The first course arrived, and instead of a rich soup, there was a bowl of salty chicken broth. Amelia took one sip and decided not to risk any more. The earl and his daughter didn’t seem to notice. Both finished the broth while talking about a book Christine had read recently.
The rest of the meal was lacking as well. The meat—which Amelia thought was supposed to be beef—was brown and listless. The vegetables were limp, and she could mash them with her fork.
What startled Amelia most of all was how the earl and Christine were utterly unaware of how terrible the food was.
“How is your food?” she asked, wondering if theirs was as bad. The earl shrugged, and Christine nodded as if to say it was fine. Amelia took a sip of wine and tried to think of how she could solve this debacle. Mrs. Larson would die if she saw this mess.
A flash of inspiration caught her, for the housekeeper could undoubtedly transform this household in a matter of days. Mrs. Larson would know which servants were hard workers and which ones needed to be better trained or replaced.
The thought of seeing her mother’s housekeeper was a hope that flared inside her, along with a touch of homesickness. She decided to write to Beatrice and ask if Mrs. Larson could pay a visit, spending a few weeks helping her to sort out the household.
When her plate was taken away, she’d hardly touched any of it, but at least now she had a practical solution. Mrs. Larson was brash and bold and wouldn’t hesitate to go after anyone who was disobedient.
Now that she had one problem solved, she had another to manage. When she studied Christine, Amelia saw that the girl’s sleeves were well above her wrists. Her gown was better suited to a six-year-old than an eleven-year-old.
“Christine, I plan to visit the village in the morning. Would you like to come with me and we could go shopping?” It might give them a chance to be better acquainted without Lord Castledon. And if the girl needed new clothing, she could help choose the fabric.
“I—I planned to spend the day with Papa.” There was confusion on her face, as if she hadn’t expected to be asked.
“He can come along, if he wants to.” Amelia shot him a knowing look. “He might want to pick out a new bonnet for himself.”
The earl sent her a pointed look. “I’ll let you pick out one for me,” he remarked. “With ribbons and lace, if you please. Purple lace.”
The sudden look in his eyes reminded Amelia of the sketch she’d drawn, of the purple lace chemise. Had he seen that? From the faint smile on his lips, she suspected he had.
Amelia swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away. “I’ll see what I can find.”
The young girl appeared unaware of their hidden exchange. “No, I don’t want to go with you.”
“Christine, it will be good fun, you’ll see. If you need any new clothes, we’ll have you measured.” Amelia tried to make it sound much more interesting, but her stepdaughter’s expression didn’t change at all.
“Mrs. Menford can take me shopping. I needn’t go anywhere with you.”
Before the earl could intervene, Amelia stopped him with a hand. “No, it’s all right. I’ll go on my own, and if Christine changes her mind, she can join me.”
Instead of appearing relieved, the girl stared down at her plate.
“No, she’s going to go with you.” Lord Castledon eyed his daughter with a steely look. “And she’s going to make an effort to get better acquainted. You are her stepmother now.”
Christine rolled her eyes and let out a heavy breath, as if her father had ordered her to spend all day scrubbing the floors. “Yes, Papa.”
Amelia decided that she needed to intervene before this became a punishment instead of a way to mend their differences. “What do you like to do when you’re alone, Christine?”
The girl shrugged and said nothing.
“Christine likes to draw,” the earl said. “She’s also quite good at watercolors.”
But the girl grimaced, as if she didn’t care for it at all. Earlier, Amelia had gone to ask Christine a question about the gardens, and when she’d gone inside the nursery, she’d spied towers of books and bits of paper with scribbled stories. Whether or not the girl enjoyed writing, Amelia thought of a different surprise the young girl might enjoy—a writing space of her own with an assortment of pens, ink, and paper. Perhaps a space in the attic where she could look out over the grounds.
It was something to think about.
After a time, the earl sent Christine away for bed, leaving them alone. Amelia toyed with her fork, and in time, his leg brushed hers.
“Don’t kick me,” she said, smiling at him.
“My leg twitched of its own accord.” But his wry expression said that he knew exactly what he’d been doing. David stood and offered his arm to lead her from the dining room table.
“Christine craves your attention,” Amelia told him. “She’s afraid you’ll go off and leave her again.”
