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Darriussaid fondly to his parent, “I shall see you at dinner. Will you be there also, Mrs. Swinton?”

“Of course, where else should she be? Well, if you must toddle off, then so be it. I shall look forward to dinner,” his mother replied.

As the door closed behind him, Darrius heard his mother say to her companion, “Isn’t he the dearest boy? Surely you can see why George and I doted on him so much.”

Chapter 3

Mayson Rudge carefully slid the pies out of the oven using the long wooden paddle, and the leather fingerless gloves he always wore to protect his palms from the heat. They were a clever way to let him grab a hot kettle or pan by the handle without searching for an oven mitt or potholder, two things that always seemed to be elsewhere when needed in this particular kitchen.

Mr. Sparks, the undercook, was supposed to keep the incidental items in good order, as well as assist with the routine cooking, but he was getting on in years. Mayson often found it expedient to simply take care of Mr. Sparks’ duties as well as his own.

Two of the maids were nattering away in the hallway while they were carrying the dishes from the kitchen to the main dining hall and a few items to the servants’ dining hall. The servants’ meal would be served after the master, mistress, the companion, and guests had dined. This would be something of a feast, so there would be plenty of leftovers. But even when the meals were more modest, the Duchess always remembered that she was feeding more than the people at the head table, and had given him permission early on to plan proper meals for the help. Her son was generous, giving her an allowance over and above her established dowry so the household was never in want.

Good thing, too, for even as small an establishment as the Dower House required laundry maids, upstairs maids to take care of the bedrooms, downstairs maids to dust the library and the several sitting rooms, as well as kitchen maids, scullery, gardeners, and more. Mayson blessed all the hours he had spent with a certain dear old cook, who had been more than happy to teach a bored, lonely little boy the craft of cooking.

The pies bubbled appealingly, and gave off a delectable aroma.They were part of the bumper crop of strawberries from the Main House. With a judicious amount of rhubarb added, they were a feast fit for kings, he thought.

Mayson was listening with half an ear to the maids’ chatter. He had learned more than one thing happening around the neighborhood simply by opening an ear to their seemingly banal chatter.

“ —and they never found the body?” Betty, a young kitchen maid who had been a member of the staff scarcely more than a week, seemed astonished by whatever it was the maids were talking over.

“Never,” said Molly Sue, the older maid. Then she added in the tones usually reserved for telling ghost stories, “But they say that when the moon is full his ghost walks the grounds, and if you look just right, when the moon is only a crescent, you can see his hand held up in silhouette against it. And,” she added in a sepulcher voice, “you can see the birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon on his wrist.”

“Ah, go on,” Betty said skeptically. “You’re just tryin’ to scare the new girl.”

“No, really,” Molly Sue insisted. “Well, maybe not the ghost part. But the part about the birthmark an’ his body never found. Some folks think the uncle did away with ‘im, but nothin’ was ever proved.”

“Surely not his own kin, that way,” Betty protested. “I can’t imagine…”

The two maids disappeared down the hall, their voices trailing after them. Mayson sighed. One of these days he would have to speak to them about gossiping about their betters, but not today. The young master was in the house and the dinner needed to be perfect.

There was a light patter of slippered feet, and the new companion appeared in the doorway. “The Duchess would like to know… Oh, good. You made bubbly pies.”

“Indeed I did,” Mayson replied. “Strawberry-rhubarb because we all know that they are the young Duke’s favorite. I also made a tremendous roast, from which I caught the drippings to make a clear broth for the first course. There are three kinds of vegetables, including the boiled greens the Duchess’ physician recommended that she have with her dinner. There is a vinegar side topping which should make them more palatable for her.”

“Oh, thank you,” the companion replied. “She eats them, but not without complaint.”

“I quite understand,” Mayson replied. “I’m Mayson Rudge,” he added. “I didn’t quite catch your name, although I know that you are the new companion.”

“Mrs. Evelyn Swinton,” she replied. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She did not curtsey as one of the kitchen maids might have done, but dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I have heard a great deal about you, but have not had opportunity to come to the kitchen before now.”

A taking little thing, Mayson thought. She had soft brown hair that was covered discretely with a little widow’s cap made from black lace and ribbons.

She was dressed in black, a trim bombazine that fit her curvaceous form neatly. The fabric was not of the best, but the workmanship that put it together was meticulous. A close-fitting tall collar around her throat allowed a modest frill of black lace to cushion a delicate chin.

Above the chin curved a sweet mouth that seemed made for smiling, a well-shaped small nose, and bright, lively eyes the green of new leaves framed with long, curling eyelashes beneath perfectly arched dark brows. The black frill accentuated herrosy cheeks and clear complexion. Her color began to rise under his scrutiny, and Mayson realized that he was staring.

“I, uh, am also happy to make your acquaintance,” Mayson did not stammer, but felt far less than his usual assurance. “Would Her Grace like an advance tidbit?”

The lovely lips curled into the promised smile at that inquiry. “She would. How did you ever guess?”

“Because her son tends to eat whole pies at a setting, so I always make a small one just for her.” Mayson turned to a small cupboard and pulled out a smaller pie, one that was already cooling. He placed it in a little basket along with a small wedge of cheese and a bottle of cold tea. “Her Grace’s favorite tea. She will dine with the Duke at the usual hour?”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Swinton replied. “And I must hurry now so that I can dress for dinner. His intended and her parents will also be in attendance.”

As she hastened away, Mayson wondered what“dressing for dinner”constituted for this companion. She was the fourth or fifth in succession since Mayson had been the cook. That would make it, oh, about one new companion every six months. The previous companion had always dressed to the nines when the Duke was dining with his mother. The Dowager Duchess had certainly noticed it, and had turned her off with only the most minimal references because of it.

Mayson returned to his cooking, stirring the glazed carrots, taking up the despised greens, and making sure that there was a cruet of spiced apple wine vinegar to go on the latter dish. With practiced skill, he turned out a seven-course meal that would not overwhelm six diners, yet would still leave them satisfied, but his mind was not on his task.