Madeline’s smile deepened. “Agreed.”
Tessa practically vibrated with delight. “We are baking,” she announced, as if declaring a conquest.
Cook made a sound that could have been a sigh or a groan and gestured toward the long central table. “Wash your hands,” she commanded.
Tessa obeyed with unusual diligence, and Madeline followed, rolling up her own sleeves carefully, aware of the way warmth rose around them, easing the chill she had carried since arriving in London. For a moment, she could almost forget the city beyond the walls, because here there was only flour and butter and simple steps that did not ask her to look over her shoulder.
Cook set out ingredients with brisk efficiency, measuring flour into a bowl, placing butter on a plate, fetching sugar, salt, and a small jar of baking powder. “Biscuits are simple,” she said, tone clipped. “Which means they show every mistake.”
Tessa’s eyes narrowed. “Then I will not make mistakes.”
Madeline hid a smile. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said gently, moving beside Tessa. “The point is learning how to correct them.”
Tessa glanced up at her, then nodded as if accepting that as a rule of law. “Tell me what to do.”
Madeline began with the flour, guiding Tessa’s hands as she scooped it carefully, then showed her how to level the top with the edge of a knife. “You see,” she said, “precision matters, but so does patience.”
Tessa’s tongue peeked briefly between her teeth as she concentrated, and Madeline felt an unexpected swell of affection. It was not only that Tessa was eager, it was that she cared, that she wanted to do something well not because anyone demanded it, but because it felt good to succeed.
“Good,” Madeline murmured as Tessa tipped the flour into the bowl. “Now the sugar.”
Tessa measured that too, eyes sharp, shoulders squared, and Cook watched from a short distance with folded arms, her expression still disapproving but less rigid than before.
They cut the butter into the flour, and Madeline demonstrated how to rub it in with fingertips until the mixture resembled coarse crumbs. She guided Tessa’s hands, then let her take over, watching the child’s face as she worked. Flour dusted Tessa’s knuckles, then her cheeks when she absently brushed at her nose, and the sight was so charming that Madeline’s chest softened again.
“You have flour on your face,” Madeline told her.
Tessa blinked. “Where?”
Madeline reached out and wiped it gently from her cheek with her thumb, her touch careful, affectionate, and she felt Tessa lean into it for the briefest moment.
They added milk, stirring the dough until it came together, and when Tessa lifted the spoon too quickly, a small splash of batter flicked outward. It landed on Madeline’s bodice in pale, ridiculous specks.
There was a moment of silence as Madeline looked down at herself.
Tessa’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh,” she whispered, as though she had committed a crime.
Madeline lifted her gaze slowly to meet Tessa’s, held it for a beat, then let laughter rise out of her, because it was so absurd and so innocent and so entirely unimportant compared to the joy on Tessa’s face.
Tessa stared at her, stunned, then began to giggle. The sound quickly swelled into delighted laughter that made Cook’s mouth pucker as if she were trying not to smile.
“I ruined your dress,” Tessa gasped.
“You did not ruin it,” Madeline assured her, still laughing as she brushed at the batter with the edge of her sleeve, which only smeared it slightly and made the situation worse. “You have improved it.”
Tessa’s laughter turned wild. “Improved it?”
“Yes,” Madeline said, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Now it is truly a baking dress.”
Cook made a sound behind them that might have been resignation. “Lord save me,” she muttered.
Tessa laughed again, and Madeline felt the sound of it settle into her bones as something precious. It was not only the laughter; it was the way Tessa did not hide when she laughed, did notcover her mouth or glance toward a door as though expecting disapproval. At the estate, joy had felt like a fragile thing that could be interrupted at any moment. Here, in the kitchen, it felt momentarily safe.
Madeline realized, with a sudden ache beneath her ribs, that she had wanted to keep them in the country for a far more selfish reason.
London meant eyes. Questions. Familiar streets where a name might still carry weight, where Captain Hale might still be looking for her.
She had believed Wilhelm would remain in the country. Initially, Madeline thought that his coldness would deter visitors and that a trip to London would be postponed long enough for her past to become quiet again. She had not meant to drag them into danger, and yet here they were. She could not deny the fact that Tessa was thriving, that Wilhelm’s stern walls were shifting, and that something in this household was changing because she was in it.
