She gasped and was given the honour of tasting it against her wishes– dry and starchy on her lips. She blinked through the haze of white and found Reuben watching her with an expression of absolute delight, already reaching for more.
“Oh,” Jane said, “I suppose that is how we are doing this, then. All right.”
She grinned and grabbed a handful herself.
What followed could not, by any honest accounting, be described as tidy. Lucas retreated with commendable speed to the far corner, positioning himself behind the bread oven, and made sounds of protest that became increasingly theatrical and increasingly ignored. The kitchen maids pressed themselves to the wall near the door, vibrating between horror and laughter.
Jane's hair came partly down, and Reuben's apron had gone from white to a more complex white with a touch of texture in the colour, and they were both laughing, properly laughing,helplessly, as she cornered him near the stove and he shrieked. He turned around, undoubtedly looking for a momentary shield with his ammunition clenched loosely in his fists.
Suddenly, the shriek tapered off, causing Jane to looked up, gasping almost instantly. Thomas stood in the kitchen doorway, impeccably dressed, as always – or he had been, until approximately two seconds ago.
Before the last of Reuben's flour, thrown in the chaos of retreat, had caught him squarely across the front of his white shirt. It clung there in a pale cloud, spreading slowly across the fabric.
The kitchen went silent immediately, as the gravity of the situation settled upon the onlookers. Every staff member in the room went rigid and Lucas, from behind the bread oven, made the face, clearly already preparing to receive an order of dismissal, effective immediately.
Reuben stared at his father, concern and hesitation clouding his features. Meanwhile, Jane’s eyes were still stuck to Thomas’ shirt, disappointed in herself when her mind wondered, traitorous and entirely unbidden, about the shirt comingoff. She nearly scoffed, as this was exactly the kind of thoughts she had come here to avoid, and she felt her face heat underneath the flour already on it.
After what felt like eons, Thomas peered down at his shirt, then slowly raised his gaze as the silence extended.
Jane opened her mouth – likely to apologize, to explain, to offer some diplomatic framing of the situation – but Thomas had already moved, stepping to the worktop, reaching past Reuben for the flour bowl, and upending a careful, measured handful directly onto the top of Reuben's head.
Reuben's expression sifted through shock, disbelief, and then a joy so complete it seemed to light the room from the inside.
The kitchen was stuck with an uproar as the maids gave up their composure entirely, and Lucas made sounds that Jane suspected were laughter very sternly disguised as disapproval. Reuben grabbed flour with both hands and went after his father, who looked as though he was out of his depth but committed to seeing his decision to enrol in this war through.
Jane stood in the middle of it all with flour in her hair and her heart doing something complex and foreign in her chest, as she watched Thomas – serious, rigid, overworked Thomas – use the kitchen worktop as a shield against his six-year-old son's assault.
They were approaching her side of the kitchen again, still laughing as they added to the mess, she fully intended to make them both help in cleaning. Thomas was going to throw a handful of his swiftly acquired ammunition, but Reuben stopped suddenly, placing himself between Jane and his father, shaking his head slightly.
Then he parted his lips and said quietly, his voice small and almost rough,
“Don't throw it on Jane.”
The words landed like a stone into still water. Thomas froze instantly, the corners of his smile faltering slightly as he stared down at his son who had just addressed him for the first time in three years. Hurt flashed through his eyes and Jane wished she could console him, unable to fathom how he felt in that moment but sure that it very likely was a bittersweet thing to go through.
Thomas did not remain perturbed for long, regaining control in moments as he stared down at Reuben with bright eyes. The child was still staring up at him, his stance defiant and protective, completely unaware of what he had just given to his father.
Is that so,” Thomas nodded sagely, and his voice steady as he reached for the flour bowl. “Then I suppose I'll just have to throw it on you instead.”
Reuben shrieked and fled behind Jane, gripping her skirts, and the chaos resumed, and Jane stood in the middle of it with flour on her face and tears she had absolutely no intention of shedding threatening to spill.
So, she laughed, because it was that or weep, and she was not ready to do the latter in Thomas' kitchen with his son's hands fisted in her dress, and hoped that they would be able to clean up this mess somehow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The letter sat on the table beside Reuben's armchair like something that knew it was unwelcome.
Jane had noticed it when Mrs Greene brought it in – a folded square of cream paper, the Highclere seal pressed in dark wax – and had set it aside with the intention of reading it later. However, time was not her only issue presently, because deep down, she knew that she would not be happy with its contents, regardless of when she chose to read it.
The letter kept pulling her attention, kept feeding her anxiety and she was rapidly growing rather weary of it.
What could they possibly have to say to her at this time? Why now, when she was only a few weeks away from the dissolution of the marriage?
Reuben, absorbed in the story she was reading aloud, had not noticed anything her wandering mind. He was tucked into thelarge armchair that Jane had long since accepted as his reading throne, feet not quite reaching the edge of the cushion, a blanket pulled to his chin despite the afternoon warmth.
He looked so utterly precious, each blink taking him further and further away from her, towards a restful siesta. Jane softened her voice as the chapter came to an end, not wanting to break the peaceful barrier around them as she closed the book. He blinked up at her with a soft, slow look that told her his mind had only just returned from either the lands she had read to him about, or thoughts of sleeping.
“That's enough for today, I think,” she told him, reaching out to tug the edges of the blanket, smoothening it delicately. “You need to rest before dinner and I need to–”
