Christ, he was an idiot. He wanted to bash his head against the headrest.
She looked out the window. “It is what you pay me for, after all.”
If her reply was frosty, he couldn’t blame her. Hell, she could call him all the names she wanted, and he would deserve it. Before his injury, he’d never been the type of man to take his temper out on others, no matter what they’d done. And what unforgivable offense had Mrs. Wood committed? She’d cleaned his study and, in the process, discovered his piano studio. Like any curious person (and musician, apparently), she’d played a few notes. She hadn’t meant to cause harm.
She couldn’t know what the piano meant to him…although he’d rather be drawn and quartered than talk about it.
“I am grateful, nonetheless.” He cleared his throat. “For everything you’ve done for the manor. And for me. I hope…I hope we can put what happened yesterday behind us.”
She pursed her too-plump lips, studying him, and he hoped that she saw his sincerity. For what it was worth. Which, admittedly, wasn’t much.
“As you wish,” she said primly.
The carriage drew to a stop, putting an end to the awkward exchange.
“Here you go, Mrs. Wood.” Mrs. Pettigrew peered anxiously at Xenia. “Taste it and tell me what you think.”
They were standing outside the Leaning House. The three-story building was so named because of its visible tilt, a flaw in construction that turned out to be a happy accident as it drew curious customers. In fact, Mrs. Pettigrew played up her establishment’s askew charm by painting each story a different color: pink on the bottom, blue in the middle, yellow on the top. Xenia thought the tea house looked like a layer cake created by a whimsical and slightly tipsy baker.
At present, Mrs. Pettigrew had set up a small table with a tray of samples, and she’d waved Xenia over to try her latest concoction. Dutifully, Xenia popped the bite-sized morsel of fried dough into her mouth. The sweet and fluffy concoction was the perfect mix of custardy softness and crispy caramelized edges.
“Well, what do you think? Be honest, now.”
Beneath Mrs. Pettigrew’s frilled cap, her light-blue eyes were wide. She was a comfortably curvy widow with eight grown children who were scattered across the county. To cope with her empty nest, she took newcomers like Xenia under her wing. She was a gossip, but a kind-hearted one, and Xenia had benefited from her knowledge about the village. Indeed, Mrs. Pettigrew had been the one who’d encouraged her to take up the Earl of Manderly’s offer to interview at Bottoms House.
“Ghost or no ghost, an opportunity like that presents itself once in a blue moon,”Mrs. Pettigrew had declared.“A person has to take risks once in a while if she’s to get ahead.”
It turned out to be sage advice. By staying instead of running last night, Xenia had taken another risk. She hadn’t seen Lord Ethan until this morning, and she’d braced herself for their encounter. She needn’t have.
He’d been unfailingly polite. He’d even given her his version of an apology, which was probably more than most employers would have done. With a prickle of shame, she realized that she hadn’t found the courage to admit her own wrongdoing. Confessing that she was a failure at her job wasn’t the most pleasant task, especially since she’d been working hard at shedding that version of herself. At becoming a better person.
She had made amends in other ways. She had focused on the task of finding female staff, and by midday, managed to secure housemaids and a cook named Mrs. Johnson, whose references included the owners of two fine estates. A round-cheeked brunette with a cordial manner, Mrs. Johnson was eager to start. She helped Xenia select meats from Mr. Bailey, produce from the Pickleworths, and a flock of chickens from a farmer.
Lord Ethan had seemed pleased by Xenia’s productivity. While his comment of “Well done, Mrs. Wood” couldn’t be described as effusive, his approval had given her a warm, tingly feeling. Moreover, he’d given her leave to explore the fair while he and Brunswick worked on filling the roster of male servants.
Thus, Xenia had had the chance to wander amongst the colorful barrows and booths that had sprung up on the village green. Vendors offered everything from roasted chestnuts to potions guaranteed to cure a host of diseases. Intrigued, she’d been examining a red glass bottle shaped like a heart when the hawker, a woman with crinkly skin and a mass of ebony curls, startled her with a cackling laugh.
“That’s a love potion, dearie,” the woman said with a wink. “If you’ve a sweetheart who doesn’t return your fancy, a few drops will change ’is mind.”
For some reason, Xenia’s gaze had searched out Lord Ethan. To her horror, he’d been standing a few feet away, looking straight at her. Her heart thudding, she’d shoved the bottle back at the seller and fled. She’d been flagged down by Mrs. Pettigrew, who was now awaiting her response.
“I am not certain what I think of this new dish,” Xenia said.
Mrs. Pettigrew’s face fell.
Xenia gave her an impish smile. “Another sample might help me decide.”
With a relieved chuckle, Mrs. Pettigrew obliged. She placed her chapped hands on her generous hips as Xenia savored her second helping.
“Oh, you had me going there for a moment, Mrs. Wood. I must say I am relieved you’re enjoying my Poor Knights o’ Windsor pudding. It comes from an old family recipe, passed on from my great-grandmama, and I haven’t served it before.”
“It’s delectable.” Xenia licked sugar off her lips. “Why hasn’t it been on your menu?”
“My great-grandmama’s original recipe is for ‘Bloody Poor Knights’ pudding, a creation that made her famous countywide. She called it ‘bloody’ on account o’ the sauce she drizzled over the pudding, made from a type o’ cherry grown only in Chuddums. Used to be, the village was known as ‘Chudleigh Blossoms’ on account o’ how plentiful the cherry trees were. Then all the orchards started dying.”
Xenia drew her brows together. “What happened?”
“The curse, that’s what,” Mrs. Pettigrew said gloomily. “After Thomas Mulligan died, the cherry trees started to wither. Year by year, the orchards grew thinner, and the few trees that survived stopped bearing fruit. Many townsfolk lost their livelihoods. My grandma retired her mama’s recipe because she said it weren’t the same without the cherries…and only the Chudleigh Bottoms’s cherries would do.”
