“Welcome to Scotland, Mr. Dandridge. There is never a dull moment here,” Miss Sidney responded.
“I am beginning to see that.” He reached for his glass and said, “I must admit that I am impressed by your bookkeeping skills.”
Miss Sidney leaned to the side as a footman collected her plate. “My father taught me how to balance a ledger and I suppose it stuck,” she revealed.
Alden placed his glass down. “That was rather progressive of your father.”
“My father encouraged my intellectual prowess,” MissSidney said, a hint of pride in her voice. “He never once made me feel less than for not being born a man.”
“Nor should he have,” Alden said, his tone firm.
Miss Sidney offered him a weak smile. “My father had no sons, and it took many years before my parents had me.”
Alden pushed his plate away. “My mother did her duty. She bore an heir and a spare for my father,” he said, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Sidney said.
“You said nothing wrong, Miss Sidney,” he rushed to assure her. “My family is complicated and is not something that is pleasant to talk about.”
Miss Sidney bobbed her head. “I understand. I try to avoid speaking of my uncle at all costs. He is not a man that I admire or wish to emulate in any way.”
A footman collected his plate before another one placed a plate of pudding in front of him. Alden eyed it warily. “Dare I ask if this pudding was prepared in any head?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.
“No, of course not,” Miss Sidney responded. “Petchah is a traditional Scottish dessert.”
Picking up a spoon, Alden tapped the pudding before asking, “Is it made with sheep’s trotters?”
A laugh escaped Miss Sidney’s lips. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “It is simply pudding.”
He scooped some pudding up and brought it to his lips, but Miss Sidney’s next words made him pause.
“Although, I think it is only fair that you know that it is made from calves’ feet,” Miss Sidney shared.
Alden let out a sigh, muttering under his breath, “What is wrong with this blasted country?” He stared at the pudding, feeling only frustration. Well, he might as well at least try it, especially since he had come this far.
He took a bite, trying to pretend he wasn’t chewing calves’feet. Nope. He couldn’t do it. He lowered his spoon to his plate.
Miss Sidney watched him with a sympathetic smile. “It is an acquired taste,” she admitted. “Not everyone takes to Scottish traditional dishes right away.”
Mrs. Hardy suddenly jumped up from her seat, her ghostly guise fluttering as she hurried out of the room.
Miss Sidney watched her aunt’s hasty departure with a serene expression, but then she shoved back her chair and rose gracefully. “I do believe I shall retire for the evening,” she announced.
Alden felt a stab of disappointment at that. He wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to Miss Sidney. The evening, despite its peculiarities, had been intriguing, and he found himself longing for more of her company.
He rose from his seat and bowed politely. “Good evening, Miss Sidney.”
She dropped into a curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Dandridge,” she said. “When you are ready to depart for your cottage, Bryon will see to the coach being brought around front.”
“Thank you,” he responded, though he wished he could think of something to prolong their conversation.
As Miss Sidney walked off, Alden’s mind raced. He wanted to keep her longer, to learn more about her, but he found himself at a loss for words.
Once departed from the dining room, Elinor made her way to the kitchen on the lower level. She was starving and needed some sustenance. Even she couldn’t stomach what Mrs. Beaton had prepared.
She stepped into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Beaton cuttinga loaf of bread. “Come, sit,” she encouraged. “I figured ye’d would be doon right about now.”
Elinor went to the table and sat down. “I’m sorry, but I tried to eat the food you prepared. I’m afraid I couldn’t stomach it.”
