Marjorie Farrell (16 page)

“Why, you will, of course.”

“I am not a cook,” protested Arden haughtily.

“That is obvious.”

“I suppose your sister Kate cooks as well as she does accounts. And Lynnette.”

“No, never Lynette,” said Gareth with a smile. “We can’t trust her with anything practical. She is too nearsighted, for one thing, and too forgetful for another. But my mother and Kate cook when necessary. And so will you. I will see you at dinner.” Gareth pushed back his chair and left Arden sitting there looking at the long red line that marked her palm. It was painful, and he didn’t even care. All he cared about was his work, his stomach, and his paragon of a mother and sister. And dear God, what would she do for dinner?

Gareth had not closed the dining room door fully, and as Arden sat there, she heard a creak, and looking up, saw Motley approach the table expectantly. In one fluid motion, he was up on Gareth’s chair, peering into the bowl of half-eaten porridge. He looked up at Arden, down at the porridge and turning his back on both, jumped down and walked toward the kitchen.

Even the cat won’t touch it, Arden thought, wanting to both cry and laugh. She got up and followed Mott into the kitchen. If she were to avoid another fiasco, she had better start working on dinner now.

Janie had set out the sponge for the day’s bread the evening before, and the bowl was on the counter next to the stove. Arden peeked under the towel. It certainly looked and smelled like something was working. She should only have to add enough flour and knead it, and she could do that later, she decided.

The pantry held a good store of new potatoes and carrots, and the cooler contained some lamb cut up into chunks. Perhaps a stew would be an easy thing for her first effort. She could pull a few onions from the kitchen garden. Janie usually did a pudding or cake for dessert, but after the porridge disaster, Arden didn’t even want to attempt it. And anyway, there were no eggs, and surely you need eggs for a custard?

She pulled on the big white apron that Janie used and set to work. Mott sat in the middle of the table, watching her critically. When she went outside to the garden, she tried to shoo him out, but he just looked at her out of his big golden eyes, as if to say, “I only take orders from those I respect, thank you.”

The onions were small, and green on the end, but she decided that that would only add to their flavor. Janie had planted some herbs at the corner of the house and Arden pinched a few plants, releasing a variety of strong fragrances. Mint? No, not in a stew. Thyme? But which of these plants was thyme? If only she had listened more carefully when Aunt Ellen had instructed them in the properties of herbs. There was a large plant of a bluish-green color with yellow flowers. Arden didn’t think it was thyme, but perhaps it was marjoram? At any rate, it had a pungent odor, and surely that would add flavor to the stew, so she broke off several stems and carried everything back into the kitchen.

She washed off all the vegetables, pulled the herb leaves off the stems in a nice neat pile and then found Janie’s vegetable knife. Unfortunately her burned palm was still painful, and every time she attempted to hold the knife in that hand, she had to drop it. She would have to slice with her left hand instead, and press down carefully with her right. That worked sometimes, but it was slow going, and so awkward that the potatoes kept slipping out from underneath the knife and landing on the floor. And all the while, Mott sat there watching, as though he were thinking, My dear, you certainly are a useless one, aren’t you?

After a potato slipped for the sixth or seventh time, Arden was beginning to mutter soft curses under her breath. And when the knife slipped off the side of a potato and sliced her finger, the finger of her burned hand, she yelled out in pain and frustration: “God damn Captain Gareth Bloody Richmond to hell and back.”

She jumped as a gruff voice spoke from the kitchen door.

“Tha sounds reet troubled, missus.”

It was Gabriel Crabtree, dirty and smelly, standing at her door. What more did she need this morning to make it worse?

“What can I do for you, Mr. Crabtree?” she asked, in what she hoped was an even if not a welcoming tone.

“Janie is not here, then?” he asked, peering in.

“No. Janie has wrenched her foot and I am cooking today, as you can see.” Arden was still attempting to keep her tone free of any emotion. It was bad enough that the old devil had heard her cursing Gareth.

“Aye, and it looks like tha has cut tha finger and burned tha hand.” There was no sympathy in Gabriel’s voice. He was only making a matter-of-fact observation. “Tha had better put it under the pump, lass.”

Arden’s finger was dripping all over the apron and was beginning to throb as well, now that the initial numbness had worn off. She tried to pump water, but the handle was on her right side, and she was ready to cry with frustration when Gabriel opened the door, pushed her unceremoniously to one side and began to pump. The cold water stopped the bleeding and relieved the pain from both the cut and the burn. Just as she was beginning to appreciate that relief, Arden noticed that the tops of both her hands were beginning to itch.

“Oh, aye,” said Gabriel, as he saw the rash on the back of her hands become more noticeable as her fingers blanched under the cold water. “Tha has done something else to thaself.” He pulled a surprisingly clean handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around her finger. Surveying the table, his eyes lighted upon the herbs. “Oh, tha will ‘rue’ this day, lass,” he crooned with amused delight. “Does tha not know what this is, then?”

“No obviously not,” replied Arden, torn between gratitude and annoyance. “I thought it might be marjoram, and was going to use it to flavor my stew.”

“Marjoram to flavor the stew, eh,” he repeated, giving a rusty, raspy laugh. “ ‘Tis rue, missus, and would be strong flavoring indeed, inside as well as out. ‘Tis used to keep away t’moths.”

Arden sank down into the kitchen chair. She would
not
cry in front of this old man. She would not let him see her humiliation. She found herself looking into Mott’s quizzical topaz eyes.

“Mr. Crabtree, would you do me the greatest favor?” she said, in tones she might have used requesting a glass of champagne at a ball. “Would you please take this hell-born creature outside?”

Crabtree scooped the cat up, opened the kitchen door and dropped Mott outside. Arden heard a short bark and a long hiss. Gabriel turned to reassure her that his dog would not hurt the cat.

“I would be more worried about your dog, Mr. Crabtree. That cat is incorrigible.”

“Aye, t’missus reel spoiled him.”

“What can I do for you? I am afraid that Gareth is up in the north pasture this morning.”

“I came for some milk, missus. For the lamb.”

“Oh, aye,” said Arden, falling into the rhythm of Gabriel’s speech without even thinking. “There is some in the cooler. You may take what you need.”

“Well, lass, and what will tha do?”

“Why, hurl all those vegetables whole into the pot with great bloody chunks of lamb and put it all on to boil.”

Gabriel took off his old black coat, revealing layers of gray linen shirt and brown wool jumper, and placed it over the chair. He pushed up his sleeves and saying nothing, set to work, cutting the potatoes and onions and carrots into neat chunks. Arden shuddered inwardly to think of his dirty hands preparing their dinner, but she did not have the nerve to suggest he wash them.

“What else does tha have to do?” he asked after the vegetables and meat went into the pot.

“We will have to do without a pudding, since there are no eggs, but the bread should be easy enough. It looks like it needs just a little more flour.”

Gabriel eyed her skeptically. “Is there any salt in t’sponge?”

“I, ah, don’t know,” replied Arden.

“Hmm.” He stuck his finger in and tasted. “No, I didn’t think so. T’salt usually goes last. Does tha use sweetening in tha bread?”

“I really don’t know. I’ve never made it, and haven’t watched it being made since I was a little girl.”

“Well, tha must watch now, so tha will know.”

And Arden watched, as Gabriel mixed in the flour and salt, some milk and treacle and then kneaded the whole sticky mess with his large hands.

The heat of the oven will bake off the dirt, Arden reassured herself.

He shaped the dough into rounds and placed the towel back on top.

“Now then, lass, when these come up twice their size, tha puts them in t’oven for an hour. T’stew will need thickening later on, but tha can manage that. Now let me get my milk and get home.”

Arden gestured toward the pantry and Gabriel filled his bottle, pulled on his coat and without a word, walked out the kitchen door, and whistling up his dog, was on his way up the fell before she had a chance to thank him.

He was so abrupt and so neutral in tone that she had no warm feelings of gratitude. He had helped her, yes, but left her feeling even more useless and ignorant about everyday things. She appreciated his help, but rather thought she disliked him even more than she had the first day. But they would have their dinner after all, thank God.

When Gareth arrived home, he found the table set and could smell freshly baked bread. Clearly his wife had succeeded in producing a better dinner than breakfast. He sat down at the table and a few minutes later, when Arden had not emerged from the kitchen, he decided he’d better have a look.

He found Arden struggling with the bread. Half of it lay in odd-sized chunks on the table. The bread was still warm, and crusty on the outside and soft on the inside. The knife she was using to slice, while good for chopping vegetables, was too heavy for slicing bread. And Arden’s hands were a mess. From the blood-spattered apron and the old kerchief around her ringer, he could tell that she had had another kitchen accident. The burn was clearly still painful, for she was trying to slice with her left hand. Both hands seemed red and swollen, but Gareth could not guess how that had happened.

Arden’s coronet had become unfastened, so she had two long braids hanging down her back. She looks like a scullery maid, thought Gareth, torn between a real sympathy and amusement.

As Arden hacked at the bread, she cursed softly and fluently. She had intended to have the bread and stew on the table just as Gareth arrived. Instead, here she was, unable to cut one decent slice from the stupid loaf. When she looked up and saw Gareth watching her with a glint in his eye, she could quite happily have cut off his head, had there been any way of getting him to place his neck on the table. Her right hand was sore, both hands were itchy and achy and the stew was now getting cold.

“The bread smells wonderful,” said Gareth. “And I see you have made one of my favorites, a lamb stew.” He went over to the cupboard and pulled out a thinner knife. “This one works best for bread; here, let me slice, while you wash up and put the stew on the table.”

Arden watched as even slices fell from Gareth’s knife. She grabbed the bowls of stew, set them down on the table and then returned to the kitchen to wash her hands and take off her apron. When she sat down at last, she felt that she would never get up again.

“Tea?” asked Gareth, intending to pour. When he lifted the pot, however, it was only to find that it just contained the dry leaves. Arden was too tired to do anything but stammer, “Oh, I forgot to fill it because of the bread.” Gareth got up and pulled the kettle off the stove. Most of the water had boiled away, but there was enough for each of them to have a cup.

When he came back in, Arden was eating ravenously. The bread
was
delicious and the stew, although a little lumpy where she had tried to thicken it, was quite tasty. Gareth complimented her on both. She was tempted to take the credit; indeed she just nodded her head in recognition of Gareth’s appreciation. But much as she still felt distaste at the thought of Gabriel’s dirty, smelly presence, she had to be fair and give credit where credit was due.

“I did not do all this alone,” she stated.

“Oh, did Lucy help you?”

“No. Not Lucy. Mr. Crabtree.”

“Gabriel? Whatever was he doing here?”

“He came down for some milk for the lamb and found me trying to slice vegetables with my sore hand. I ended by slicing myself, so he just pushed me aside and took over.”

Gareth tried, but he could not conjure up a picture of the rank old shepherd working away in the same kitchen as Arden. In fact, he could hardly believe that she had spent her morning cooking.

“I am glad you got to know him better,” said Gareth. “He has been an invaluable presence on the farm.”

“I can’t say that I got to know him or like him any better, but I am grateful for his help, for it got dinner on the table.”

Gareth had hoped for a warmer response, but decided again that he had tied himself to a cold woman. And yet, Arden seemed more vulnerable. As how could she not, with her hands a wreck and her hair in two braids down her back, like a ten-year-old.

They finished the rest of the meal in silence, and Gareth cleared the table and put some water on to boil to fill the sink.

“Lucy can wash the dishes,” he said when he came back. “Your hands could not take it. Whatever caused that rash?”

“Rue.”

“Rue?”

“Yes, rue. I picked some to flavor the stew, not knowing that it is not an herb used in cooking. And not knowing that some people, like myself, are sensitive to it.”

“Well, you would indeed have ‘rued’ the day had you put it in the stew,” said Gareth with a wicked grin. Like Gabriel, he couldn’t resist the pun.

Arden was so tired that he could not even get a rise out of her.

“I see you find it all most amusing,” she said quietly. “Well, I suppose it is.” She got up and bade Gareth a good day, adding, “If you would send Jake into town for some eggs, I will attempt a bread pudding later. Those chunks are too good to waste. Right now, I am going out for a breath of fresh air.”

Gareth stood and watched her out the door. One thing you had to say for her, he thought, she was a strong woman. He admired her for that. But what he loved her for, that moment’s look in her eyes, when he had thought he’d caught a glimpse of the real Arden, had been, he feared, merely a trick of the light.