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She tilted her head and looked at him for a long time. She had been doing that rather a lot today, striking her thinking pose. Just when he thought he might wilt under her scrutiny, she said, “Do you ever think about how it is that some people are born into the soft hand of luxury, while others cannot aspire to a higher station than serving that first group?”
“I think about it every day.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” he said, and it came out rather tersely, though he hadn’t intended that.
“I have offended.”
“No. But …” He really should take his leave. He did not. “What do you think the gaols act last session was? What do you think my vote in the trial of Queen Caroline was? What is all my work if not an attempt to chip away at the essential social dilemma to which you refer?”
“Can it be chipped away at?”
“What is the alternative? Throwing up one’s hands and giving up?”
He wasn’t sure why he was arguing. He still sounded testy. He was testy, suddenly. He should have left after all the singing about Sally in the valley.
“No,” she said. “I meant that perhaps one needs not to chip, but to—”
“If you’re talking about a French–style revolt, you have lost me. Violence is not the answer.”
“I wasn’t talking about that!” She was sounding testy, too, as if she thought he was deliberately misunderstanding her. How could that be, though? All he had to go on was her words.
“Well, what were you talking about, then?” he asked, forcing himself to speak calmly.
“I don’t know! Something between chipping and chopping!”
He had to smile at that. He had to agree with that. “What, in your estimation, is the difference between fate and God?”
Her eyebrows shot up. Fair. That had been quite the question.
She was spared from having to answer it, to his regret, by the dowager, who said, “I think I should like to go inside now.”
Right. He was meant to be leaving, not initiating discussions about freewill and divine intervention. He stood. Bowed. “Give my regards to Archie, will you?”
Simon had visited this garden many times, but this was the first time he’d been here without Archie present. Lady Harcourt was a curious brand of chaperone. He and Miss Brown had not risked speaking openly about what had occurred between them—her clandestine visit to his house, her shocking proposal, his equally shocking behavior—with the dowager present. Yet they had been able to speak freely about some rather weighty topics.
And more important, they had been able to mend fences—he thought—in a way they most certainly would not have been able to with Archie present. Archie would have been made immediately suspicious.
“Of course we will convey your greetings, my lord,” Miss Brown said. “As I said, he will be sorry he missed you.”
Simon was feeling bold, buoyed by the afternoon of silly song and serious symposium, and by the knowledge that whatever threat Miss Brown had been facing was apparently gone, so he said, “I am not sorry to have missed him.” He could not resist adding, “I saw Harcourt mere days ago, whereas I haven’t seen you for a fortnight, Miss Brown.”
He almost winked. But then he remembered that he was not the sort of man who winked.
8
The Joy of Baking
September 9, 1823
Earls Trip, day 2
The morning of their first full day at Gurglewood—Archie really needed to come up with a better name—Simon got up before the others and ventured into the main house to pay a visit to the kitchen.
He found it a hive of activity, though all the bustling came to a halt once his presence was noted. He picked out the cook right away, a short ginger-haired woman with flour on her arms muttering at what appeared to be a pie crust.
“My lord.” The housekeeper, who was breakfasting with a maid at a table that stood between him and the cook, rose, flustered. “What is it you desire? You should have rung.” She brushed her hands on her dress. “We shall make haste with breakfast.”
