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“I wasn’t going to propose charades, or red rover, but maybe some cards? We could set up a table, I could put out some snacks, or maybe Scrabble.” She frowned at her open notepad. “Do you play Scrabble in England? Do you have board games?”
“We’re not savages, Cara,” he said dryly.
She laughed. A glimmer of light shone in his blue eyes. Alec was very dashing at the moment, tall, handsome, elegant, a little indignant. Very much the fairy-tale prince, although in this case he was a viscount, son of an earl, and trying his best to make his family happy.
“Did you not play games growing up?” she asked.
“Who would I play games with? My father? My great-uncle Frederick? Would we make a foursome with Mrs. Booth?”
“There were no cousins your age?”
“Unfortunately, no. The Sherbournes have had a remarkably difficult time producing children. During World War II, I lost two great uncles before they started families, Uncle Frederick never had children, and my grandfather had two, with me today being the sole surviving heir. The family started large and shrank, becomingly painfully small. So here I am, with the relics, relics I do care about. Just not sure how to—” His eyes narrowed. “What is it about you that makes me talk? I tell you things I don’t tell anyone else. It is most aggravating.”
Cara’s lips curved. “Hopefully, it’s because I don’t judge. As they say in America, I have no skin in the game. Whatever you do should be what’s best for you, and your family. And I trust you know what’s best for you and your family. I’m just here as a plus-one, but beyond that, there is no pressure, and I have no expectations.”
“If I had a wish—” he started before breaking off.
She leaned across the island. “Yes?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, it does. Tell me.”
“I’d love to maybe read tonight, just… relax. I know it sounds selfish when I have a house full of guests, but it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like I could slow down and breathe.” He frowned, as if uncomfortable even admitting it. “Or maybe that’s unfair to ask when you’re also trapped here—”
“Not trapped, Alec. I’m not trapped in any way. I’m having such a good time. This is fun for me. This is exactly what I wanted this trip to be—new and interesting so that when I return home, I go with lots of new memories.”
*
During lunch, Alecshared that they would be trying to keep meals at set hours, so everyone knew what was happening and when. “Breakfast at eight,” he said. “Lunch at twelve—I realize we’re late today—and dinner hopefully every night at six, depending on what’s in the oven.” He paused, waiting for objections but thankfully there were none.
“Instead of our traditional holiday dinner tonight,” he added, “we are going to have a proper Christmas dinner on Christmas, something else easy for Christmas Eve, and tonight we’ll enjoy Mrs. Johnson’s shepherd’s pie.”
“And I was thinking maybe we could bake something this afternoon for tea,” Cara said. “Maybe something that’s traditional in your family? Or something festive for the time of year?”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Dorothy said, perking up. “I used to do a lot of baking. Should we make ginger biscuits?”
“Ginger biscuits?” Cara frowned. “You mean scones?”
“No, scones are scones. Biscuits are what you Americans call cookies.”
“My mom used to make ginger snaps at Christmas,” Cara said. “We should definitely make some today. I’ll look for a recipe in the cookbook.”
“I’ll show you the cookbook we’ve always used for cookies,” Emma said. “Alec’s father’s favorite cookie was a shortbread. Do you remember, Alec?”
“I do,” he said.
“And shortbread is simple,” Dorothy assured Cara. “My grandmother was from Edinburgh and taught me to make a decent shortbread.” She looked at Emma. “Do you rememberhow our Cedric and George loved the shortbread? You couldn’t keep it in the house.”
“I do,” Emma answered. “My George liked it so much I would make it for him, using your recipe. Should we make some shortbread? It’d go nicely with the ginger biscuits for tea.”
“Then that’s settled,” Dorothy said, nodding with satisfaction. “After lunch we’ll do some baking. Cara, if you have nothing to do, I’ll teach you my grandmother’s recipe. It’s only five ingredients—butter, sugar, flour, vanilla and salt. What could be simpler than that?”
Lunch over, the aunts took over the kitchen, with Dorothy overseeing the making of the shortbread and Emma the ginger biscuits. Cara was relegated to a stool, or to mixing when needed. The two aunts reminisced as they made their dough, telling stories of when they were girls helping their mothers with holiday baking, although for Dorothy it was her Scottish grandmother she’d baked with as her mother was always reducing and didn’t like sweets in the house.
Cara tried to help without getting in their way. The smell of ginger biscuits in the oven made her hungry and nostalgic, as her mom always baked Christmas cookies, starting the weekend after Thanksgiving all the way until Christmas Eve, creating little care packages of cookies and fudge for neighbors, friends, and the staff Cara’s father worked with at the university.
“What would you have done for Christmas if you were home?” Cara asked the aunts, checking on a tray of ginger cookies still in the oven.
