now.”
“Bother.” Esme wiped her palms on her skirts, conscious of the white streaks she was putting there.
“Wash your hands in the sink, milady. Then I suggest you retire for a while. I’ll have Jennifer bring you some bread and cheese.”
Esme wrinkled her nose. “In truth, Agnes, I do not wish to sit alone in the great hall.”
“No more would I.” Agnes inclined her head. “Why not join your brother in the solar? He might be glad of your company.” She met Esme’s eye and gave a conspiratorial grin. “All things may be possible on this day.”
“You mean since I helped in the kitchen?” Esme gave a peal of laughter. “’Tis a theory I would willingly test. Alas, Jonah has already gone out. I saw him leave earlier.”
“Then you will have the solar to yourself,” Agnes said equably. “’Tis a pleasant room.”
“You’re right.” Esme nodded. Why should the solar be the preserve of her brother anyway? He was hardly master here. She poured cold water over her hands at the big sink, flinching at the sudden chill and drying them on a nearby cloth. “Thank you, Agnes,” she said sincerely. “I hope I have at least been some help and not taken up too much of your time.”
“You are welcome any time you wish.”
’Twas a trite sentiment, but Esme fancied it was honestly meant as she wandered back along the stone-flagged passageway. Once ensconced in the solar, she found herself drawn to the neatly arranged squares of parchment upon which Jonah had inscribed his poems. She read the first, feeling a little as if she was intruding, but the words flowed so beautifully and the images he conjured were so vivid, she quickly picked up the second. When Jennifer brought in a tray of foodstuffs, Esme was tucked up on the settle, deep into the third.
“Thank you, Jennifer,” she murmured, unwilling to lift her gaze from her brother’s poetry.
