‘Do you know anyone in Exeter?’
‘Yes, an old school friend. He is in practice in the town. He said he could put some bits and pieces my way.’
Lizzie looked at his tired, sensitive face. ‘I am sure you will have better luck in Exeter. And do call on us after we are married.’
‘Never!’ said Mr Fletcher passionately, and then turned red and twisted the dishcloth in his hands.
Lizzie turned back to the sink and began to attack the plates as if they were personal enemies while Mr Fletcher looked miserably at her slim back.
‘I should not have said that. Please forgive me.’ Mr Fletcher waited anxiously.
Lizzie slowly turned around. ‘Very well, you are forgiven.’
‘What think you of our Miss Pym?’ asked Mr Fletcher, all eagerness to avoid painful subjects.
‘She makes me want to laugh,’ said Lizzie with a smile, ‘and that is unusual these days. She has those funny eyes and that odd way of looking down her nose. I think she must have been used at one time to managing a large household. She is monstrous efficient.’
They fell to discussing the other members of the party, with the notable exception of Captain Seaton. Out in the kitchen, Hannah was aware the couple were taking a very long time to wash the dishes and was pleased.
She herself was busy hoisting a leg of mutton on to the clockwork spit. She was glad the spit was operated by clockwork. She had a sentimental streak about animals and was always sorry for the dogs when she saw them in their cages turning spits. She saw Emily edging toward the kitchen door, and determined that she must not leave. A little housewifery was the way to a man’s heart.
‘I would now like you to make some tartlets for dinner, Miss Freemantle,’ said Hannah.
‘I do not know how to,’ said Emily loftily. ‘I am used to servants doing all menial work for me.’
‘As I am,’ said Hannah pleasantly, ‘but you must admit the circumstances are extraordinary. There is a recipe here’ – she held out a sheet of paper – ‘for jam tartlets. Very simple. You just follow the instructions and measure out the ingredients. Come. I will show you what to do.’
Emily sighed loudly but returned to the kitchen table. Under Hannah’s instructions, she mixed the ingredients for the pastry and made little cases in a baking pan, filled the cases with strawberry jam, and put little crosses of pastry across the top of each.
The storm howled outside. The kitchen fire blazed merrily. The air was full of the smells of cooking. For the first time in her life, Emily felt a sense of achievement as Hannah opened the oven and put those precious tartlets inside.
‘And now?’ asked Emily.
Hannah smiled. ‘And now I think you may repair to the coffee room and have a rest.’
Perversely, Emily was reluctant to leave. The conversation in the scullery had ceased. Lizzie Bisley was singing ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’ in a tuneless soprano, and then Mr Fletcher joined in in a light tenor.
‘Tartlets on their own are not very much for dessert,’ Emily said. ‘Can I try something else?’
‘There is fruit-cake,’ said Hannah. ‘Gentlemen love rich fruit-cake, but I fear that might be beyond your powers.’
‘But you could show me?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘May we try?’
How very pretty she was, thought Hannah, when whe was like this, all flushed and happy and unselfconscious.
Together they looked out dried fruit and flour and butter and eggs, cream of tartar and baking soda. Hannah took turns at beating the cake because Emily laughed and said her wrists were aching. How excited Emily was when the rich mixture was finally loaded into a round tin. She had forgotten about Lord Harley, about the storm. There was no way she was going to leave that kitchen until the results of her labours came out of the oven.
Hannah set her to grinding coffee beans to make coffee. Mrs Bisley and Mr Fletcher came into the kitchen and said they were going to tidy up the bedchambers and Hannah smiled on them in a maternal way. Lord Harley entered the kitchen with Mr Hendry and Mr Burridge but Hannah shooed them out, saying the ladies were too busy working, and Lord Harley looked at Emily with a flicker of amazement in his black eyes.
Lizzie and Mr Fletcher had to go through the coffee room to get upstairs to the bedchambers. In front of the coffee-room fire sat Captain Seaton, a glass of brandy in front of him.
‘Oh, there you are,’ he cried when he saw Lizzie, but his face darkened as he saw the little lawyer behind her.
‘We cannot stay,’ said Lizzie hurriedly. ‘We must do the bedchambers.’
‘Do the …? You sit down here, Mrs Bisley. It is time we had a talk. Let that poor fellow there act as chambermaid if he wishes.’
‘Take that back,’ shouted Mr Fletcher, fists swinging. Lizzie sprang between them. ‘Please go … for me,’ she pleaded with the lawyer. ‘I shall join you shortly.’ Mr Fletcher reluctantly withdrew.
‘Sit down, my sweet,’ cajoled the captain. ‘We have hardly had time to talk.’
‘There is work to do,’ said Lizzie. How gross and common the captain seemed. How could she ever have leaned on him for support? She had met him a month before by chance at the home of a friend. He had been low- voiced and courteous then in a sort of bluff way. He had seemed a tower of strength. The fact was that, much as Lizzie was convinced she had adored the late Mr Bisley, the man had been a household bully, not allowing her an idea of her own or any independence whatsoever. His death had left her alone and helpless, not really knowing who she was. The captain had seemed so masculine, so confident, so prepared to take all arrangements for living out of her hands.
‘Let the others do it,’ the captain was saying. ‘This bent-nosed spinster is common enough. She don’t mind. But a lady like you …’
‘Lord Harley does not mind dirtying his hands,’ said Lizzie, her voice trembling, for she had not been in the way of speaking up for herself or indeed of contradicting anyone whatsoever.
‘That’s different,’ blustered the captain. ‘He’s amusing hisself at the moment. Another day and he’ll have you waiting on him hand and foot. I command you to sit down here with me.’
Lizzie slowly moved forward and then stopped still.
‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘we must all help. You have no right, sir, to command me to do anything.’
‘I am your fiance, madam, I’ll have you know.’
‘We were never officially engaged,’ said Lizzie sadly. How had it all come about? He had suggested this journey to Exeter. He had said he had friends and family there. But he had made her promise not to tell her friends. Why? And why had she done such a stupid thing? ‘Because he ordered you,’ said a voice in her head, ‘and all your life you have obeyed orders without question.’
‘We will talk later,’ said Lizzie, her voice slightly squeaky with fright, ‘but I am leaving you now.’ And she darted from the room.
She ran lightly upstairs and found Mr Fletcher in one of the bedrooms, raking out the fire.
She hesitated in the doorway. He stood up and smiled at her with simple affection. She dreaded his asking her questions but braced herself for them.
Instead, he said mildly, ‘We will make up the fires this once, I think, and then announce at dinner that each must see to their own fires while the storm lasts. But there is no need for both of us to dirty our hands. Perhaps if you start to make the beds …?’
Lizzie agreed eagerly and was disappointed when the bulk of Mrs Bradley loomed in the doorway offering to help.
With the exception of Captain Seaton, who had done nothing, they all sat down to dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon feeling like brave adventurers. The men and Lord Harley had chopped wood and dug paths in the snow to the stable and to the front of the inn. All were tired from their exertions. Emily nursed burnt fingers. She had been so anxious to take that cake out of the oven herself that she had burnt her fingers on the knob of the oven door.
It was a simple dinner with no extra side dishes. There was soup to begin with, roast mutton, vegetables and potatoes as a main course, and Emily’s tartlets and the cake splendidly iced to make do for dessert.
The men praised Emily the most and Emily took it all as her due, forgetting Hannah had done most of the
