“If the cook will permit it,” Madeline said.
The suggestion surprised even Madeline herself, though perhaps it ought not to have. The kitchens had never frightened her in the way a dining table once had. They smelled of warmth and yeast and sugar, of hands at work rather than eyes that watched too closely.
There had been days when her mother’s gaze had followed every bite she took, every reach of her fork weighed and measured, accompanied by remarks that were never gentle at all.
That is quite enough, Madeline. Young ladies do not require second helpings.
Hunger, she had discovered, was easier to bear in secret.
Her father had understood. He had turned a blind eye when she slipped from the family rooms and down the back stairs, small and careful, her slippers soundless against the stone. He would sometimes nod to her in passing, his mouth set in that quiet way of his, saying nothing, but allowing everything.
The cook had always been there. Broad-shouldered, flour-dusted, endlessly patient. She never asked why Madeline came, never commented on how much she ate, only pressed warm bread into her hands and told her to sit, to wait, to taste. In that room, no one counted or corrected, and food was simply food, and hunger something to be answered rather than judged.
Even now, Madeline felt the echo of that old comfort settle in her chest. This, at least, had never been taken from her.
Tessa’s hands flew up. “Today?”
“Yes.”
“Now?” Tessa pressed, already halfway to the door.
Madeline laughed, the sound surprising her with its ease. “Yes, now,” she agreed, and as she followed Tessa into the corridor, she felt the faintest loosening in her chest, as if the day had shifted away from London’s looming threat and toward something that belonged to them alone.
They made their way down to the kitchens, and Madeline felt the house change around them as they descended. The upper rooms were quiet, elegant, governed by restraint, but the lower levels breathed with the hush of servants’ voices and the scent of bread and simmering broth. It reminded her that life continued beneath titles, that the heart of any house beat where people worked with their hands.
Cook looked up as they entered, her expression shifting from surprise to immediate alarm. She stood with a spoon in hand near a pot on the stove, and the heat from the hearth gave her cheeks a permanent flush, her sleeves rolled up in a way that spoke of practicality over decorum.
“Miss Watton,” Cook said cautiously, eyes flicking to Tessa. “Is something the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter,” Madeline assured her, stepping forward with a calm smile. “Lady Theresa has expressed an interest in learning practical accomplishments, and I thought it might be valuable for her to learn something in the kitchen.”
Cook’s lips pressed together. “His Grace’s daughter does not belong in a kitchen.”
Tessa’s chin lifted. “Why not?”
Cook’s gaze darted to Madeline as if seeking rescue. “Because it is not proper.”
Madeline kept her tone polite, but she did not soften her intention. “With respect, Cook, it is not improper to learn a skill. It is only unfamiliar.”
Cook’s eyes flicked at once to the range, where pots simmered and the oven doors radiated steady heat. Her mouth tightened.
“This is no place for a child,” she said sharply. “There are hot soups on the boil and trays in and out of the ovens. If His Grace were to hear?—”
Tessa stepped forward before Madeline could answer, her small hands braced on her hips, her expression fierce. “I am not made of glass,” she declared, and Madeline’s heart tugged at the echo of Wilhelm’s steel in that stubborn posture.
Madeline’s heart tugged at the echo of Wilhelm’s steel in that familiar stance.
Cook blinked, startled despite herself, then shook her head with a low, aggrieved sound. “It is not about glass,” she muttered. “It is about burns. And explanations.”
“I will be with her the entire time,” Madeline said calmly. “She will not go near the range unless I say so.”
“And if something happens?” Cook pressed, clearly unconvinced.
“Then I will be the one to take full responsibility,” Madeline replied at once, because she meant it, because she would gladly be scolded by the Duke if it meant giving Tessa an hour of joy without being told she must keep her hands folded and her curiosity contained.
Cook stared at her, measuring. Her gaze slid to Tessa, and something changed, subtle but real, as she took in the child’s bright anticipation, the way she stood poised rather than petulant, eager rather than entitled. Cook’s shoulders lowered a fraction.
“Fine,” she said at last, as though granting a reluctant pardon. “But you will stay out of my way, and you will touch nothing hot, and if His Grace asks why my kitchen looks like a battlefield, I will say it was your idea.”
