“I… I have none. At least, not yet,” Dorothea said, her cheeks flushing. “This is the only dress I have at the moment.”
Mrs. Cameron looked her over thoughtfully. “You’re in mourning.”
“I was,” Dorothea replied. “But not anymore.”
Understanding slowly bloomed across Mrs. Cameron’s face, her eyes softening with sympathy. “Are you hungry, my lady?”
As if in response, Dorothea’s stomach let out an audible growl. She gave a sheepish smile. “I could eat,” she admitted.
Mrs. Cameron’s lips twitched in amusement, and she gestured towards a nearby corridor with a sweep of her arm. “Then come with me. We’ll have you seated in the dining room, and Cook will prepare something hot.”
“That’s kind of you, but I would prefer the kitchen. It’s where I usually take my meals.” Dorothea’s voice dropped a little at the admission, her gaze flicking downward, half-expecting judgment.
If Mrs. Cameron was surprised by such a confession, she didn’t show it. Not even a flicker of condescension passed over her features. “If the kitchen is where you feel most at ease, then who am I to deny such a request?” she asked with a smile. “Come along, then. It’s this way.”
Dorothea followed her down the narrow servants’ staircase, the scent of baked bread and roasting meat growing stronger with each step. A few passing servants paused to glance curiously at her, but no one said a word. She tried not to fidget beneath their gaze.
“How long have you been the housekeeper?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from the scrutiny.
Mrs. Cameron chuckled, her laugh full-bodied and genuine. “Oh, I suppose you could say I came with the house. When Lord Warwicke purchased the townhouse, he kept on all the staff. A rare kindness, these days. We were all quite prepared to be turned out.”
“That was… very generous of him,” Dorothea said, genuinely touched.
“It was,” the housekeeper agreed with a proud little nod. “He surprised us all.”
They stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, a spacious room with gleaming copper pots hanging above the hearth and the comforting scent of herbs wafting through the air. A tall, thin woman stood behind a broad counter, rolling dough with practiced precision. Her apron was dusted with flour, and her dark hair pulled back beneath a white cap.
She looked up and arched a brow. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Lady Warwicke,” Mrs. Cameron replied, “and she prefers to take her meal here, in the kitchen.”
The cook’s face lit up with a smile that reached her eyes. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air? You’re most welcome here, my lady. My friends call me Mrs. Dawson.”
Dorothea offered a tentative smile. “Thank you. I hope that one day I might be honored enough to call you a friend.”
“We’ll see how you feel after you’ve tasted my cooking,” Mrs. Dawson said with a wink. “Please, sit.” She gestured towards around wooden table tucked into the corner near the hearth. “I’ll fix you something hearty.”
Dorothea gratefully took a seat, sinking into one of the well-worn chairs.
As Mrs. Dawson began assembling a tray—thick slices of bread, an assortment of meat, and cheese—she called over her shoulder, “Is there anything you’re particularly fond of, my lady?”
There was something, but she didn’t want to be troublesome. “Not particularly,” she said with a polite shake of her head.
“Do you have a sweet tooth? A favorite pudding? Biscuits? Or perhaps,” Mrs. Dawson said with a knowing lilt in her voice, “you’re fond of a warm cup of chocolate in the morning?”
Dorothea bobbed her head as the tension in her shoulders eased for the first time that day. “I do love chocolate,” she admitted. It was an expense that her brother had considered frivolous, and he refused to pay for it.
Mrs. Dawson smiled, the kind of smile that made a person feel seen. “Then I’ll see to it that there’s always a cup waiting for you in the mornings, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Dorothea acknowledged.
Mrs. Cameron interjected, “You’ll find that here in this house, you only need to speak your mind and it will be done. You are the mistress now.”
The words stirred an old ache deep in her chest.Mistress.It sounded foreign, like a title meant for someone else—someone more confident, more worthy of the space she occupied.
Mrs. Dawson placed the tray on the table. “I hope this is sufficient, my lady.”
“It is,” Dorothea replied as she reached for a piece of bread. The familiar texture soothed her fingers, but she didn’t take a bite right away. Instead, she stared down at the tray, her thoughts drifting.
