Page 55 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

“Why not? It would probably be easier than in person. I can get them delivered at the same time.”

Dora glanced over at the window, likely judging the hour. Clem glanced at his pocket watch. “It is now a little after three,” he told her obligingly. “There’s time enough.”

She flashed him a grateful look. “You think of everything.”

Clem cleared his throat. “The tip of your nose has turned pink,” he commented. “You look like a little mouse.” Dora laughed and hitched her shawl up over her head. “I’ll pick up some coal while I’m at out,” he added. “This house is cold as a morgue.”

Dora bit her lip. “I never did sort out the coal delivery. I think we have been struck off by the local merchant. This house is run on the strictest principles of economy these days,” she sighed. “Our candles are nasty and cheap too. They make your eyes water.”

“Well, our rooms won’t be,” Clem vowed. He’d have to pick up candles too, he noted, as well as something decent to eat for dinner. “Tell me when you’ve finished your letters and I’ll set off and deliver them.”

He was as good as his word, though he did not return until past six o’clock and bought a wagon full of things back to the house along with two brawny individuals to carry it all in. He found Dora in the kitchen again, regarding half a loaf of bread and a dish of butter with a doubtful eye.

“Clem! Did you deliver my letters?” she asked eagerly.

“I did. Mrs. Cherwell vowed to be here tomorrow morning, bright. Your friend was not home so I left her letter with one of her elderly companions.” He set down his box of provisions and waved the men through following in his wake. One carried a large sack of coal and the other another large packing box.

“What’s all this?” Dora asked in surprise.

“Just some supplies,” Clem answered vaguely. “Unpack this while I show them up,” he said pointing to the box he’d set down on the kitchen table. “There’s things that will serve for our dinner.”

Dora’s expression brightened with interest, and she started pulling the straw out of the box at once to uncover the jars and bottles as Clem showed the men up the stairs to the first floor. The coal scuttles were soon filled to overflowing, with two new, bigger copper scuttles set down in their sitting room and bedroom.

The rest of the coal he had divided between the parlor and dining room. He should not begrudge it as there was ample, but frankly, neither Fields nor Allsop was his priority. Next, they returned to the cart to fetch up the large display cabinet and chest of drawers he had purchased. Clem had to help with these as they were large unwieldy pieces of burr walnut, carved and inlaid with marquetry.

He had got them at a knockdown price from a connection he knew in Clapham who bought lots at auctions when their original owners had gone bankrupt. Apparently, these two handsome pieces of furniture had once belonged to a wealthy silversmith whose son had squandered the family fortune and ended up in debtor’s jail. His loss was Clem’s gain.

He had the cabinet set down in the sitting room, where it put everything else quite frankly to shame, along with a large case filled with treats, wines, and liqueurs to go in it. Soon he would set about getting some new couches. Velvet, he fancied, in royal blue.

The chest of drawers fitted neatly into the bedroom on the other side of Dora’s little desk. Returning downstairs, he tipped the men handsomely and saw them off the premises before returning to find Dora attempting to light the fire in the dining room. Wordlessly, he took the tinderbox from her and asked for old newspapers.

She trotted off to fetch some and Clem re-laid the fire. When she returned, they sat kneeling before it on the hearthrug as Clem expertly rolled a jar full of spills and Dora scrunched pages to set on top of the pile of wood. “Will this be enough?” she asked.

He nodded. “Let’s set it ablaze. Then you can shed some of those layers.” He looked her over and Dora beamed at him.

“Shall I fetch in the supper things?” she asked, leaping to her feet. “Which pie did you intend for this evening?” she called back over her shoulder.

“All of them,” Clem answered promptly.

“All?” She blinked, then asked curiously, “What are they?”

“Game, ham and egg, and steak and ale.”

“Well, you are certainly spoiling us!”

“It’s a celebration, isn’t it?” he answered. “We’ll have a bottle of champagne too.”

Once he had the fire flickering in the grate, he went into the kitchen, where he found her peering at labels. “Are these pickled eggs?” she asked, holding one aloft.

“There should be pickled eggs, pickled onion, and pickled beetroot,” he informed her, rooting through the many bottles and jars to find the piccalilli.

“Which of the cheeses?” Dora asked, unwrapping a large piece of Wensleydale. She caught his eye. “All of them?” she said dazedly, catching his meaning.

“All of them,” Clem confirmed. “I’m a man of large appetites.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, but as Dora was now struggling with a box of crackers done up in string, his gesture went in vain. Once she had opened it, she fetched a large Staffordshire cheese keep off the dresser and an oval serving platter which she started piling the different cheeses and crackers onto.

Clem picked up a paper bag. “Here,” he said. She looked at him enquiringly. “Grapes,” he said briefly.

“Grapes? These must be from a hothouse,” Dora breathed, taking them as reverently as if he had said “gemstones.” “Why, it’s a veritable feast!” She added the grapes to the platter and moved things around in an attempt to make things more picturesque. “I don’t really have an eye,” she admitted.