AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“We were making Shrewsbury cakes.”
“Youwere?” Daniel asked.
Something in the question seemed to annoy her. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m not a grand noble. I have a small household to run.”
“I didn’t mean…” Daniel cast about for words. “That chocolate cake you served on our first visit was as fine as anything my cook makes at Frithgerd.”
Miss Pendleton gave him a rueful look, then burst out laughing. “Your cookdidmake it. It was in a hamper of food you had sent over when I arrived.”
Her eyes crinkled up when she laughed. Humor lit her face in a way that made the whole room seem brighter. She didn’t laugh nearly enough. He joined in. “That’s why the taste was familiar.”
“That sort of cake is beyond my skills so far. I’m starting smaller.”
“I’m very fond of Shrewsbury cakes,” he insinuated.
“I’d offer you some, but they’re not baked yet.”
“Perhaps I could help.” He’d never had any interest in cooking before, but this entrancing young lady had altered his views on a number of things.
“You?”
He waited, and then enjoyed seeing her realize that she’d used the same incredulous tone he’d employed. She smiled at him. Daniel’s pulse began to race. What a fool he’d been to think her wan and sylphlike. She…glowed.
“CertainlyLordWhitfield,” Miss Pendleton said. “I’ll find you an apron.” She picked up her own, put it on, and led him to the kitchen.
Mrs. Hart dropped a scandalized curtsy at their entrance. “My lord.”
“Lord Whitfield is interested in how Shrewsbury cakes are made,” said Miss Pendleton as she walked into the pantry. Her teasing tone clearly shocked the cook.
The young maid, oblivious, pointed at some blobs of dough lined up on a metal baking tray. “Mine are a right mess. Mrs. Hart’s going to roll them out again so’s I can make another try.”
“We don’t seem to have a fourth apron,” said Miss Pendleton, reemerging. “You could have mine.” Her eyes brimmed with humor.
“I wouldn’t dream of depriving you,” replied Daniel, trying to conceal his relief. Unsuccessfully, her expression told him.
“We can’t have flour on your fine coat.”
“We won’t be getting any flour on his lordship,” said Mrs. Hart firmly. With the air of a long-suffering parent marshaling her brood, she added, “Give me those, Kitty.”
Kitty gathered up the blobs and passed them over. With a few deft strokes, Mrs. Hart rolled the dough out flat.
“We can each cut the shapes we like,” said Miss Pendleton. “You must give us our own bits of dough to work with, Mrs. Hart.”
The cook rolled out more and arranged three, not four, stations along the kitchen table. She distributed small paring knives, then stepped back to check the brick oven in the side of the fireplace.
“I’ve ordered the closed stove,” said Miss Pendleton as they lined up to address the dough. “It should be here in a week or two.”
“That’ll be grand, miss,” replied Mrs. Hart. She seemed uncomfortable with her ill-assorted staff.
“Knives at the ready,” said Miss Pendleton. She held hers upright, like a fencing foil. Kitty giggled.
“Is it a race?” asked Daniel.
“An artistic competition. Mrs. Hart will judge which of us does best.”
“Not me, miss,” said the cook, holding up her hands, palms out.
“Well, we’ll fight for the prize among ourselves.” Miss Pendleton waved her knife in a little flourish. “And begin!”
