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But as she walked to the front parlor and looked out the picture window, a figure was already coming up the short drive. One who moved with an unmistakable air of grace and confidence.
Sylvia pressed her palms against her stomach to calm herself, then looked down. In her rush to save the tablecloth, she had forgotten about her dress, which now boasted a rather large tea stain across the front. She muttered another curse and immediately ducked out of view. He would be here in a matter of moments.
“Mrs. Thomasin?” Sylvia cried out as she raced toward the kitchen.
The cook met her at the door. “Is he here?” Sylvia nodded, still barely able to believe it herself. “You know him, then?”
“Yes, from London.”
“And do you want to see him?”
Sylvia hesitated before nodding again.
Mrs. Thomasin’s gaze grew suspicious as she began to ask something else—something Sylvia probably didn’t want to answer—but then she noticed the stain. “Goodness! What happened to your dress?” Just as Sylvia opened her mouth, a loud knock echoed through the house, and they exchanged looks of terror. “I’ll answer it. You go get changed.”
Sylvia shook her head. “There isn’t time.”
Mrs. Thomasin arched one blond brow. “If this man came on the early train all the way from London, I think he can wait a few more minutes while you put on a clean gown. I’ll put him in the parlor with some biscuits. He won’t even notice the time.”
Rafe knocked again, louder, and Sylvia was spurred into motion.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thomasin!” she called out as she headed up the back staircase to her room.
“Don’t thank me just yet, my dear. Not until we learn what he’s come for.”
***
Rafe’s fist had been poised to knock on the door of Hawthorne Cottage for a third time when it swung open and revealed a pleasingly plump blond woman around middle age. Based on the faint smear of flour on her left cheek, Rafe guessed she was Mrs. Thomasin, the cook the postman had told him about. If he had any hope of crossing the threshold, he needed to win her over.
“Good morning,” he said, flashing her his widest smile. “I’m Mr. Davies. I’ve come to see Miss Wilcox. Is she in?”
The cook slowly eyed him up and down, not looking even a little charmed. “You’re the fellow from London?”
“Yes,” Rafe answered, resisting the urge to tug on his collar. “I see my reputation has preceded me?”
The cook snorted. “You could say that. Now, before I let you in, would you mind telling me what business you have with the lady of the house?”
It had been years since Rafe lived in a household that employed a full-time cook, but this seemed rather overfamiliar. Then again, perhaps things were different in the country…
He cleared his throat. “Ah, it’s a personal call. I am a friend of Miss Wilcox.”
The cook raised an eyebrow, imperious as a duchess. “Afriend,is it?”
Rafe blinked. “Yes.” Mrs. Thomasin said nothing in return, and in the face of the woman’s commanding stare, Rafe did something unforgivably stupid. He broke. “But I hope to be more,” he sputtered.
After another moment of excruciating silence, the woman’s stern expression dissolved into a knowing smile. “All right, then. Come in, Mr. Davies, ‘the friend who would like to be more,’” she teased. “Miss Sylvia will be down shortly. You’re to wait in the parlor for her.”
Rafe paused in the doorway for a moment. He had just been interrogated. By a country cook. And it hadworked. While he pondered this, he took in his surroundings. Hawthorne Cottage was a handsome two-story redbrick home with a thatched roof and loads of ivy. The kind of house one read about in children’s books. A similar aesthetic was on display inside. The furniture, while not new, was well kept and well loved. Everywhere he looked were soft velvet and brocade coverings in rich jewel tones, freshly polished wood, tastefully patterned draperies, and plenty of small pillows. Rafe heartily approved.
“What a lovely home,” he called out to Mrs. Thomasin.
“Isn’t it? My late mistress had a wonderful eye for decorating. She made this place what it is.”
Rafe followed her into the sun-filled parlor, where a fire burned in the hearth. “You’ve worked for the family for a long time, then?”
“Since Miss Sylvia was born,” Mrs. Thomasin said proudly as she showed him to an overstuffed pale pink sofa. “I was a scullery maid in the house Mrs. Wilcox grew up in until I came here to work as the cook. So kind and intelligent. I’ve never met a lady like her, not before nor since. But Miss Sylvia inherited many of her best qualities.”
So that explained her behavior. She was a fiercely loyal servant. Rafe had come here today with no expectations, only hope, but he already felt better just knowing Sylvia had someone like Mrs. Thomasin in her life.
