When the guests finally arrived, Alys contrived to look out the window, curious about the family that had produced a paragon like Jeremy Lockwood. His father, who had to be in his sixties, was tall and erect, his thick gray hair the only concession to age. His brother—she had no idea which one this was—was a paler version of Jeremy, only his hair was a shade lighter and his physique less impressive, and he was shorter and thicker around the middle. His wife was gorgeously attired and quite a beauty, but she was no longer in the first flush of youth. Alys thought she had to be close to thirty, so perhaps this was the oldest brother, the heir to the viscount’s estate.
Happily confined to the kitchen, Alys went about her tasks with great concentration, trying not to listen to the gossip that filtered down every time one of the servants came in to bring empty platters or to ask for more wine to refill the flagons.
“Lady Marjorie is with child,” Millie announced when she came down for the next course. “His lordship just announced the news to his family.”
“Praise be,” Mistress Helmsley said. “May they be blessed with many more.”
“It’s early days yet,” Millie said. “Anything can happen.”
“Bite yer tongue, girl,” Mistress Helmsley hissed. “And pray for a living child and the continued good health of its mother.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Millie replied contritely.
“And what of you, Alys? Are you pleased for the master?” Mistress Helmsley asked, giving Alys the gimlet eye.
Alys felt a moment of panic, but quickly realized the cook couldn’t possibly know anything about her transgression. “Of course. It’s joyous news.”
“Indeed it is. Been a long time since there’s been a child at Ashcombe. Not since Master Thomas.”
“Who’s Master Thomas?” Millie asked as the cook set the dishes on the tray.
“Oh, he was Lady Marjorie’s younger brother. He would have inherited had he not died of a brain fever when he was hardly more than a boy.”
Millie accepted the laden tray and left the kitchen, bound for the dining room.
“Start on these dishes,” Mistress Helmsley said.
Alys poured some hot water from the iron kettle into a basin and began to scour the dishes, her mind on the coming babe. What would a child of Jeremy and Lady Marjorie be like? They were so different, in both looks and temperament. Would Lady Marjorie’s traits prevail, or would the child take after its father?
Some part of Alys was glad Lady Marjorie had banished Jeremy from the bedchamber. The thought of them together, even if it wasn’t a joyful union, cut her to the quick, and she scoffed at herself, earning a raised eyebrow from the cook. What right did she have to feel jealous? Jeremy Lockwood didn’t belong to her. He’d stolen a kiss. Or maybe she’d stolen one from him. She wasn’t even sure who’d initiated it. She’d behaved like a harlot, and now she’d have to live with that for as long as she remained in this house.
Alys washed one plate after another in the quickly cooling water. Perhaps Will was right and it was time for her to look to her own future. There were a number of widowers in the village now, having lost their wives to smallpox. They couldn’t afford to mourn for too long when their children needed the care of a mother. Perhaps she should ask Will to find her a husband, but the thought of being bound to any of those men for life made Alys feel sick to her stomach. The thought of them so much as taking her hand, much less taking liberties with her body, was repugnant. Was that how Lady Marjorie felt about Jeremy? Did she find him repellent? How could any woman find his attentions unwelcome? He was so handsome, and so gentle. If I were married to a man like him, I’d be the happiest woman in Christendom, Alys decided, an involuntary smile playing about her lips.
“Stop mooning about and finish those dishes.” Mistress Helmsley was scowling at her.
She had already prepared a platter of jumbals and almond cakes, and a dish of stewed quinces. The kitchen was filled with a sweet, yeasty smell, and Alys wished she could partake of the almond cake. Perhaps there’d be some left over, but so far, not too much food had come back to the kitchen. Seemed the guests were blessed with hearty appetites.
“Here, have one,” Mistress Helmsley said, handing Alys a sightly burned cake. “Can’t serve that one.”
“Thank ye,” Alys said, and bit into the cake. It was a little bitter where the bottom was charred, but otherwise delicious.
“Ye’re a good worker, Alys. Not like that harebrained Millie. All she’s good for is bringing dishes to the table and scrubbing the floors.”
Alys nodded, unsure what to say. She hadn’t given much thought to the distant future but suddenly imagined working in this kitchen for decades, like Mistress Helmsley, who’d started out at the manor when she was just a girl and was now in her fifties. The prospect of such an uneventful life jolted Alys out of her complacency. This was not what she wanted for herself, but what options were open to her in a place like this?
Chapter 43
“Have a drink with me,” Walter said once his wife Mary and the viscount had retired for the night. “And let’s have it somewhere where we can speak privately.”
Jeremy nodded. “Let’s adjourn to the library. I can offer you some very fine brandy.”
“Excellent.”
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, Jem,” Walter said once they were supplied with drinks and comfortably seated. The use of Jeremy’s childhood nickname made Jeremy feel like he was six years old again.
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me.” Walter’s eyes were warm with sympathy. They’d always been close, so Jeremy didn’t
