“Shall we exchange plates, Cordelia?” Thomas asked.
He thought he saw a smile play on her red lips. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he said, and passed his generously full plate over to Cordelia and accepted her meager one. He took absurd pleasure in placing it farther away from his glass than it should have been.
“This chicken is excellent and hot,” Penelope said. “Hibbert, please give my compliments to Cook.”
“Very good, Miss Penelope.”
“Do they have chicken in America?” his mother asked.
Thomas sighed.
“Yes,” Cordelia answered patiently. “We do have chickens, ducks, pigeons, and turkeys as well that we eat on Thanksgiving Day.”
His mother smiled and nodded. “Is that the day when you celebrate the war ending between North and South America?”
“Mother, there wasn’t a war between North and South America.”
“Of course there was. It started in the 1860s.”
Cordelia coughed and beat against her chest. “Pardon me.”
“Tell him, Cordelia,” his mother prompted. “Tell Thomas I was right.”
“The war between the Northern states and the Southern states happened between 1861 and 1865,” Cordelia said.
“Exactly what I said.”
Cordelia picked up her wine glass and sipped it, trying to hide her smile. Thomas caught her eye, and she raised her eyebrows. He found himself returning her smile. Hibbert and the footmen removed their plates and served the next course. He was pleased to see that Cordelia received the same size of portions served to his mother and Penelope. Penelope—he’d almost forgotten that she was there. Although, how that could be, he did not know. She was still as beautiful as ever, but she didn’t fill the room with her presence like Cordelia did. She was more subdued.
They played cards following dinner, and Thomas excused himself after an hour and walked to the kitchen. Cook, Mrs. Norton, and the rest of the staff were drinking coffee. Everyone stood when he entered, and he felt guilty for interrupting their evening time.
“Cook, I was wondering if I might have a private word with you.”
“Of course, Master Thomas, I mean, your lordship,” she said, and wiped her large hands on her white apron and followed him out of the kitchen and into the servants’ lounge.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate all that you have done for me and for my family. You stayed when most didn’t. Most people wouldn’t have. You worked even when you weren’t getting paid.”
“You have paid me back for that time, my lord.”
“But nothing could pay back that kind of loyalty, and I want you to know how sincerely I appreciate all that you do.”
“Thank you, my lord. The chicken was most excellent tonight if I do say so myself.”
“It was perfectly succulent,” he agreed. “But I would like to speak to you about Lady Farnham’s meals—my wife’s breakfasts.”
The stout woman looked down at her large hands.
“Lady Farnham is now the mistress of this house, and anything that she says should be considered absolute. If she would like changes made, I want them made immediately. I also want her breakfast tray to be so plentiful that half the food is wasted.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you, Cook. I don’t know what we would do without you.”
“Take some strawberry tarts before you go,” she said, and offered him a plate laden with them. He took it.
“No one makes strawberry tarts as well as you,” he said, and gave her a smile, hoping to ease the reprimand he’d just given her.
