“Is Lady Baldwin still abed?” Char placed a griddle on the grate over the fire to heat while she sliced the loaf of stale bread.
Pouring tea in a cup for her, Sarah said, “No, she left very early. She is excited about this evening and wanted to prepare. Are you ready for an important evening? Someone told me that Baynton’s chef is French. Take special note of the dishes he prepares. See what he does differently than we British. I might try to copy one of them.”
Slicing into the loaf, Char carefully said, “I wish you would go with me this evening. The duke keeps asking about you.”
Sarah smiled as if pleased and then shook her head. “You don’t ask the woman he believes is your maid or one who is in truth an actress to a dinner party of the top peers in the country. Not to say I wouldn’t be able to hold my own.” She leaned over and placed a loving hand against Char’s cheek. “I’m pleased you would want me there, but let us wait until he is so hopelessly in love with you, he’ll forgive a bit of subterfuge.”
“I always want your presence, Sarah. You saved me. Who knows what my uncle Davies would have done if you hadn’t intervened?” She placed the bread slices on the hot griddle.
Sarah did not argue. “You have been a blessing in my life as well.”
“I don’t know if that is true. You could be with a troupe and perhaps have your plays staged out in the countryside. London is too rigid. It doesn’t seem right that they label you an understudy or a costume mistress while they use your talent. You have been fearless, Sarah.”
Sarah laughed. “That is true. It took great courage to settle you down and teach you to read.”
“I was shockingly uneducated.”
“But you are wise in what is important,” Sarah assured her, reaching up and smoothing back Char’s hair.
“I wish I never had to disappoint you,” Char said. There, she’d started but was suddenly unable to meet her aunt’s eye. A knot had grown in her throat.
“You won’t,” Sarah answered confidently.
Char said, “I can’t marry Baynton.”
There, she’d done it.
Silence fell over the kitchen.
Char forced herself to breathe.
Sarah sat, her hands on the table, a line of worry between her eyes.
“I shall tell him this evening,” Char said. “I know that your life would be immeasurably easier if I was a duchess—”
“This isn’t about me, Char—”
“Then know thatIcan’t marry the duke when I love another.”
“The man last night? Who is he?”
“The duke’s brother. Histwinbrother.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped. She closed the book, pushed it aside, turning away herself.
The smell of burned toast started to fill the air. With a cry, Char turned back to the griddle and, using her fingers, gingerly plucked the bread off the hot metal and tossed it onto a plate on the kitchen table.
Sarah was very quiet.
Char busied herself buttering toast. “It is a bit black but not too terrible.” She offered the plate to her aunt, who did not move. “You are unhappy.”
“Concerned is a better word.”
“There is something else you should know.” Char was ready to confess all.
Sarah swung in her chair. “It can’t be worse than what you’ve just said. You are in love with the duke’s brother? This is messy, Char. The sort of stuff that hounds people’s reputations forever.”
Char nodded. “Would you prefer I be dishonest with Baynton? That I pretend?”
