Page 27 of Return to Wildsyde

Luella smiled and shook her head. “No, I suppose not. What are you making?”

“A tarte tatin,” Mrs Baillie replied. “It’s French, a sort of upside-down apple tart. One of his lordship’s favourites, it is. Do you want to learn how?”

Luella nodded eagerly. She had applied herself to her own studies over the past week, soaking up every scrap of information she could from Mrs Baillie.

“So ye have made peace with his lordship?” Mrs Baillie asked, watching her curiously as she rubbed the butter and flour together between her fingertips.

“Sort of,” Luella replied with a wry smile. “He has promised to ensure Jack is educated like a gentleman, and I have promised to pretend I don’t exist.”

Mrs Baillie snorted. “And how long do ye reckon you can keep that up for?”

“What do you mean?” Luella asked, frowning.

The woman just laughed and shook her head. “Ah, dinnae mind me, lassie. Now when you’ve done that, come here and I shall show ye how to cook the apples to make a kind of caramel sauce.”

The next morning, Luella made her way down to the kitchens after breakfast. Jack had spent every moment since he got home the day before telling her about school. It seemed to have gone well on the whole. There was a lad called Logan who had done nothing but glare at him silently all day, but other than that, the lads had been eager enough to talk to the new English boy. They had teased him mercilessly for his accent, but Jack knew how to play the clown and make people like him. It was a trait the Fulbrights all had, and one they used to their advantage whenever possible. So, he had made them laugh and taken their teasing in good heart, winning them—or most of them—over with little difficulty. It was a good start. He seemed to like Mr Duncan too, who was a ‘great gun’ and so Luella cautiously hoped that Jack’s life would be a happy one whilst he lived here.

Mrs Baillie was sitting at the big, scrubbed oak table, recipe books scattered around her as she wrote a list on a piece of paper.

“Market day?” Luella guessed.

“Aye. See if we have anymore peppercorns, would ye? There’s a dear. I thought I had a good store, but now I’m wondering if I was thinking of the nutmeg I got a few weeks back.”

Luella nodded and went to investigate the labelled jars where the spices were kept. “This jar is full, Mrs Baillie,” she called over her shoulder, before replacing the lid and going to sit beside her.

“Then we need nutmeg,” Mrs Baillie said distractedly. “I wonder if there are any strawberries to be had yet?”

“How did the tarte tatin go down?” Luella asked, for it had been her dessert sent up to Lord Buchanan. He always ate alone in his study, refusing to join them in the dining room with his mother, though Luella suspected the woman had scolded him repeatedly over it. A stubborn fellow, his lordship.

“Hmmm?”

“The tarte tatin. Did Lord Buchanan like it? Jack was in ecstasies. He said it was the best thing he ever tasted.”

It had been divine, the delicious, caramelised apples soft and so gloriously sweet against the buttery pastry. Luella had found it hard to believe she had made it with her own hands. Jack had certainly been sceptical and had asked her gravely if Mrs Baillie had helped her.

“How should I know? He ate it all. I wonder if I ought to order a couple of dozen eggs? Those blasted hens are not laying as they ought since the fox came prowling the other night.”

Luella sighed, disappointed if unsurprised.

“I could go to the market for you,” she said, for it was a beautiful sunny day and she had the sudden urge to be out in the sunshine, gazing upon the beautiful countryside.

Mrs Baillie snorted. “I dinnae think so, lassie. Ye are nae used to bargaining. They would eat ye for breakfast and the exercise would cost himself a pretty penny more too.”

“A Fulbright, not know how to bargain? You must have mistaken me for someone else, Mrs Baillie, for I thought I was supposed to be the only conniving little thief around here. How do you know I won’t fleece them?” Luella asked, suddenly irritated, though she didn’t know why.

Mrs Baillie looked up at her, a curious glint in her eyes. Quiet for a long moment, she finally gave a jerk of her head. “See yon basket?”

Luella looked to where she directed. “Yes.”

“There are cherries ripe in the orchard. If ye are going to be crabbit because he did not fall into a swoon over the dessert ye made him, ye had best go and blow the cobwebs away and make yerself useful at the same time.”

Luella glared at her. “I don’t know what crabbit means, but I assure you I never expected any swooning on Lord Buchanan’s part.”

Mrs Baillie chuckled. “Ach, if ye say so, lassie. And crabbit means grumpy or bad tempered. Now away with ye. I can nae think with ye glowering at me.”

Luella got to her feet, indignation seething as she grabbed hold of the basket and strode to the door. She was halfway down the path to the kitchen garden before she realised she didn’t know where the orchard was. Turning in a circle, and wondering where she might find someone to ask, she jumped as a deep voice hailed her.

“Mr Anderson,” she said, smiling as he strode towards her. She was struck once again by the similarity to his brother, yet that brooding, somewhat menacing air that seemed to be part and a parcel of Lord Buchanan was entirely absent in Hamilton Anderson.