After a long morning of work with John, Luke entered the drawing room. Clara had her needlepoint up by her face, squinting at it with a cynical eye. “Clara,” Luke called in greeting, “you look like you could use a break.”
Lady Merritt, who sat on the opposing sofa with a book, nodded her head enthusiastically. “She needs to eat, Luke. See if you can convince her.”
“You haven’t eaten?” Luke asked in concern, but Clara still had the fabric pressed against her nose, ignoring the conversation happening around her. He walked over to her chair, crouching down beside her. “Clara?” His voice was playfully chastening.
“Just one more stitch …” she absent-mindedly mumbled, running a finger across the image.
He let her do five more stitches before gently clutching hold of her elbow. “Food,” he whispered, carefully pulling the needle from her hand.
Finally her gaze broke away from her project, and she looked genuinely surprised to see him. “Luke?” she asked. “When did you get here?” Both the baron and her mother laughed. “Mama?” she questioned, “I thought you were going to take a nap.”
“I did!” Mother responded. “A long one!”
“What time is it?” Clara wondered, looking out the room’s large windows.
“Time for you to eat,” Luke answered, helping her rise from the cushioned chair. They easily could have rung for food, but instead, he led her down to the kitchens. It was between meal hours, so there weren’t many servants working.
“What can I prepa’e fer ye, my lord?” a young maid with red curly hair and a plethora of freckles asked.
“Actually,” the baron replied, “I would like to cook for Lady Clara. Will you show me where the spices are kept?”
“You are going to cook?” Clara asked in disbelief. “Do you even know how?” The maid also gave him a wary look as if she expected him to light the house on fire.
“I did a lot of cooking in Spain,” he assured both of them, pulling a pan from off the wall. Still, the maid did not look pleased as she showed the baron around the kitchen. Luke brought rice, onions, and various spices over to the table. The servant left so she did not have to witness whatever destruction was about to take place, and Luke pulled out a knife and chopping board. “Shall I teach you?” he asked his companion.
“I think I will watch this time,” Clara answered back. “I am still having a hard time believing you know what you are doing.”
“It was different in Spain,” Luke told her as he began slicing the onion. “There were no servants at my mother’s house. We cooked our own meals. John even learned how to make simple dishes; but I must say, I am far better at it than he is.”
Clara laughed in a bright and cheerful way. “I bet John is the only earl in all of England who knows how to prepare his own supper.” She eyed the ingredients on the wooden countertop. “So, what are you making?”
“Spicy rice. We had it about once a week in-” Luke stopped. “Clara, are you feeling well?”
The woman sat at the servants’ table with tears streaming down the sides of her face. Luke quickly splashed his hands in the washbin and rushed over to her, taking a seat beside her on the wooden bench. “I thought I was well,” Clara whispered as she sniffled. “I do not think I am sad. I am just crying.”
“Oh.” Luke slipped his arm around her shoulder, unsure of how best to help her.
“You think I would be used to crying by now,” she whispered, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief Luke offered. “I cannot tell you how many times I have done it since Papa died.”
He rubbed her back lightly with a comforting hand. “I thought you were feeling better.” He had not seen Clara cry in weeks. He believed she was finally healing.
“I am,” she answered, the tears still streaming down both cheeks. “I haven’t cried in quite some time. I do not know what has come over me.” She leaned her head against him as she continued to dab her eyes.
Luke’s eyes began watering, too. “I have done a lot of crying as well,” he admitted. “It has been hard.”
“And you didn’t even say goodbye!” Clara was truly sobbing now, her face all red and splotchy and her eyes overly puffy.
“But you had to see him suffer,” Luke cried right back. They cuddled on the uncomfortable kitchen bench for a quarter of an hour, crying into each other’s shoulders as they expressed their love for Clara’s father, and the difficulty they had had since his passing.
It was a very vulnerable conversation, and the tears continued to stream when the maid interrupted. “Tis ye onions, my lord.” She sounded annoyed. Apparently she had witnessed their sobbing session.
The couple immediately jumped apart. “Somet’ing ‘bout cuttin’ onions makes people cry,” the girl explained. “T’will end once ye get t’em on the fire.”
Luke looked from the maid to Clara, and as their puffy, tear-lined eyes met, he felt an understanding pass between them. No words needed to be said, they were able to have an entire conversation with just a glance. They had connected during their onion-induced emotional outpouring, leaving them closer than they had ever been.
Luke continued to look into her beautiful face, surprised at the tenderness he saw coming back to him. Clara was looking at him in a different way. More affectionate than friendly. But perhaps it only appeared that way because of her watery eyes. He did not take the time to decide as he threw the pesky vegetable into the hot pan.
Luke removed his black jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves as he stood at the kitchen’s hot stove. He explained to her the cooking method as he completed each step, but Clara was having a hard time focusing. Had Luke always been so …? She couldn’t settle on the word, but she found it difficult to keep her eyes from his flexing arm muscles as he stirred the food in the large cast-iron pan.
