“Simon!” Sydney admonished over my laughter.
“Because I wanted to,” I said by way of explanation. It was as good as any other.
“But wives make you cut carrots and wash dishes,” he complained quietly so his mother wouldn’t hear him.
I didn’t know how to explain to him that Davina had probably never seen a dish washed in her life, let alone found herself in a situation to order a husband to do the washing. “I think you’re confusing wives with mothers.”
“So?” he asked.
Just then, Davina came down the stairs, quiet as a mouse. And she was every bit the duke’s daughter. Her spine was rod-straight, and her hair was back in a harsh knot. Entirely unapproachable.
I sighed, turning my attention back to the carrots lest I aim the knife at a finger and require more sutures.
“Someday you’ll understand the difference. And I’ll be there to tease you about that comparison.”
Hehumphedand slunk down in his chair. At least he wasn’t upset about missing a non-existent wedding.
Davina stood by the stairs, looking a little lost. I wanted to go to her, to help her, but if her countenance was any indication, she wasn’t interested in my assistance. Under lowered lashes, I watched as she approached my sister, uncertainty slipping into the deepened curve of her spine.
She must have offered to help because Lizzie set her up with a few onions and a bowl on the counter, then walked away. And Lizzie and I both knew precisely how that would go.
I waited, hoping Davina possessed some heretofore undiscovered chopping skills of which I was unaware. It was not to be though. She stared at the unpeeled allium with trepidation in her brow before plucking the knife from the counter. At least that, it seemed, was an instinctive hand position. Of course, then she grasped the onion in her left hand and began to plunge the tip of the knife into the center of the bulb.
I was out of my seat before I’d made the choice. From the corner of my eye, I caught my mother also rising from her spot by the hearth.
I caught the wrist of Davina’s knife hand before she could bring it down on her thumb. “Whoa there, little menace.”
My other hand found hers as well and spun the onion so the root was on the chopping block. Her back nestled against my chest. She stiffened briefly, then settled against me.
“No stabbing. That’s for highwaymen and ruffians, just as Gabriel taught you. We’re slicing, then chopping.” I rocked the knife hand against the board until she got a feel for it. “You want to cut off just the ends, then we need to peel off the paper.”
She nodded and let me guide her through the movement before setting the knife aside and stripping the dried layer off.
“Now, cut it in half from the root end. Watch your fingers.” She followed my instruction, my hands only resting atop hers. “Good.”
I called back to Lizzie, “Diced or sliced?”
“Diced, please,” she replied.
“All right, we’re going to slice vertically toward the root first. Try not to cut through it.” I demonstrated on one half, her hands resting on the blade beneath mine. “Then we turn and slice the other way.”
She nodded, the silk of her tightly woven hair brushing against my chin. Once I’d successfully diced half of it, I added, “Your turn.”
Davina replicated my motions, less evenly and with less surety, but it was more than sufficient for Nan’s stew.
“Better?”
“Yes,” she whispered, something unsure in her tone.
I pulled away and caught Mum’s attention then tipped my head toward Davina. She nodded and spun on her stool by the hearth.
“Liz, may I speak with you?”
“Yes?” she asked with false innocence, coming to my side.
“Outside,” I added and started for the door without waiting for a response. I heard the sharp snap of the door closing behind her before Lizzie’s steps followed me into the graveled drive.
“She asked if she could help,” she began, not waiting for me.
