“The orphan house,” whispered Sophia, her gloved hand rising to her mouth. “What a paltry bit of coal on a cold day such as this.”
She turned with brisk efficiency toward the grocer. “Mr. Gilmichael, could you please pull your account ledger? The duke and I would be interested in satisfying the outstanding debt for the orphan house and creating a satisfactory line of credit so that they can obtain the coal and food they require at times such as this.”
“We would?” said Claxton.
She threw him a sharp glare. “Yes, we would.”
Mr. Gilmichael presented the ledger for their review, and Claxton negotiated with Sophia a suitable settlement toward the cause. They also quadrupled the ladies’ purchase of coal for that day and purchased several bags of apples and oranges to add to their delivery so the children would have a special treat.
“Now, your Graces, what can I help you with as far as purchases?”
Sophia glanced into the recipe book. “Let’s start with citron.”
The grocer turned from her and selected a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and string, which he placed on the counter between them.
“My only package.” He smiled. “Not much demand for citron in Lacenfleet with the ingredient being so expensive.”
A short time later, when their purchases had been loaded onto the sledge and the grocer returned inside, leaving them alone, Claxton assisted Sophia into the seat. “For barely being my wife, you’re quite free with spending my money.”
“You’ve an estate here, which makes Lacenfleet your village, Claxton. It’s only right that you take an interest in its people. I’m certain the duchess did when she was alive. Not only that, but it is Christmas. If we don’t see to the orphans having what they need, who do you think will?”
Sophia was correct, of course. His mother would have done just the same. He could not help but admire her for her generosity. Such charity hadn’t occurred to him, not here in Lacenfleet or in the villages near any of his other estates. Which made him a selfish, arrogant ass, didn’t it?
“Mrs. Stone, the innkeeper, told me the people here have seen very difficult times over the last several years.” She spoke with quiet passion. “You have in your possession the power to change that.”
“Ah, but what you suggest now goes beyond simple charity,” he answered. “Once the river thaws, I’ve no plan but to shutter the house again. It’s not as if you and I would ever live here for any real length of time. I will, however, speak to Mr. Kettle over how to make better use of the land for the benefit of the village.”
Just as Claxton took his place on the blades, the grocer emerged from the doorway in a flustered rush. “Oh, your Grace, I’m so glad to have caught you before you departed. I’ve more gifts for the orphans.” He held two large paper sacks. “Peppermints. From the Countess of Meltenbourne inside. She asks that you deliver them with all the rest.”
Claxton observed a warm blush brighten Sophia’s cheeks, one he could only interpret as pleasure. She took the bags and settled them onto her lap.
“Please tell her thank you,” said Sophia as Claxton snapped the reins.
After a brief trip, they delivered the coal, fruit, and peppermints to the orphan home and remained for the next hour as honored guests, drinking tea and visiting with the children. The two widow caretakers could only press their faces into handkerchiefs when informed of the duke and duchess’s generous financial bestowal. Only then did Vane return with Sophia to Camellia House as a fresh layer of snowflakes fell.
Their morning had passed in pleasant companionship, the ugliness of the days before, while not forgotten, at least dimmed. Still, Sophia’s words of that morning sounded over and over again in his mind, that perhaps a separation remained the best decision for their marriage. But for his part, he could only see how well they got along together, just as they had before tragedy had pulled them apart. He had enjoyed their morning and could not be more pleased at how she and the Kettles had taken to one another. And their good deed for the orphans. He’d never been so moved by the simple act of giving a gift. And yet the gift would have gone ungiven, if not for Sophia.
In the kitchen he laid the fire while Sophia opened packages.
“Remember, the shopkeeper recommended that we dry the flour well.” Sophia placed two pans, in which she’d spread the powdery stuff thin, on a small table near the stove. “This will be your flour, and this will be mine.”
Vane, at Sophia’s direction, searched the cabinet for baking tins. “How very good of him to realize neither of us are experienced bakers.”
“Don’t try to throw me off, you sneaky devil,” Sophia teased.
He glanced over his shoulder, his attention immediately snagged by the velvety tone of her voice. “Sneaky devil?”
“I haven’t forgotten your words of warning this morning.” She turned toward him, her hair gleaming darkly in the lamplight. Her eyes narrowed, but playfully. “You aren’t to be trusted when playing this game. You likely have some knowledge of cookery from helping your mother and Mrs. Kettle.”
She wiped her hands on a linen towel.
He shrugged and shook his head. “That was ages ago.”
“Whatever you say.” She pointed at him and squinted. “I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Likewise, Duchess,” he drawled, his gaze slowly traveling down the length of her luscious body. “Though perhaps for entirely different reasons.”
“Claxton, now none of that,” she chastened, throwing the towel at him.
“You say that as if I can help it.”
Next, she placed two bowls of similar size beside each other on the large table at the center of the room. Standing face-to-face, they broke sixteen eggs into each. When that was done, Vane removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat and rolled his sleeves high. Turning back, he caught Sophia studying him and was struck by an ache so strong the force of it stole his breath. Did he inspire admiration or dislike in her? He wished he knew what she’d done with that deuced list of names he had written out. If he knew, he would find it and burn it; then they could go on as if it had never existed.
“If you don’t mind waiting, I’m going to change,” she announced. “The dress I wore yesterday is much more serviceable than this one.”
“Go on. I’ll wait.” He could not help but add, “Unless you require assistance?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, disappearing through the door.
A smile turned his lips. Despite the fragile state of their marriage, he liked being here in the kitchen with her. Many of his most vibrant memories of his mother had taken place here. On cold winter nights, she had read books to him and his brother beside the stove. They’d played games such as hoodman-blind or Shoe the Wild Mare until their eyelids drooped, the loser always insisting on one more round. No one wanted to be the last to lose before being sent off to bed. He and Haden as boys had always taken games and winning seriously.
As for the game of lookabout, they’d refined that particular competition to a higher level. Sometimes the contest became downright ruthless but all in good fun.
Should he play in a similar manner against Sophia? No.
Claxton smiled. Or perhaps…yes. He was, indeed, a sneaky devil.
Ah, the dark arts of kitchen sabotage. He chuckled, pulling one tray of flour away from the fire’s heat, so it would not dry as thoroughly as the other. Damp flour would ensure a most disappointingly dense cake.
Now that he’d decided to take such a tack, he did not think it prudent at this juncture to tell Sophia just how much experience he had in the kitchen. After marrying, they’d enjoyed the benefit of a talented cook and kitchen staff, and somehow the subject had just never come up.
His father had granted the duchess only two servants, Mr. and Mrs. Kettle, so oftentimes meal preparation required more hands, and countless times as a boy, and especially around holidays like Christmas, he’d been drafted into service by Mrs. Kettle and his mother to turn the beef roast on the spit or to pound almonds for a cake. He’d observed and learned much.
Later in the military, he’d employed those lessons often while he traveled and lodged in rustic circumstances without benefit of staff or servants. Often he’d found himself with the barest of ingredients, with only his creativity to produce palatable results. Quite simply, he liked to eat, and eat well, and if there was no one to prepare a meal for him, he would prepare a reasonably fine one of his own.
