"Then I shall make you a quiche," I say firmly.
"That's very sweet of you," Veronica says.
I shrug. "If someone tells me what they want me to make, then I'll make it." I smile at the servant who fills my water glass, but refuse the wine. I don't like the way it makes my head feel.
When the door opens again, Arthur and his wife enter, followed by my parents.
I rise to my feet along with my sisters, dipping into a small curtsy. It isn't strictly enforced when we're only amongst our immediate family, but some things are so ingrained within us that it's hard to not do them, and this is one.
Father takes a seat at the head of the table, while Mama sits at the other end. The servants reappear almost immediately to fill everyone's glasses. They move with seamless practice that has always made me feel somewhat in awe of their ability to not draw notice. I often wish I could move around a room like that, though I've heard multiple times that the life of a servant wouldn't be for me. I suspect they're right, but the urge to want to disappear into the background remains regardless of anything else.
The food is brought to us, while chatter begins about a new foal that's been born in the stables, and a merchant ship that's arrived from Rajaad. None of it is particularly interesting, and I focus instead on the roasted beef wrapped in a golden crust of pastry.
It isn't as good as the pastry that Nate makes, though I know better than to mention that at the dinner table. It would undoubtedly lead to Mama telling me that I'm being improper and my siblings teasing me.
It isn't until the dessert arrives that I find myself with much to add to the conversation. I sit straighter, feeling a sense of pride go through me in response to Nate's desserts entering the room, including a tray of perfect winter strawberry and custard tarts that I know he's made because Artie said he liked them.
A servant places the platter in the middle of the table, while another sets down a tray with small glasses of chocolate mousse that I know will be delicious.
"I have to admit, when I see food like this, I'm glad that Chef Matthews has returned to the kitchens," Veronica says.
"Chef Matthews has returned?" Mama asks.
I frown. "I thought you would know. He returned last week to take up the position of pastry chef."
"No one has told me." She looks at my father, who shrugs.
"I'm sure the steward mentioned it," he tells her.
"That is the kind of thing I should have been told," Mama says firmly.
"Why? You don't have anything to do with the staffing in the kitchens," I blurt out without thinking.
Veronica groans from beside me, making it clear that I've missed something. She doesn't elaborate and reaches out for one of the tarts instead.
Mama clears her throat. "Do we need to discuss the situation with you spending time in the kitchens, Evelyn?" she asks me.
"I know the rules," I respond. "I'm to wait until an hour after the food has finished being served at feasts, and I'm not to leave balls before midnight. And I'm not allowed to wear any of my formal dresses in the kitchen either. None of that is any different from before Chef Matthews returned."
Mama lets out a sigh that sounds like she's frustrated, but I might not be right. I'm often not about these things. "Perhaps we should discuss this once we're alone."
"I don't understand what there is to discuss," I respond as I pick up one of the mousses and set it on my plate.
"Mama wants to make sure that you're drinking your tea," Veronica says.
"Veronica!"
"They're not serving any tea," I respond, looking over the table in case I've missed the pot.
Kathryn smothers a laugh from across the table, but then clears her throat. "Not that kind of tea, Evie," she says. "Mama means the tea that will prevent Veronica from being pushed down the line of succession."
"That makes no sense. Only one of us having a baby would...Oh." Realisation dawns on me. "Why does everyone think I'm sleeping with Nate?"
Father chokes on a piece of tart, while my siblings look like they're trying to hold back some amusement.
"Evelyn!" Mama chastises. "I don't know where any of you learned that this was a proper topic of conversation for the dinner table."
"You started it," Veronica mutters under her breath, but I don't think Mama hears.
