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Munroe turned and Jasper couldn’t help but flinch. When last he’d seen the man, his wounds were raw and bleeding. Time had healed the wounds that covered the left side of his face, scarred them over, but it hadn’t made them any prettier.
“Renshaw,” Munroe rasped. His voice had always been husky, but after Spinner’s Falls, it had taken on a broken quality, as if damaged by his screams. “But you’re Vale now, aren’t you? Lord Vale.”
“Yes.” Jasper moved into the room. “This is my lady wife, Melisande.”
Munroe nodded, though he didn’t turn back around to acknowledge her. “I believe I wrote you not to come.”
“I received no missive,” Jasper said honestly.
“Some might take that as an unwelcoming sign,” Munroe said dryly.
“Would they?” Jasper took a deep breath to control the anger surging in his breast. He owed Munroe much—things he could never repay—but this involved Munroe too. “But, then, the matter I come on is most pressing. We need to talk about Spinner’s Falls.”
Munroe’s head reared back as if he’d been hit in the face. He stared at Jasper, his light hazel eye hooded and unreadable.
Finally he nodded once. “Very well. But it’s late, and your lady is no doubt tired. Wiggins will show you some rooms. I do not promise comfort, but they can be made warm. In the morning we will talk. Then you can leave.”
“I have your word?” Jasper asked. He wouldn’t put it past Munroe to simply disappear and stay away until they were gone.
The side of Munroe’s mouth kicked up. “My word. I will talk to you on the morrow.”
Jasper nodded. “I am grateful.”
Munroe shrugged and walked out of the room. Thƒof "3"e little red-haired man—presumably Wiggins—had been lurking about the doorway, and now he said grudgingly, “I ’spose I can make th’ fire in your rooms.”
He turned and left without another word.
Jasper blew out a breath and looked at Pynch. “Can you look to settling the other servants? See if there’s anything to eat in the kitchens and find them rooms.”
“Yes, my lord,” Pynch said, and departed.
And that left Jasper with his lady wife. He turned reluctantly to look at her. She still stood in front of the fireplace. Any other woman might be in hysterics by now. Not Melisande.
She stared back at him levelly and said, “What happened at Spinner’s Falls?”
SALLY SUCHLIKE CAREFULLY spread the hot coals with a poker and then hung a kettle from the big hook in the fireplace. It was a huge fireplace, the biggest Sally had ever seen. Big enough for a grown man to walk into and stand upright. What anyone wanted with such a big fireplace, she didn’t know. It was harder to work with than a nice, normal-sized one.
The water in her kettle soon began to steam, and she dropped in the jointed rabbit Mr. Pynch had found in the pantry. A lady’s maid was a superior servant, and it wasn’t part of her duties to cook, but there wasn’t anyone else about to prepare their supper. No doubt Mr. Pynch knew how to make a rabbit stew—and a better one than she was attempting—but he was busy finding rooms for their mistress and master.
Sally threw some chopped carrots into the kettle. They were a little withered, but they’d have to do. She added some little round onions and stirred the whole thing. It looked a bit of a mess at the moment, but maybe it’d perk up once it had stewed a bit. She sighed and sat in a nearby chair, wrapping her shawl tightly about her shoulders. The fact was, she didn’t know much about cooking. When she’d been a scullery maid, she’d mostly washed dishes and cleaned. Mr. Pynch had given her the rabbit, carrots, and onions and told her to boil them, so she did. They’d had no help from that nasty red-haired man, Wiggins. He reminded Sally of a troll from a fairy tale, he did. And he’d disappeared the minute Mr. Pynch’s back was turned, leaving the Renshaw servants to stumble about in an unfamiliar house.
Sally got up and peered into the simmering pot. Perhaps she ought to add something else. Salt! That was it. Mr. Pynch would think her a ninny if she didn’t know enough to salt a stew. She went to a big cupboard standing in the corner and began to rummage. It was nearly empty, but she did manage to find the salt and some flour.
Ten minutes later, she was trying to knead a bowl of flour, salt, butter, and water, when Mr. Pynch walked into the kitchens. He set down his lantern and came to where she was battling the dough, then stood silently at her elbow looking into the bowl.
She glared up at him. “It’s dumplings for the stew. I tried to do it like I’ve seen Cook do, but I don’t know if I have, and for all I know, it may taste just like glue. I’m not a cook, you know. I’m a lady’s maid, and I’m not expected to know how to cook. You’ll just have to be content with what I can make, and if it turns out terrible, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I’m not cƒ="3canomplaining,” Mr. Pynch said mildly.
“Well, don’t.”
“And I like dumplings.”
Sally blew a lock of hair out of her eyes, feeling suddenly shy. “You do?”
He nodded. “Yes, and those look perfectly fine. Shall I carry the bowl to the hearth so you can drop them into the stew?”
Sally straightened her shoulders and nodded. She rubbed her hands to get most of the dough off, and Mr. Pynch picked up the big crockery bowl. Together they went to the fireplace, where he held the bowl while she carefully dropped spoonfuls of dough into the stew. She covered the kettle with an iron lid so the dumplings would steam and turned to Mr. Pynch. She was conscious that her face was sweaty from the heat of the fire. Strands of her hair had come down and were sticking to her face, but she looked him in the eye and said, “There. How’s that?”
