Dorothea cleared her throat and stepped forward. “That won’t be necessary.”
Mrs. Dawson turned, surprise flickering across her face before softening into something more knowing. “Lord Warwicke isn’t joining you, is he?”
Dorothea’s lips pressed into a tight line. “I’m afraid not.”
Mrs. Dawson’s expression faltered, then recovered. “Well, no matter. Come, sit. You’re always welcome here.”
“Thank you,” Dorothea murmured, moving towards the round wooden table nestled in the corner.
Mrs. Dawson followed with a steaming bowl of soup and set it in front of her. “Did he give a reason, at least?”
“He’s dining at his club.” Dorothea picked up her spoon and stirred the broth absentmindedly.
Mrs. Dawson gave a disbelieving snort and sat down beside her. “That’s not much of a reason, if you ask me.”
A sharp voice interrupted from the other side of the kitchen. “Lady Warwicke did not ask you, Mrs. Dawson. And frankly, she ought to reprimand you for such impertinence.”
Dorothea looked up at the housekeeper. “It’s all right, Mrs. Cameron. I prefer honesty between us.”
The housekeeper raised a brow, then turned to the room. “Very well. The rest of you are dismissed.”
The bustle ceased instantly. With quiet bows and curtsies, the servants slipped out, leaving the kitchen still and intimate.
Mrs. Dawson leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I had a husband once who thought farming was more important than me. So I killed his favorite chicken and served it for supper,” she said. “I told him that he would get a similar fate if he continued to ignore me.”
Mrs. Cameron gasped. “You did no such thing!”
Smirking, Mrs. Dawson asked, “Or did I?”
“Henry was a good man,” the housekeeper insisted.
“That he was,” Mrs. Dawson admitted, “but I needed to make a point.”
Mrs. Cameron rolled her eyes. “Lady Warwicke will not be killing any chickens.”
Mrs. Dawson laughed. “No, but she can do other things to catch her husband’s attention.”
Dorothea set down her spoon, her voice tentative. “How… how does one flirt with one’s husband?”
Mrs. Cameron looked bewildered. “Don’t ask me. My husband has been dead for twenty years.”
Mrs. Dawson perked up. “Fortunately for you, I am a master of flirtation. I have been married three times.”
“Three?” Dorothea repeated, eyes wide.
Mrs. Dawson waved her hand. “Hardly my fault they kept dying. Now—flirting. It’s all in the attention. Look at him when he speaks. Ask questions. Laugh at his jokes, even the bad ones. Make him feel like the only man in the room,” she advised. “Here, try it on me.”
Dorothea straightened in her seat and met the cook’s gaze. “How are you faring?”
“I am well,” Mrs. Dawson replied with a nod. “Do you come here often?”
“I do. Do you like… rocks?”
Mrs. Dawson blinked. “I do like rocks.”
“Good. Because there arebouldersof them in the gardens,” Dorothea quipped with a smile.
Mrs. Dawson stared at her for a long moment, then turned to Mrs. Cameron. “Did she just make a rock joke?”
