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“Oh, of course. I always forget that this is how it is each year. Has he had the cellars whitewashed yet?”

“I think most of them, Your Grace. There are still one or two root cellars to go, I believe.”

The Duchess’ eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Beet juice for coloring?”

“Oh, you are too good, Your Grace. Yes, I think so.”

“Well, it is a better way to use it up than to try to make it into a drink. I seem to remember Mr. Sparks having tried to ferment beet juice one year. The results were explosive. The old cook we had at that time nearly had him turned off then and there.”

“Mr. Sparks has something of a history, then?”

“Oh, my, yes. He was but a lad when he came to us, and he has grown up and grown old in that kitchen. It seems odd that he should be pensioned off now. But then, it seems odder still not to be able to walk beyond the end of the garden without wheezing like a bellow.”

“I think I know how you feel,” Evelyn said. “Some years, it seems as if nothing stands still and remains the same. Sometimes I wish...” she paused, then shook her head. “No, everything happens for a reason. I must believe that.”

“I would like to think so,” the Duchess reassured her. “There are times when one wonders just what that purpose could possibly be, but I suppose that is why the churchmen all say that ‘Life is a Mystery.’” She made her voice deep and pretentious, as if she were a member of the clergy addressing an ignorant crowd.

Evelyn giggled, just as the Duchess had probably meant for her to do.

“That is better, my dear. Focus on the here and now. These biscuits are very pretty, even if they do taste a little odd. Perhaps we could feed them to the birds, and Mr. Rudge would be none the wiser. He so rarely makes a dish that is not delicious, I would scarcely wish to hurt his feelings.”

“Oh, Your Grace, I do not think he would be hurt. He commented while I was below-stairs that he was having a difficult time inventing dishes that would use up the last of the old supplies so that we could make way for the new.”

“Tell him to donate the rest of it somewhere, Mrs. Swinton. There is no need for him to torture himself with trying to use up every jot and tittle before the new harvest arrives. I, for one, am quite looking forward to fresh fruit and crispy greens.”

“What kinds of fruit is there, usually?” Evelyn asked.

“That is right. You have not yet been here a whole year,” the Duchess commented. “Apples, of course, and pears. Late plums. The cherries are already gone by now, of course, and so are the strawberries, blueberries and melons. Soon it will be winter, and we will only have preserved fruit or the fruits that keep well in the cellars. How I do detest winter fruit.”

Evelyn sighed. She knew too well exactly what the Duchess meant. Fruit that was brought in from the orchards was crisp and tart, but by midwinter it began to shrivel and the inside was mealy. Toward spring, sorting was a constant chore, picking out the apples that had spots so they could be quickly cooked up before they went bad.

“I have heard that there are some parts of the world where you can pick fresh fruits all year round,” Evelyn said. “Would it not be a marvelous thing?”

“Beyond all doubt.” The Duchess took a bite of one of the tulip-shaped biscuits. “Perhaps it is not too bad. The flavor seems to improve with custom. Perhaps with a few spices added, so that it tasted a bit like pickled…”

“Mrs. Swinton!” Betty appeared at the doorway. “Oh, Mrs. Swinton. Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but she is needed at once. Mr. Rudge took a tumble down the cellar stairs, and hit his head. He is asking for Mrs. Swinton.”

“You must go at once!” the Duchess exclaimed. “I shall do well enough. Oh, mercy sakes, whatever shall we do?”

“I’ll send word back as quickly as I can,” Evelyn said, already hastening toward the door.

Jemmy and Mr. McElroy met her at the bottom of the kitchen stair.

“Oh, Lor’, Mrs. Swinton. I’m that glad to see you,” Jemmy cried out, wringing his hands together. “He’s hollerin’ out about scars, and marks, and I don’ know w’at all.”

“I think he believes he is in France,” Mr. McElroy put in. “If I’m not mistaken, he has twisted an ankle, maybe broken it, and he hit his head.”

Mr. McElroy then beckoned for Evelyn to come closer. When she was a little nearer he bent his head so that his mouth was close to her ear. “I think someone greased the steps. Those old stone pavers don’t take much to make ‘em slick. Mr. Rudge has been runnin’ up an’ down ‘em all day, so’s it would not take much to guess that he would be going that way.”

“Do you truly think so?” Evelyn’s cheeks felt cold as a frisson of alarm shot through her.

“I would not say so if I did not think it,” Mr. McElroy affirmed. “But who would do such a thing? Mr. Rudge is good to everyone.”

“I have no idea,” Evelyn considered for a moment. “The only person I can think of who might have a grudge of any kind would be Mr. Sparks. But he was sent to live with his daughter. The Duke is paying for his keep, and giving him a small allowance to boot.”

“One might think that should be enough,” Mr. McElroy pondered the thought. “But you never know how folks will take a thing. Could it have been that he resented being pensioned off?”

“I have no idea,” Evelyn said. “Please, take me to Mr. Rudge. Has someone sent for Dr. Alton?”