Page 7 of Maid for the Duke

Chapter Four

Will groaned and rested his head in his hands. Amelie’s act of picking up his discarded drawing was presumptuous, but he had overreacted. He found her difficult to read, which was not unusual for him. Normally his instinct would be to pull away from any interaction, yet with Amelie he had the strange urge to engage with her.

It was this cottage, this unusual set up, that was to blame. He had known it would be difficult; that was why he had been so keen on Mrs Potter accompanying him. She would never have thought to over-step in such a manner.

Will shook his head; there was more to it than that. Amelie was different from any woman he had known, either servant or noble. Her manner was friendly, her personality warm and easy-going. She actually seemed to want to speak to him, to engage him in conversation, and not just about household matters. When he returned home from his days spent at the university, she was interested in what he had achieved. At first he had thought it mere politeness, but now he realised it was more. She didn’t just ask him how he fared, half-listening to the answer; she took a real interest in him and his work, remembering what he had told her the day before and building on it. It was disconcerting to have someone so interested in him, rather than think about his power and influence.

Standing, he rolled his shoulders back a few times to try to release the tension, feeling the burn as his muscles resisted the movement. Amelie baffled him, but they had months more living together. He needed to make an effort to be polite, to understand that this was an unusual situation for her as well.

Making a decision, he hurried downstairs, arriving just in time to see Amelie finish serving his meal in the kitchen and picking up the plate to bring it through to the dining room. The aroma that hit him as he walked into the room was sensational and he felt his stomach rumble as he looked at the dish.

‘That smells good,’ he murmured, sitting down as she placed the plate on the table.

‘It is chicken with a herb crust,’ Amelie said, turning to leave.

‘Amelie,’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. He did not often have to apologise and it felt hard to find the right words and tone. ‘Please forgive me for my reaction upstairs. It has been a long day, but that is no excuse for rudeness.’

Slowly she turned back to him, scrutinised his face and then nodded.

‘I understand,’ she said quietly.

He cleared his throat, feeling unsure of himself. ‘I wonder if you would care to join me for dinner?’

She balked at the suggestion, her eyes widening and her body swaying away from his. Normally she prepared her own evening meal at the same time as his, but waited until he had finished and the plates cleared away before sitting down in the kitchen to eat. Never before had he eaten with a servant, but these were extraordinary circumstances, and if he wanted the next few months go smoothly he was going to have to accept not everything here could be organised as if he were residing at his ancestral seat or in his London townhouse.

‘Join you?’

‘Yes, sit with me; there is plenty of room.’

‘Why?’

The question was blunt and Will found himself starting to doubt his plan.

‘We are living together in close quarters here in Grantchester and will be doing so for another few months. It is a small cottage, and we are thrown together more than I had anticipated. Is it unreasonable for me to want to know a little more about you?’

Amelie regarded him for a moment and then gave a little shrug.

‘I will fetch my plate.’

He waited in silence as she set a place for herself at the table and then brought her dinner through. Once she was seated, he took his first taste of the chicken and had to suppress a groan of pleasure.

‘This is very good,’ he said, motioning to the food. ‘Where did you learn to cook?’

‘My mother. She was a wonderful cook. She was French and told me that in France they respect meal times and their food much more than we do here in England. Every meal should be made with love, every ingredient chosen and considered carefully.’

‘She taught you to cook when you were a child?’

‘She did. We had a series of cooks who would prepare some of the meals, but often my mother would see what was served and roll her eyes, blaspheme in her native language and refuse to eat what was served. On so many occasions she stormed into the kitchen to reprimand the servants, only to find they were ready to leave because of her disdain for their food.’ Amelie allowed herself to get lost in the memory for a moment.

‘Forgive me for prying, Amelie, but you speak of cooks and servants…’ He trailed off, unsure how to phrase his question without causing offence.

A look of panic crossed her face and Will realised she had spoken without thinking.

‘You wish to know how someone who grew up with servants and cooks ended up taking a position as a housemaid in your household.’

He did not say anything. There was a sense of unease about her. She had placed her fork on the edge of her plate and wasn’t eating. Her back was straight, her shoulders held tensely and her hands were screwed up into tight fists on her lap.

‘I do not wish to cause you distress,’ he said softly. ‘If you don’t want to tell me, it will not change anything with your position, your employment. I am not so arrogant to think employing you gives me the right to every detail of your personal life and history.’