Blair felt his brows climb, but Livie clapped and bounced on her toes, apparently already won over to the idea.
“I want to go cut holly and ivy and mistletoe and evergreen boughs,” the girl declared. “We’ll decorate all of Glenrose. The whole manor will be filled with green and the scent of pine.”
Amelia’s smile widened. “That sounds delightful.” She spread her hands over the cooling sheets of gingerbread. “I think we are already in the midst of celebrating my tradition.”
“What tradition will ye select, Blair?” Livie asked, looking up at him expectantly.
It seemed the matter was already decided without his input. Though a coal-hearted voice inside him wanted to refuse, to grumble that all this fuss was silly and pointless, a surprising surge of warm interest drowned it out. For some nonsensical reason, he wanted Livie not to fear and revile him. Perhaps even like him.
And as for Amelia… This wee scheme would certainly force them to interact more than they had been this past fortnight.
Blair pursed his lips, contemplating Livie’s question. Several fond memories ricocheted through him as he pondered which to select. “I am not yet sure,” he answered truthfully.
“Since Amelia and I are already decided, ye can choose yers later,” Livie pronounced.
“Let our diversion begin, then,” Amelia said. “Now, this gingerbread isn’t going to decorate itself.”
Chapter Eleven
Judging from the unusually smooth surface of Blair’s brow and the softness of his mouth, their plan was working.
An hour later, the rudimentary gingerbread Glenrose was nearing completion. Amelia had cut the cooled sheets of dense cake while Livie had flitted about in a state of eager delight, gathering peppermint sticks, jellies, and powdered sugar for icing from the kitchen’s old-fashioned larder.
They’d set to construction at once, but Blair’s large hands had proven too powerful for the finesse required to erect the walls and set the roof. So while Livie performed the structural work, he’d been relegated to decoration duty.
Amelia fought a smile as he attempted to dislodge a sticky jellied candy from his fingers so that it could be placed atop one of the manor’s towers. He muttered a curse and surrendered, yanking the candy from his hand with his teeth.
Having completed the structure of the castle with ease, Livie had moved on to building several dainty crofts with the smaller bits of gingerbread left over.
“…And this is the Greers’ cottage,” she was saying, frowning in concentration as she used sugar icing like glue to anchor the roof in place. “Mr. and Mrs. Greer have an older son, Liam, who helps them with their plot. But he may soon wish to work his own land, for he has long been pudding-headed over the MacLochards’ eldest daughter, Peggy. Come spring, he will likely propose. Since they are neighbors, each family has discussed granting them a corner of their parcels, so they can make a start of life together. But back to the Greers. They have two younger sons and a daughter as well, and a bonny hound who whelped seven puppies last spring…”
It had been like that for the past hour, with Livie providing an almost constant stream of information about the manor, the land, and most of all the various people who called Glenrose home. In her not-so-subtle way, Livie was apparently attempting to cram a lifetime’s worth of knowledge about—and affection for—all the families who would be displaced under Blair’s clearance plan.
To his credit, Blair had listened and nodded along, and had even asked the occasional question when Livie’s rambling went farther astray than normal.
“Wasn’t the division and assignation of plots the late Earl’s purview?” he interjected.
Livie, who had been listing the names of all the hound’s puppies, paused.
“Officially, it was,” Amelia offered. “But Lord Glenrose usually allowed the crofters leeway as long as the families involved were satisfied with an arrangement—and it did no harm to the estate, of course.”
Blair contemplated that for a moment. Amelia held her breath, hoping talk of land management hadn’t derailed the cozy, comfortable atmosphere that had unfurled around them this past hour.
Thankfully, Blair nodded, his lips pursed in thought, and returned his attention to the gingerbread manor. But just as Amelia breathed a sigh of relief, he caught her off-guard with a question.
“What’s all this about Drayton being the home of gingerbread?” He cast her a glance, his normally glacial eyes dancing with good humor. “That is quite the claim, Miss Harlow. I hope ye can defend it.”
“Of course I can,” she shot back, straightening her spine in mock offense. “Along with every schoolchild in Drayton. I wouldn’t be a true Draytonian if I couldn’t.”
His decorating responsibilities forgotten, Blair propped his elbows on the massive wooden cook’s table between them and pinned her with his gaze, waiting.
“As with most wonderful things, the recipe for gingerbread was a carefully guarded secret for many generations,” she began, canting her voice as if she were telling a grand fairytale. “No one knows exactly when it all began. They say an Englishman brought tales of the cake back from the Crusades. Of course, it was made on the continent before it reached England. For some reason, a sleepy Shropshire village managed to secure the recipe several centuries ago.”
Livie set aside the bit of cake and icing she’d been working on to listen as well.
“Perhaps it began with a Drayton merchant who found a way to bring spices far from their homeland. Or a baker who’d been swept away by the delightfully sharp bite of ginger. Whatever the case, someone made gingerbread in Drayton. The recipe was never written down, but passed from
