Page 59 of Five Nights to Claim His Duchess

CHAPTER TWENTY

“More salt, Betsy. A good deal more than that — go on, be brave.”

“Your Grace, it will be a salt-lick.”

“He has been on the road for four days and eaten nothing but inn food. Inn food has no salt in it whatsoever.”

Diana leaned over the pot and breathed in. “More.”

Betsy added more, washing her hands of the consequences.

It was not a proper occupation for a duchess and Diana was perfectly aware of it. Mrs. Fletcher had said as much twice, in the careful voice she used when she disapproved and had no intention of arguing. The cook had retired to the far end of the kitchen and taken up a position by the window with her arms folded like a woman watching her house burn. But he was coming home tonight, and Diana had wanted there to be a thing on his table that had come out of her own hands.

In the passage beyond the door, Arabella shrieked with laughter and the puppy went past the doorway at speed with a wooden spoon in its mouth.

“Bella! Not in the kitchen⁠—”

“He took it⁠—”

“Then take it back, and take it back in the garden⁠—”

Diana turned to the fire, and the smell of the pot came up at her. Her stomach turned straight over.

She got as far as the scullery door. When she felt the content of her stomach shooting into her mouth.

“Fetch water. And a cloth — no, the clean one, girl, use your eyes⁠—”

Mrs. Fletcher had her by the elbow before Diana had properly finished being sick and got her upright. They sat her down on the bench by the cold hearth with her head against the stone.

“Diana?” Arabella’s voice went up high. “Diana⁠—”

“I am well, Bella.”

“You are not⁠—”

“I am.” Diana took the cup and drank a little and set it down. She made herself smile at the three faces ranged round her. “You are not to look at me like that, any of you. I have felt uneasy in the mornings all this week. I dare say it was the fish on Tuesday. I said at the time the fish was wrong.”

Nobody answered her.

She looked up. Mrs. Fletcher and Betsy were looking at one another over her head.

Betsy gave a small nod.

“Come along, Miss Arabella,” she said briskly, wiping her hands down her apron. “That pot will spoil while we stand about, and His Grace is not to be given a burnt supper on his first night home. You may see to the onions.”

“But Diana is⁠—”

“Go on, dearest.” Diana squeezed her sister’s hand. “Go and be useful. And do not let that animal near the butter again.”

Arabella went, twice looking back.

The kitchen door swung shut.

Mrs. Fletcher sat herself down upon the bench, which she had never in six weeks done in her mistress’s presence, and folded her hands in her lap.

“Your Grace,” she said. “Forgive me. Might I ask you something not fit for a kitchen.”

“You may ask me anything.”