“No, not at all,” Mayson replied. “Not very many people appreciate my small homilies. But I find that cooking is a great deal like life.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Swinton paused, the tray in her hands.
“Yes, indeed. In cooking, you frequently get back the effort you put into it. Dash things together indifferently, and you get back a slapdash sort of meal. But if you measure, calculate, and plan, you frequently create something good. Moreover, if you have written down what you did, you can duplicate the dish on another day. Life works like that—you get back mostly what you put into it.”
“But what about when your efforts multiply?” Mrs. Swinton asked. “Sometimes the smallest deed can bring amazing results.”
“That,” Mayson said, flashing an appreciative grin, “is what happens when you accidentally happen upon exceptional ingredients and the results are far greater than you would have anticipated with more ordinary fruits.”
Mrs. Swinton smiled back at him. “Do you know,” she endorsed his comment, “I do believe that you are right.”
With that, she turned around and headed up the stairs, leaving Mayson gaping after her.
Had she been flirting? Best not to push your luck.But some people are like the best fruit or the finest wine.
He whistled happily as he kneaded the bread, and set the loaves ready for baking in the morning.
Some peopledo not need to do anything to make a room brighter, a day better, or the general prospect of living more attractive.
Mrs. Swinton was like that. Any time she came down to the kitchen, his day was a little bit brighter, and his work a little lighter. Tonight, he almost felt as if she might return the feeling. But it was far too soon to hope. After all, she was still in half-mourning for her husband. By all accounts, the fellow had been a fine man who had worked as hard as he could until his illness became too much for him.
What privations she must have suffered, with neither of them earning any money, the doctor to pay, and medicines to buy.
Yet, here she was cosseting an exacting elderly Duchess, and going about her work as cheerful as any might be.
Just thinking about her made him smile. “Wake, wake you drowsy sleeper,” he sang softly as he scrubbed down the wooden table where he kneaded the bread and cut the vegetables, making it ready for preparing food on the morrow. Did he dare to try to wake his little sleeper, wake her from the wall of dutiful cheerfulness she had built around herself?
“Unkind,” he chided himself. “She has bought herself a little peace. Who am I to take that from her?”
He took out his notebook, made of sheets of foolscap stitched together, and began to make notes about the day’s meals. Before long, his pencil slowed, and he stared into space. A smile curved around his lips. It was not strawberries or clotted cream that filled his musings. Rather, it was the way Mrs. Swinton’s soft brown hair escaped her widow’s cap, and curled about the lace edgings.
It was thus Jemmy, the potboy, found him when he came in to take over the late night kitchen chores. “I say, Mr. Rudge,” he said respectfully. “Perhaps you should toddle off to bed. It’ll be cock’s crow before you know it. Mr. Sparks has been abed this last hour or more.”
“No doubt you are right, Jemmy,” Mayson said. “I’ve set the bread to rise. Have a care with it when you fire up the ovens in the morning. Remember, it needs a slow heat to be at its best.”
“I remember,” Jemmy said. “I’ll be careful of it, Mr. Rudge. ‘Specially if I can have a crust when it comes out. You does bread to a fine turn, you does.”
“I think there will be enough for you to have a bit in the morning,” Mayson smiled at the boy. At seven-and-ten years, Jemmy was a lanky youth. Like many such youngsters, he seemed to be hollow inside. It seemed no matter how much he ate, he was still hungry. “More than that, I think there might be a little something to go on it. But mind the heat for the oven, else there will not be any for anyone.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Rudge,” Jemmy said respectfully. “I’ll be very careful, an’ not just so’s I can have a crust.”
“I know you will,” Mayson said, clapping the boy lightly on the shoulder. “I will be up to help with breakfast.”
With that, Mayson went off to his small room behind the pantry. But when he was stretched out on his cot, he found it hard to make himself comfortable. As he lay there, half dreaming, he imagined dancing with Mrs. Swinton. She would be feather-light in his arms, of that he was sure. Her green eyes would sparkle, then she would say something like,“Mayson Rudge...”But before he could imagine what she would say, true sleep claimed him. Yet, the pretty companion danced with him in his dreams, even if she would be unlikely to do so in life.
Chapter 6
Leroy Rutley surveyed the lawn with a sour expression. He was tempted to plow the plagued thing up and plant it in oats. At least he could then realize a return on it. Instead, he now had ten stalwart farmhands moving across it confidently, employing their scythes. Once this was done, there would be the cricket field, followed by the bowling green. As an economical measure, he had done away with the custom of having the men, followed by maids, to rake up the grass, certainly an unnecessary extravagance. Whatever had his uncle been thinking?
“Move it along there,” he bawled, as one of the youngsters slacked his steady back and forth movement.
“There is a snake, Mr. Rutley,” the young fellow called back. “That science fellow is offering tuppence for each one caught, and a shillin’ iffen its rare.”
Leroy perked up. The young man was speaking his language. “Keep an eye on it. Somebody, run for a sack and fireplace tongs.”
One of the house servants hastened forward. “Right here, Mr. Rutley. Brought ‘em down on purpose ‘cause tha mowin’ always brings ‘em out.”
Leroy took the sack and the tongs, then advanced to where the brave young mower was keeping the snake’s attention with flourishes of the blunt side of his scythe. Leroy nipped in, grasped the snake with the tongs, and held it in the air. It immediately created a foul odor that had most of the company backing up hastily to get away from the stench.