“Well, if you insist on it, I won’t naysay you.” Mrs. Watson stood back, watching as Rose moved about the kitchen, gathering her ingredients. “I daresay the duke will appreciate it, after enduring Mrs. Cowles’s confectionary efforts these past few days.”
The duke, appreciative? Rose held back an unladylike snort. She doubted there was anything she could do that would please the Duke of Grantham, but she kept this petty observation to herself and went ahead with her work, busily mixing her ingredients with the ease of years of practice.
“My goodness, child, you have a quick hand with the business, don’t you? Where did you learn to bake?”
“My mother taught me. You recall she was Mr. St. Claire’s cook for years before she passed away? I used to spend hours with her in the kitchen when I was a child. Everything I know, I learned at her knee.”
“Of course, dear. How could I have forgotten?” Mrs. Watson patted her arm. “She was a fine lady, your mother. I daresay Mr. St. Claire must have missed her terribly after she passed away. It’s been some years now, has it not?”
“Nine years,” Rose murmured, her throat too thick to venture another word. Ambrosehadmissed her mother, and not just as his cook, but as his friend, and no friend could have been more loyal to them than Ambrose had been. He’d been the only one of her mother’s childhood friends who’d stood by her in her hour of need.
Theirhour of need. She hardly remembered it, of course, having just turned four years old when she and her mother came to Hammond Court. But her mother had reminded her over and over throughout the years that Ambrose had taken them in when all their other friends had turned their backs—that a true friend like Ambrose was rare indeed, and that they owed him everything.
Not that her reminders had been necessary. Rose had loved Ambrose almost on sight, because who could resist such a kind man? To see Ambrose’s face, to bask in the warmth of the sunshine of his smile was to love him.
She cleared her throat. “My mother was a wonderful cook, but she wasn’t fond of baking. I never took much of a liking to cooking, so once I was old enough I took over the baking for her, and I’ve been doing it ever since.” She smiled at Mrs. Watson. “Did you happen to find any currants?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Mrs. Watson sighed, shaking her head. “It’s a pity, because I do love currants in my tea cakes. Sarah’s doing the marketing today. I’ll have her fetch some, shall I? Is there anything else you need?”
Rose hesitated. The kitchen was not well provisioned, but she was a guest here, and in no position to demand currants, or anything else. Still, there was the Christmas pudding to consider.
“It’s all right, Miss St. Claire,” Mrs. Watson said, guessing at the reason for her hesitation. “His Grace doesn’t concern himself with the doings in the kitchen. We market as we please, and I daresay it will please everyone to have currants in their tea cake, and whatever other culinary delights you can dream up.”
“Well, if you’re certain it’s all right, we really should make up the Christmas pudding today, so there’s a chance it will set up properly in time for Christmas dinner. Each of the servants must have a turn to stir, so they might make their Christmas wishes.”
“What a lovely idea!” Mrs. Watson beamed. “I can’t recall the last time I made a wish over the Christmas pudding. You’ll have us all in the holiday spirit yet, Miss St. Claire.”
Rose smiled, but in truth, she hadn’t been feeling very merry this season. She always felt her mother’s absence more keenly at Christmas. Now Ambrose was gone as well, and most of the servants from Hammond Court had been forced to find new places after the financial hardships of last year.
In truth, she felt more alone than she ever had.
The Christmases she’d spent at Hammond Court would soon be only memories, fading to ghosts of themselves as the years passed. How naïve she’d been, to think those Christmases would never end. How silly, to imagine time wouldn’t take them from her, one beloved person after the next.
But it wasn’t quite over yet. That is, it was the case that she’d be spending this Christmas with a dour duke who, despite having done her a marked kindness this morning, still clearly despised her. But Mrs. Watson was a kind soul, and it was difficult not to be cheered by her enthusiasm.
If she could bring just a bit of Hammond Court’s Christmas cheer to Grantham Lodge, she’d consider her time well spent. And if itdidsoften the duke’s heart just a touch, all the better. “We must have brandy, too, Mrs. Watson, and plenty of it, as we’ll need to add more to the pudding as it dries.”
“Yes, of course. Now, what have I done with my paper and pencil?” Mrs. Watson rummaged in her apron pockets with a frown. “Dear me, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. I’ll just go find it, and we’ll make a list, and send Sarah off to the market at once.”
* * *
By the time Max finished his last letter it was snowing again, the flakes like tiny white stars falling from a steely sky. Long shadows had gathered in the corners of his study, and without the scratch of his pen against the paper, it was utterly silent.
Too silent.
“Where the devil has everyone gone?” He tugged the cord with a bit more force than necessary, but none of his servants appeared. He pulled his pocket watch out, flipped open the lid, and checked the time.
It was half past four. Well past his teatime.
He threw down his pen, rose from behind his desk, and poked his head into the corridor outside his study door. “Townsend?”
Silence. Even Townsend, who seemed always to be hovering within shouting distance, was nowhere to be found.
He marched out into the hallway, and from there into the library, the music room, and the drawing room, but they were all equally deserted, and none of the seemingly endless number of housemaids he employed were anywhere about, their polishing cloths in hand, ducking their heads like frightened rabbits when he appeared.
For God’s sake, where was Mrs. Watson? He wandered back into the entryway, the thud of his boots echoing in the emptiness. Where was Monk? Wasn’t his butler meant to be guarding the entryway at all times? His entire household was missing, vanished into thin air.
He paused near the staircase, and that was when the most heavenly scent found his nose. Cloves, oranges, and cinnamon, with another, richer scent layered underneath it. He couldn’t quite place it, but it smelled like . . . he drew in a deep breath, his nose twitching.
