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She pulled her hand away and pressed it to her breast.
“I’ll be waiting for ye, lass,” he said then turned back to the window.
Moving to the staircase, she wanted to stop and look over her shoulder but she did not. She moved on and took the stairs and did not look back. She left the keep and with a measured pace, went back to the house. The brick was still wet and looked darker than usual. She climbed the flat stairs toward the doorway and ducked under the threshold.
She got to a lower room that was near the kitchens. While she intended to head toward her rooms, she went to the kitchens instead. Seldom had she entered the servants’ domain and she barely remembered the two times she had done so prior. The stones were warm and a mixed aroma of smells was in the air as she came closer.
Oh, Lord, I haven’t been here in such a long time, will Mrs. Hertha forgive me?
A large fireplace took up the left side of the room and on the floor was a firepit with bubbling pots hanging over the coals with a line of grates keeping the ashes from scattering all over the floor.
The wall running crossway to the fireplace was stocked with pots and pans of all shapes and sizes. A table near it was laden with tins, covered pots, and baskets of garden vegetables. Over to the far side were herbs dangling from strings and drying in the sun coming in from the windows.
She was surprised to see the kitchen was empty and was about to leave when the far door opened and the cook—Mrs. Hertha, she sighed in relief —came in, balancing a basket on her hip and holding it with a hand while the other tugged the door back in behind her.
“Lady Adelaine,” the woman smiled. “How nice to see you. How are you this morning, My Lady?”
Her smile was faint. “Well, I suppose. The storm last night did make me fearful.”
“Ah, My Lady,” Mrs. Hertha said as she dropped the basket on the table and took out some more herbs, wet from the rain, and shook the remaining droplets off. “I tell you, it made me husband jump nearly a mile in our bed.”
She swallowed. “Mrs. Hertha, could you do me a boon that no one else needs to know off?”
The cook’s left eyebrows cocked up, as she dried her hands on her apron. “I don’t see a reason to not do so, what is it?”
“The prisoner in the keep, Mister McLagen, please send him some warm porridge and good meat at times. I know my father said he should only have scraps but the man is human like we are. A prisoner he may be, but I think he needs some compassion still,” Adelaine said.
The cook gave her a questioning look but then it mellowed to a light smile. “That’s the young lady I know, the one who cares for other souls no matter who they are.”
“Is that a yes?
” Adelaine asked, hopefully.
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Hertha said happily. “May I get you something too? A cup of tea or warm buttery toast, mayhap?”
“I’ll take both, thank you,” Adelaine said as she went to the arch that took her to the main hall.
This room always intimated her. The great hall was high with a ceiling that was nearly two-stories high. In her opinion, the room was a monstrosity with a massive fireplace at both ends of the hall. The colossal feasting table, made for her father's guests more than his family, was so vast that it would take a person detaching his left arm and attaching it to his right to get to the middle of the thing.
The last feast she remembered her father throwing had enormous bowls of soup, platters of herring, lavish displays of salmon, baked whiting, haddock fillets, porpoise cuts, golden custard, berry-filled tart, fritters, and ripe fruit. And even with that amount of food, the platters had not even come within two feet of the edges of the table. And that was with candelabras dotted across the table and plates, gold goblets and cutlery taking up more space.
The carved chairs were placed around the table with the seat—no, rather throne— of the master of the house at the far end. She took a seat at the end of the table and sat with her hands folded on her lap. She looked up and the swaying chandeliers made her dizzy.
Looking back at the large table, she felt the emptiness of the vast space start to crush down on her. If she dared speak, her voice would echo back to her in fading pulses. This room was just too much for her and she and Peter had avoided it like the plague until they were forced to attend one of her father’s gatherings. Peter attended more than she had but every time he had come back from it, he had been cross.
At the age of fifteen, she had asked him why he was angry and his answer was still in her mind to this day.
“I don’t appreciate being in a room of men who can only speak of their riches and kill by proxy and women who are so vapid that they only care about the size of their jeweled headpieces.”
The creak of the chandelier above took her gaze back to it and again, she felt dizzy. Mrs. Hertha came in carrying a tray of tea and a pewter plate of toast. Adelaine sat up straight and smiled. Mrs. Hertha sat them on the table and leaned in. “I hand delivered the porridge and bread to Laird McLagen. He sends his gratitude.”
“Thank you.”
“No, my dear,” Mrs. Hertha said with a smile. “Thank you. That man must have stolen all the handsomeness in the good Lord’s coffers. I’m a happily-married woman but it did not hurt to fill my eyes with such loveliness.”
Adelaine wanted to smile but felt her stomach start to twist. At least I'm not the only one. “You’re welcome.”
Taking the cup, she drank the warm milk, which was flavored with honey, before nibbling on her toast. She tried to imagine what Caelan was thinking and pictured his rare smile. She had the impression that the man did not smile much.
