“I can wear an apron.”
Cook puffed out her cheeks and blew out a breath in consideration. “Have you worked much in a kitchen before?”
Emma hesitated. “No, but I could learn.”
“Take a rest, miss. Or go for a walk. I have Lottie now anyway.”
True, but that maid was occupied with other tasks at present. “My hands prefer to be busy.”
“You’ve finished those mittens, I take it.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile. “I have, but I could start another. Would you like a pair?”
“What would I do with them?”
“Wear them to church.”
Cook grinned. “Very well. Bring your workbasket in here, love. You may sit by the fire.”
Emma relaxed, returning shortly with her needles and yarn. She started a new set of mittens in deep blue, a shade that would match the gown Cook often wore on Sundays. She sat straight in her chair as Cook rubbed an oil-and-herb mixture over meat and set it aside, then moved on to cutting vegetables.
They fell into an easy rhythm, speaking about Cook’s sister in Matlock, whom she seldom saw, and her four young nieces. Emma told her of her cousin in London who wrote occasionally about the ever-growing traffic on the roads and their ever-growing household, but they had not seen each other in well over a decade.
“You’ve not gone for a visit?”
“She has no room for me,” Emma said. “We were close as children, but she married a modest vicar and both of us lost our parents, so we only have our letters to connect us.”
Cook frowned, her knife hovering above the onions. “Could you not have kept house for her if you’d wished? Back when Mrs. Buckley took you in, I mean.”
Emma’s smile froze. At the time, she had been a genteel young woman—clever, perhaps, but not practiced in the finer duties and intricacies of keeping house. She would not have known the first thing about the duties, nor would she have been qualified.
It was a testament of their comfort with one another that Cook had drawn the conclusion that it was possible for Emmato be given that opportunity, however. She took a small, private comfort inthat. “Perhaps, but I had not been invited to.”
Platt filled the doorway, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Have the dogs snuck inside again?” Emma asked, lowering her knitting.
“No. You have visitors, ma’am.”
“Me? Not Mrs. Buckley?”
Platt nodded. “They asked for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Captain Buckley, Mr. Yardley, and Miss Yardley, ma’am.”
Emma put away the mittens. “I will see them in the parlor. Are they aware of Mrs. Buckley’s absence?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Platt.” Emma wiped her hands on the front of her gown. They were slick with nerves and sweat. Simon Yardley had always made her uneasy, though she had no definitive reason for why. It felt unfair to hold him to account for something she didn’t entirely understand herself, but at the same time, she could not deny the quickening of her pulse when he entered the room—and not in a pleasantly breathless way.
“You’ve no cause to be nervous, love,” Cook said, eyeing her from the worktable, gripping a long sharp knife. “These are your people.”
“I would far prefer to sit in here with you.”
She chortled. “If the chance at a better life offers itself to you, don’t spit in its eye, Miss Darling. Seize it with both hands.”
